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incognit0slut · 1 year ago

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PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors 3

Despite your promise not to sneak behind the team again, you find yourself in a compromising position when you’re forced to ride in the same car as him.

Warnings: (18+, MDNI) Nipple/breast play, dry humping, semi public, dirty talk, and technically this isn’t car sex but everything happens in a car, there’s just no penetration. ~2.5k words (not proofread)

A/n: This wasn’t supposed to be in my WIP but… I blame him for looking so slutty in that shirt. Btw, this is shorter because I already have a lot on my plate but I really wanna squeeze this in, so enjoy! If you’ve been following since the first part, our kinky, slightly exhibitionist duo is back

You liked to think you had a good sense of self control when it came to your sex drive. In your past relationships, you were rarely the one to make the first move. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy sex—far from it, actually—but you didn't see it as the centerpiece of a relationship. Sex was enjoyable, yes, but it wasn’t everything.

At least, that's what you thought until now.

You recently reached a realization that three factors led you to reconsider this long-held belief, and unsurprisingly, they all revolved around Spencer Reid.

The first one was his choice of clothes. It seemed like he had woken up one day and decided that undoing the top buttons of his shirt was the new norm. It was as if he was taunting you, and it was working. The moment you saw him wearing that shirt this morning, all you could think about was dragging him into a storage room and have your dirty, nasty way with him.

The second thing was the way your heart raced when he accidentally brushed his hand against yours as you both reached for the car keys. Emily had asked you both to interview a key witness, and naturally, you assumed you’d be the one driving because Spencer rarely volunteered to take the wheel. But to your surprise, he insisted on driving.

It was strange. You wondered what had prompted this change, but you didn’t protest. In fact, you let him. Happily. Because this set the stage for what became the third significant moment that made you reconsider everything.

Him driving the damn car.

You found yourself unable to keep your eyes off him. The way his hands gripped the wheel, moving with effortless control that hinted at a confidence he rarely displayed. Your gaze traveled up his arm, noting the tension in his muscles, and the way his shirt tightened across his shoulders with each turn.

Then there was his face. Your gaze drifted to his jawline, appreciating the sharp angles and the way it tightened slightly when he was deep in concentration. You had to squeeze your thighs together because watching him drive was enough to make you wet.

It was highly inappropriate, of course. You were both on the job, and there was a witness to interview. So you forced yourself to stay professional. It wasn’t until after you finished, after you and Spencer had informed Emily of what you had found and given her the necessary details over the phone, that your ogling became more prominent on the drive back to the station.

And despite being subtle about it, Spencer seemed to know the effect he had on you.

“Is there something you want to say?” His voice was low, slightly amused, as he spared a quick glance in your direction before focusing back on the road.

You forced yourself to look away from his hands. “What do you mean?”

“You seem… distracted.”

You swallowed, trying to muster up an explanation that wouldn’t give away too much. “Just thinking about the case.”

The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting back a smile. “Really? Because it looked more like you were deep in thought about something else.”

You felt a flush of warmth rise to your cheeks. “Well, maybe the case isn’t the only thing on my mind.”

“Oh? And what else were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know if you’d be interested.”

“Try me.”

You turned your body towards him. “It’s highly inappropriate.”

“Now you’ve really got my attention.”

You hesitated, feeling the car’s warmth envelope you, making the space seem smaller, more intimate. “Okay, but remember, you asked for it,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I was thinking about... how well you handle the steering wheel.”

Spencer laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the car. “Is that your way of saying you like my driving, or something more metaphorical?”

“Maybe a bit of both. I mean, a person’s driving does say a lot about them, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agreed. “And what does my driving say about me?”

“That you’re good with your hands.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours briefly, and you squeezed your thighs tighter.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said finally, his voice low. There was a brief pause and you wondered whether you had gone too far, whether this wasn’t the right time or place to flirt so openly, but then he spoke again.

“And since we’re sharing, I was thinking about something a bit inappropriate too.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “Like what?”

“Like how it’s hard to focus on the road when you’re looking at me like that.”

“…how am I looking at you?”

He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. “Like you want me to pull over to the side of the road and kiss you.”

A silence fell between you, and for a moment, you could hardly breathe. You felt a flush of warmth spread through your body, and you bit your lip, considering his words.

“And what if I do?” You asked softly.

You noticed his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, clearly fighting to maintain his composure.

“Then I’d have to find a quiet place for us.”

Your body responded immediately, a wave of heat coursing through you as your breath quickened. You could feel your pulse thrumming in your veins, an urgent, needy beat that matched the thoughts racing through your mind.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Pull over.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours. Then, without hesitation, he scanned the road for a safe spot. The anticipation was almost unbearable as you watched him steer the car onto a narrow, dark lane shielded by dense shrubs. The path seemed to swallow the sound of the engine as he drove further away from the main road.

The silence that followed was thick as he turned off the engine. You both stared at each other, acutely aware of what you were about to do, about the potential consequences, but everything blurred as you both moved at the same time.

Everything was fast, a rush of motion and emotion as Spencer leaned over the console. His lips met yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, while you clung to his arm. He kissed you hungrily, desperately, as if trying to communicate every unspoken word through the press of his mouth against yours. The more he kissed you, the more you felt the heat between your thighs and you realized that, in fact, you really had no control over your sex drive.

You then opened your mouth, letting him sink his tongue into you, pressing your body against his. But he was too far away, and you needed more of his heat, more of him. So, you undid your seat belt and did the only thing that felt natural—you climbed onto his lap.

You both moaned when his cock finally pressed against your core, and he found your lips again, his hand cradling the back of your head while the other rested firmly on your hips, urging you to move. The movement was instinctive, a rhythm that was driven by desperation.

You felt his mouth kisses trail from your lips down to your neck, marking a trail of heat that had you burning for more. Your fingers found the buttons of your shirt, and before you could second guess yourself, you undid them one by one.

Spencer’s hands followed the path you created, tracing the newly exposed skin. His large palms moved along your ribs before they rested just beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hard nipples through the fabric of your bra. You gasped, your head falling back in sheer pleasure.

His lips found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin. His fingers pulled down your bra, exposing your breasts, and when he quickly sucked on your sensitive nub without warning, you bucked your hips, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His sound of pleasure vibrated against your skin when you moved your hips at a steady pace, the friction driving you both to new heights. You could feel the material of your underwear sticking between your wet folds, and you wished desperately that there was no barrier between you. But time was ticking, and you both knew you were on the clock.

This had to be enough.

Spencer pulled back slightly, your nipple stretching with him, your supple skin following his movements until he let go with a soft pop. He then turned his attention to your other breast, his tongue teasingly circling your hardened nipple before hungrily engulfing it in his mouth.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, your nails digging in slightly as you arched your back. You felt his hands roaming over your waist, holding you steady, grounding you even as you felt yourself spiraling higher into a state of pure ecstasy.

“Spence,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. His response was to look up at you with those intense, brown eyes as he continued to suck on your nipple.

His mouth moved with deliberate precision, alternating between gentle licks and firm sucks, driving you completely insane. You could feel your control slipping, your body responding to his every touch, and you found yourself unable to think of anything but him. The way he made you feel, the way his touch ignited every nerve in your body.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him on, lost in the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. His lips left your breast, trailing kisses up your chest and neck until he reached your lips, capturing them in a searing kiss that left you breathless.

The taste of him, the feel of his body against yours, was everything you had been longing for.

“More,” you whispered against his lips, your voice a desperate plea.

“I know, I know,” he murmured back. “I got you.”

You shook your head, breathless. “I wanna feel you.”

He groaned. How he wanted that to happen, but you were both gone long enough and reality was beginning to intrude on your stolen moment.

“We can’t, not here,” he said, his voice strained with desire as he rested his forehead against yours. “We don’t have enough time.”

You bit your lip, trying to push back the disappointment. “I know, but I-I need you.”

“Soon,” he promised. “When we have more time, I’ll give you everything you need.”

Your hips moved faster. “Everything?”

He nodded, his eyes fluttering close when he felt you pressing harder on his cock. “Everything.”

“You’ll finally fuck me?”

His breath hitched at your bold words, his control slipping further.

“Say it. Say you’ll fuck me.”

His self-control wavered, the raw desire in your voice pushed him to the edge as his palms gripped your ass.

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you?”

You never thought there would be a time when you’d hear those words from him, and yet here you were, craving for more. You nodded and grinded against him, trying to find that delicious pressure on your clit.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice laced with urgency. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

Spencer groaned, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in closer. “Then imagine me inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “Think about my cock sliding into you, filling you up completely.”

“F-Fuck,” you gasped, moving against him rhythmically. Who would’ve thought he’d be good at this?

“Imagine my hands gripping your hips, pulling you down onto me,” he continued, his breath warm against your neck. “You’d feel every inch, deep and perfect.”

Your heart pounded as his fantasy played out in your thoughts. “Yes,” you gasped, finding it hard to keep steady. “Please, keep going.”

“I’d set a rhythm that drives you crazy,” he murmured. “Fast, then slow, teasing you, drawing out every moan and gasp until you’re begging me not to stop.”

“Oh God…” you moaned. “Please…”

He continued, relentless and commanding. “And when you’re close, when you’re right on the edge, I’d look into your eyes, whisper how beautiful you are, how good you feel wrapped around me…”

“Spencer, I—”

“And then I’d thrust harder, deeper,” he cut off your words, his tone intense. He pressed a hand against your lower abdomen as if to illustrate his point. “I’d fill you completely, over and over, until all you can do is cling to me and take it.”

You were practically trembling now, his words and slight touches driving you wild.

“I’m so close,” you managed to breathe out, your movements becoming less rhythmic and more desperate. His hands went back to your hips. His grip tightened, steadying and encouraging your frantic movements as he felt his own orgasm nearing.

“Come with me,” he whispered, pressing himself closer to you.

His words, his grip, his presence overwhelmed you. You felt the buildup, almost unbearable, as if every nerve in your body focused on the impending release. Then, with a final, mutual push, you felt the wave break.

Pleasure surged through you, intense and all-consuming. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you down as he drove himself up, his name spilling from your lips in a cry of release. You felt him tense, heard his own cry muffled against your skin, as he reached his climax with you.

Panting, you both slowed, the car filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the soft hum of the engine in the background. Spencer’s hands softened on your hips, caressing now, soothing the spots where his fingers had pressed.

You ran a hand through his thick hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a dirty mouth?”

His grin was both sheepish and proud as he met your gaze. “You’re actually the first person to hear it.”

Your eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his hands carefully adjusting your clothes. “It seems you have a way of bringing out a side of me I didn’t know I had.”

You watched him, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There was so much you wanted to say, so many feelings swirling inside you, but the words felt too fragile for the moment. Instead, you settled for the silence.

Spencer didn’t seem to mind. He tapped your hip gently, drawing your attention. “Come on, I think we need to drop by the hotel before we go back to the station.”

When he caught the startled look you sent him, he laughed.

“To change my pants. Nothing else.”

“…oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

You blushed, caught off guard by his remark and your own reaction. “No, I just—” you started, then paused, searching for the right words. “I mean, yes, maybe a little.”

His smile widened, pleased by your response. “I’ll tell you what,” he began. “After we finish this case, after we fly back, let’s spend time together. Just you and me.”

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. You wondered what it would be like to have him pressed against you with nothing between you, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat directly under your palms.

The thought made you both nervous and excited at the same time.

“Really?”

He leaned in for a kiss. “Really.”

“You promise?”

He smiled against your lips.

“I promise.”

#behind closed doors #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencerreid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fluff #Fanfiction #gifwriting

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medusaesque · 10 months ago

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Kim Kitsuragi and the pale-

Kim has a unique relationship to the pale, I tried dissecting it and making sense of it. Reposting with more thoughts after some good conversations with @binomech.

Warning- it's insanely long.

1. After life, death

One of the first thing you can learn about Kim is that he would hurl himself in death's way to save you. From the very first moment, Kim is related to sacrifice and death, it follows him wherever he goes-

The slaughterhouse.

He lost his parents at two years old. He worked a year in Processing (here's good post about that by @renmorris and @spilledkaleidoscope). He lost his partner, Eyes. People have taken a bullet that was meant for his more than once. His survivor's guilt is insane. He's killed six people. He's afraid of killing recklessly, and has a deeply unhealthy relationship with his gun (made another embarrassingly long post about that).

Kim also hears pale 'ghosts' on the police radio all the time, talks about it like it's normal, and says he doesn't believe in ghosts.

If harry is with Noid during the Moralist dream quest (more on it later), Harry can even wonder if Kim himself is a ghost, prompting this beautiful exchange-

And he's not entirely wrong. When Harry gets shot, after Kim fulfills Espirit's promise and stands in death's way for him, you can ask as you fall into darkness what will happen to you-

It's the living who are ghosts. You can leave them behind and rest. Go into the wild pale yonder, along with everyone else Kim has ever cared about. Or at least you can try to.

When death is at the door, you have two options-

2. After death, life again

Kim might associate himself with death, but Harry associates him with life again and again- Death is darkness, Kim has a light bulb halo. Death is a sunset, Kim is a sunrise. Death is where you are when the game start, it's ready to take you, and then- a clarion call, the sound of a motor carriage, a detective arriving on the scene, and you open your eyes.

Of course Kim is no actual saint, no guardian angel, but it's really telling that even in harry's deification the symbols of Kim's holiness are worldly, almost mundane, the matters of every day life- a celling's fan lightbulb, the engine of a car..

Or the way @binomech said it when discussing Kim's portrait: this is the only thing keeping you from the full brunt of the world in your mind #but truly you are already in the world #and he is just a man #and that's just a car and that's just a ceiling fan

The game is very clear about Harry being a ceaseless agent of the world, but he's not the only one. Harry stands at death's door twice, and Kim is his way back to the world both times.

3. After the world, the pale

So what is Kim's relationship with the pale?

As casual as he might try to appear, Kim is clearly uncomfortable with the pale, afraid of it even. When Harry brings up the pale, he intervenes, genuinely worried for the fragile stability of his mind, trying to protect him-

It's no more terrifying than water or death or that we're stuck behind our eyes for all eternity?? Sounds pretty terrifying Kim...

I think the key is in the moralist vision quest, When Harry attempts to reach the Committee of Responsibility, and he hears the pale crosstalk coming through the radio, when suddenly-

"Pale is a shroud of memories and it doesn't really distinguish to whom those memories belong to. You could hear anything." You could hear anything, but you hear Kim. Soona even says that the odds of us hearing him, out of all the voices in the pale, are astronomically low.

We know the past has not been harmless to Kim, we know it's full of ghosts and cold winters, but that's not the thing that's eating at him-

Kim is afraid of forgetting. He's constantly writing, he thinks through his notebook, always recording, so he wouldn't lose anything. That's why the pale is so terrifying to him.

4. After the pale. the world again

The world is what it is. God is in his heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

That leads me to the expeditions through the pale-

Volta do Mar is a skill unique to Kim, according to the stats of this pilot jackets, and it's a Physique skill.

It's driving me crazy to think how Kim wanted to be revolutionary pilot as a kid, and is walking around dressed like a pilot as an adult, to give himself the ability to navigate the pale. To return from the sea-

DISTANT ENEMY OF HIMSELF?? kim....

Seeing how Volta do Mar is strengthened by his jackets, and the items' descriptions point out that most of the people who used to wear this jacket are long gone (alongside what they represented) and considering that the only real advance in pale transit is the speed with which an aerostatic craft can pierce it, is seems fitting that returning from the 'sea' requires the kind of armor that ghosts wear- the ghost of who you wanted to be but never could, of a home that was never yours. Glory to them.

@binomech said it best in this conversation we had about Kim's skills: "your traitorous race. your traitorous job. your traitorous parents. your traitorous senses. distant enemy of yourself: seolite, communist, cripple, faggot. and you wear it as armor"

Kim is equipped for Volta do Mar, he armors himself for it every day, for the thing that makes it possible to return sane, and discover a new world-

This is one of the most touching Kim moments in the game to me- putting his hand in the rain, looking up to the sky, mouth open, welcoming the spring rain, even knowing it'll bring death and destruction with it. He is devoted to this world and the role he has to play in it, or at least the role he thinks he has to play-

But we know Kim has a bigger role to play, he's trying to do his part right there, getting Harry to stay-

His connection to Harry can keep him on this world once again- keeping the two of them together. Their real work is down here, him and Harry are Revachol's only hope. If they stick together they might be able to keep her on this earth.

UNITY AMONG THE RANKS IS PARAMOUNT.

I NEED YOU. YOU CAN KEEP ME ON THIS EARTH. BE VIGILANT.

I LOVE YOU.

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #disco elysium meta #kimharry #sort of #de meta #de analysis #going crazy going stupid. kim is so important guys.. if only he knew #🏺#juha-txt

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irndad · 2 years ago

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Hi hun! I just love love love your pieces <3

As for Carmy prompts - could we have some hurt to comfort when Carmen doesn't show up for a date? It's ok if you dont wanna do it or i requested incorrectly, but if you do, i cant wait to read!!!!! Thank you so much mwah mwah mwah

I’m not thaaaaaat sure how I feel about this and it’s so long but your request was so sweet I had to!!! Ily <3333

wc:1.1k

There’s so fucking much in his ear. Fak’s screaming whatever bullshit he’s sure will help absolutely nothing, Richie’s harassing Sydney and Tina’s trying to keep them all in line and will of that goddamn chaos, he shouldn’t be able to make out anything.

Prepping this whole thing, the opening, Richie biting his head off for fucking sending him to the best kitchen in the city- it’s all a bit fucking much.

He barely hears the door open (she has a key, because of course she does) and he doesn’t even look over his shoulder as he calls out her name.

“Hey, baby,” he yells back towards the entrance. It feels good, chopping the vegetables. It’s actually one of her favorite dishes that he’s making, and something inside him preens that he gets to feed her tonight. Everything feels illustrious under her gaze. He remembers the first time he’d cooked for her, how her watchful gaze felt a bit like sunlight; equal parts burning and doused in light.

She’d said she liked his hands, then. Said he looked pretty with a knife and a cutting board. “Will you try this sauce for me?”

He hears her heels click, the soft thud of her purse landing on the couch. It’s a slow saunter she does to him, but he’s razor focused- what does it need, garlic? Oregano?

It only breaks when he sees her. And she looks gorgeous. Wearing a black dress with a cowl neck, shimmery eyeshadow that catches and dances in the low light of the kitchen, a crimson lipstick neatly applied to her beautiful pout.

She smells like vanilla, and Carmen has the privilege of knowing what real, rich, Madagascar vanilla smells like. He’d loved the scent so much that he’d bought her a perfume made from it, and there’s a warmth blooming in his chest when he realizes that she’s wearing it.

Wordlessly, she opens her mouth and leans forward to try the sauce covered wooden spoon he’d raised to her lips.

Even when she’s in front of him, he can’t believe she’s someone he knows. That she’s wasting her time with someone like him.

“Jesus Christ you look beautiful,” he says without thinking, and he kisses her quick. It’s true. She’s a vision, plucked out of an old movie shot on grainy film, warm to the touch film.

He abandons the spoon and the sauce without much fanfare, a rough, calloused hand meeting her soft warm cheek.

“Thanks, Carmen.” she says, but her doe-eyes deny the joy she typically exudes in his presence. It’s his proudest achievement, how she glows around him. She’s tight lipped, smile betraying her words.

“What’s wrong? Is it the sauce? I know it’s a mess in here, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d see it-“

“No! No, seriously, it’s okay, honey.” She tries to insist but it really doesn’t work. He moves the pot off the burner and twists himself completely to face her, placing a gentle hand at the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. He tries not to let it sting, how she stiffens for a moment before softening again.

“What happened?” He asks again.

“It’s the first,” she says, a rueful grin on her pretty lips, before gesturing down at her outfit, and oh.

The dinner. The fucking dinner that he’d promised her. His sweet girl, who waited up every night, who dutifully tasted every recipe, who soothed him on nights where nightmares stole his sleep-

“Fuck,” he says, more to himself than her, but god, he can’t stop looking at her, “Fuck! God, I’m such an asshole, I’m so sorry-“ he insists, suddenly so grateful that she’s letting him touch her, even more aware of every point of contact with the sudden fear that it could escape in a moment’s notice.

“Y’know, Carm, if you could’ve just told me that would’ve been one thing? But I left the reservation, and this was the one night we both had off!”

“I know, baby, fuck, I forgot-“

She backs away from him, and there’s a sick feeling in his stomach. Sitting on the chair he keeps by the stove (he put it there for her, because she loved watching him) she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“It’s just not fair, Carm. To either of us. If you don’t have time for this-“

“I have time for this! I have time. Don’t say things like that.”

“Carmy, I’m not trying to hurt you. You know that’s the last thing I want.”

And it is. It’s the last thing she wants, and Carmen fucking knows it. Knows that three months in he’s supposed to have brought her flowers and taken her out and done more than cook for her and spend hours in his shitty apartment, and lately she’s been asking if he has time for being in a relationship.

And maybe he doesn’t, but fuck it if he doesn’t feel like he can breathe around her. This was the point of the dinner- take her out, be a boyfriend. Have her wait a little while on him. Show her he’s worth it.

Instead he fucking missed it, stayed home and made sauce no one would even eat.

“I’m sorry,” he says, grabbing her hand and lacing it through his own. It always shocks him, how it fits his own. “Okay? I’m so, so fuckin’ sorry. Tell me what I can do. Tell me, cos I’ll do just about fuckin’ anything to get you to stop saying shit like that.”

Her voice comes out small.

“I was alone, Carm. They kept trying to take my order and you weren’t there, and eventually I had to leave.“

She looks up at him, eyes sparkling and kind and Carmen. She looks beautiful, and if he wasn’t with her, he’d see her in the street and hate whatever fuck was lucky enough to be who she got dressed up for.

“I am so, so sorry. It’s just with the stove, and Fak, and Richie fucking calling me to bitch me out every thirty seconds,” she reaches her delicate fingers to brush his cheek with concern, “I should’ve remembered. It’s just about the only thing this week worth remembering. And you look…stunning, I should’ve been there. I should’ve. Please.”

Her expression softens and he loves the sight of her, warm and kind and lovely in both form and temperance. She’s so patient with him, responds with kindness- a gift.

She brushes her soft lips on his cheek and he tries to savor the sensation, note how warm and wonderful it is to have her form pressed against his, how her arms knot themselves around his waist.

“I know you’re stressed, babe,” she murmurs against his cheek, eyes shut, “tell you what. Why don’t you make me something better than what that place could’ve, huh?”

After he kisses her for so long that excess is no longer the right terminology, he makes her the best pasta she’s ever had in her goddamn life.

It’s better this way, anyway. She’s gorgeous in a way that’s just his to look at tonight.

#carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x You #carmy berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto imagine #the bear #the bear x reader

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movingmusically · 1 month ago

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Hello! I saw this prompt years ago but have never seen anyone actually write it. I think you'd be perfect for it! Austin and co-star (reader, obv) have a sex scene together that they're filming. It is so intimate and spicy that reader actually (accidentally) has an orgasm. No one knows except her and Austin. The film crew are oblivious. They just think the acting was phenomenal. She's super embarrassed and tries to avoid him after. But eventually, they have to talk about it, right? I'll let you decide how to end it. The only thing I ask is that Austin is a sweetie (cause we know he would be) and that it doesn't have a sad ending. Hope you will write this! If not, i understand. Thank you!

Word Count: 8.2k

Masterlist

Unspoken - Part 1

You hadn’t known what to expect, exactly.

Austin had been friendly over Zoom, warm and low-key, but it was hard to tell what someone would be like in person—especially on a set like this. Small crew, no distractions, nowhere to hide behind glossy production. If it didn’t work between you, the whole thing would fall flat.

But it did.

From the read-through onwards, it had felt easy. Not instant chemistry—a quiet kind of comfort. The kind of working rhythm that didn’t need effort. He asked good questions, knew his lines without showing off, made quiet jokes when the room got too still. He was generous without making a show of it.

You got used to him fast.

By the end of the first week, it was already normal—splitting snacks, borrowing chargers, leaning your heads together over the sides of marked-up scripts. The film demanded closeness, and you slipped into it like it had always been there. Long takes, low lighting, scenes built on shared silences. Half your scenes were filmed with your knees touching.

It wasn’t flirty. You never caught him looking at you the way actors sometimes look when they forget where the cameras are. It wasn’t that.

He was just kind.

And that made it easy to match him.

You’d sit beside each other in makeup, legs stretched out, talking about nothing. Pass each other notes when the blocking didn’t make sense. Trade bad coffee on the days where breakfast had been skipped.

It helped that the film itself moved slowly. Years of friendship, worn soft around the edges, turning into something else. It was about trust. About timing. About all the ways people stop themselves from saying what they really mean.

And maybe that was why it worked so well between you.

You weren’t trying too hard.

You didn’t have to.

So when the call sheet landed in your inbox that Friday and Scene 87 was there—INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT—you tapped the attachment open, noted the time, flagged your sides, and closed it again.

You’d known about the intimacy scene from the start. It had been in the script, flagged clearly, nothing ambiguous about it. You’d spoken to your agent. Met with the intimacy coordinator, Lizzy. It had all been handled. Tidy. Professional.

You hadn’t thought about it in weeks.

The first rehearsal was set for late morning.

No cameras. No costumes. Just you, Austin, and Lizzy on one of the quiet rehearsal stages—black tape marking out the bed frame, a couple of chairs off to the side, printouts and notes and breath mints on the foldout table in the corner.

You’d dressed for comfort—oversized hoodie, joggers you could move in. Something low-effort. Unremarkable. You were early. Austin arrived a couple of minutes later, T-shirt soft and familiar, hair still damp like he’d only just rolled out of a shower and straight into daylight.

He gave you a smile.

“Hey,” he said. “You sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

He nudged your elbow with his. “You’ll be great.”

Lizzy talked you through everything. No acting yet. No emotion. Just spacing. Breath. Weight distribution. A choreography of intention.

This hand here. Pause. Step across. Sit. Press of the hips. Shift weight. Hold. Reset.

It was fine.

Fine in the way things are when you’re concentrating hard enough that your body doesn’t have time to interpret what’s happening. Every moment had a cue. Every touch was mapped. There was no room for awkwardness when there were angles to hit, timing to remember, direction to follow.

Austin was calm beside you. Clear. Always asking before he touched you. Always quiet when he did. “Here okay?” “This side?” “Let me know if anything’s off.”

It made it easier to breathe.

And then—somewhere in the second hour—your body slid into position over his, knees bracketing his thighs, hands placed exactly where Lizzy had marked, and your eyes met at the top of the next beat.

It didn’t last long.

Half a second, maybe less. Long enough for something to catch low in your throat.

It wasn’t his expression—it was the stillness. The weight of being seen from that close, that carefully. Like you were both holding a match between your teeth and trying not to breathe too hard.

Then Lizzy reset the moment. Adjusted the timing. Moved you on.

You exhaled. Stepped back. Pulled your hoodie on.

Your skin felt warmer than it had when you arrived.

You didn’t wake up thinking about the scene.

You had errands to run before your call time, and a voice note from your sister about some family drama you didn’t want to get dragged into. You had other things on your mind.

But your body remembered.

Not the shape of the scene, exactly. More the feeling of being in it with him—close and quiet and not entirely sure where your breath was supposed to land. You’d shaken it off last night, told yourself it was nothing, but something had settled low in your stomach and hadn’t moved since.

The second rehearsal was longer. Slower.

You got there five minutes early again. Austin was already inside this time, barefoot, stretching in that loose, lazy way that somehow made him look like he belonged there more than anyone else. He glanced up as you walked in.

“Morning,” he said, soft and a little rough around the edges.

You dropped your bag by the wall. “How’s the caffeine situation?”

He smiled. “Better than yesterday. Tastes like actual coffee.”

Lizzy appeared a moment later, warm as ever. “Alright, team. Let’s pick up where we left off.”

This session was about layering. You’d done the bones of it—now came the rhythm. More eye contact. Partial dialogue. Transitions between physical beats. Still clothed. Still private. But closer.

You moved through the choreography again, syncing your breath to his, feeling his hand find its place at the small of your back like it had always been meant to rest there. The movements were slow, deliberate. Lizzy’s voice floated in from the edge of the room, guiding but never interrupting.

“Let the hesitation sit. Don’t rush past it. You don’t know if you’re allowed to want this yet. That’s where the tension lives.”

You nodded. You did know that. You’d read it. Felt it. But when you looked up and found Austin’s eyes already on yours—steady, unreadable, entirely focused—it landed somewhere lower than the page.

His hand shifted slightly. Not new choreography. A gentle adjustment, thumb pressing into the curve above your hip. Your breath caught for half a second before you remembered what came next.

You hit your mark. Let him guide the movement. Said the line. All of it exactly as planned.

But it felt different now.

Not intimate exactly.

Kind of… charged.

Like your skin was paying more attention than it should.

You tried not to overthink it. You were tired. You’d had too much coffee. It was just a long week.

But when you stepped away during a break and uncapped your water bottle, your hands were shaking slightly. And when he brushed past you to grab a copy of the notes, your body tracked him before your eyes did.

It was only awareness, you told yourself. That’s all.

Still, when the rehearsal wrapped, you left without saying much. Just a wave. A quiet, “See you tomorrow.”

And when you got home, you didn’t turn the shower on right away. You stood there, in the centre of your bathroom, trying to name what you were feeling.

And failing.

By the third day, it was muscle memory.

The basic choreography had sunk in—weight, timing, the way your breathing had to shift depending on whose hand was moving where. It wasn’t second nature exactly, but it no longer required so much conscious effort. Your body knew what to do before Lizzy even called the beat.

You’d kept your hoodie on through warm-up. Stretched your arms, read through the notes again, checked your cue lines even though there weren’t many in this part of the scene. But when it came time to start, you pulled the hoodie off and folded it neatly to the side.

You were down to joggers and a sports bra now. Modesty garment already in place beneath the waistband—silicone-lined, taped down. It didn’t cover much, but it did enough. You were quietly grateful for it. That, and the way Lizzy explained everything like it was just another technical element—same as a light cue or a lens change.

She ran through the new additions with her usual steadiness.

“Austin, your hand will go under the waistband. Just placement—over the shibue. No movement. You”—she turned to you—“will roll your hips twice. That’s the entire rhythm for today.”

You nodded. “Got it.”

Austin looked over. “All good?”

“Yeah,” you said. “All good.”

You lay back, joggers soft beneath your fingers, and let your legs bend into position. Austin settled between your knees, braced one hand beside your shoulder, and waited for the mark.

On cue, his hand moved under the waistband—warm, steady, fingers spread wide enough to cover the space he needed to hit. The contact wasn’t rough, wasn’t wandering. Simply there.

You rolled your hips once.

Then again.

Not a grind. Not even a proper press. Only the motion. The suggestion. His hand stayed still.

It didn’t feel like anything, really. A moment of pressure and a reminder of how close the camera would eventually be. The modesty garment stayed where it was supposed to. That was the only thing you registered—that and the fact that your exhale felt a little too controlled when you came back down.

The scene paused.

You sat up and adjusted your waistband. The edge of the shibue tugged slightly where it had been taped, but it was fine. Not enough to worry about, but enough to feel it.

Lizzy marked the note, nodded once. “Again when you’re ready.”

You glanced at Austin. He gave the smallest nod.

You breathed out. Repositioned.

You were fine.

Just warm all over, and very glad the garment did what it promised.

You knew the choreography now.

Every beat had been mapped. You’d talked it through with Lizzy and Austin, with the director, with wardrobe. You’d written your own version of the scene in your notes—a series of bullet points, clean and factual, so it didn’t feel like anything else.

But standing on set that afternoon, barefoot on the edge of the taped-out space, it hit you that this would be the last time you ran it before the cameras were rolling. That the next time you did this, you’d both be fully undressed—just the modesty garments left between you, and not much else.

You adjusted the waistband of your joggers for the third time, even though it didn’t need it.

Austin was sitting on the edge of the bed frame, script in hand, thumb running a slow line down the margin. He looked calm. Focused. Not performing yet—allowing the moment to settle around him.

Lizzy’s voice broke the quiet.

“Alright. Today we’ll run the full scene, blocking and pacing. We’ll work in the breast contact—touch, mouth—if you’re both still comfortable. We won’t pause unless someone calls reset.”

You nodded. “Yep.”

Austin echoed it beside you. “All okay here.”

The hoodie came off before you stepped into place. You handed it to the wardrobe assistant and kept your arms folded across your chest until Lizzy gave the go.

Then you lay back on the bed. Arms at your sides. Skin already prickling from the air.

Austin climbed in carefully—one knee first, then the other. His hands moved with that same, steady confidence they always had. He kissed your shoulder first, then your collarbone. Not rushed. he eased you both into it.

Then his hand came up.

A cupped, warm press to your breast. Placed deliberately. You could feel the heat of it seeping through your chest in a way you hadn’t fully registered in the abstract.

His head lowered next.

He hovered above you—mouth angled toward your breast, close enough that you could feel his breath as it passed over your skin. He held that position while Lizzy circled behind the camera line, checking visibility, framing. You stayed still. So did he. No contact.

Only the space between.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just held the shape of it while Lizzy walked around the perimeter, watching angles, checking marks. Her voice was a background rhythm. Reassuring.

Then came the final cue.

Austin’s hand slipped under the waistband of your joggers again, warm and still over the modesty barrier. His other hand braced beside your shoulder.

You rolled your hips. Once. Then again.

You felt the pressure land the way it was meant to. Controlled. Calibrated. Friction implied, not enacted.

Then stillness.

Reset.

He pulled back carefully. Rolled off the mattress. Extended his hand without needing to ask.

“You alright?” he said, voice low, just for you.

You nodded as he helped you sit. “Yeah. You?”

He gave a small smile. “Glad it’s with you.”

You looked at him properly then. Not in character. Not through the lens of the scene. Him. Quiet. Steady. Present.

“Same,” you said.

And you meant it.

You got there early.

Not because you were nervous—more out of habit now. One last quiet moment before everything tipped into movement. The lights were set, soft and low, casting the bed in that kind of glow the DP loved. There was a stillness to it that felt almost too peaceful for what was about to happen.

You heard the door open behind you but didn’t turn right away.

Austin’s footsteps were familiar now. So was the quiet.

He came to stand beside you, hands in his pockets. Didn’t say anything for a second. He looked out at the space like you were both about to do something much simpler. Like any other scene. He was calm in that quiet, grounded way he always was right before a take.

He glanced at the bed. Then at you.

“Well,” he said, easy, “if this is the day I forget everything we rehearsed, now’s a fun time to find out.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “No pressure.”

“Nah,” he said. “We’ve got it.”

It wasn’t cocky. Just said with the kind of calm certainty that made your shoulders drop a little.

He looked at you properly then—a beat longer than necessary. Not searching. Simply present.

“We’re fine,” he said. “Feels like we’ve already done it a hundred times anyway.”

“We kind of have,” you said. “But clothed. And with a smaller audience.”

He smiled at that.

And that was enough.

When Lizzy’s voice came through the monitor—“We’re ready when you are”—he didn’t even blink. He tipped his head slightly toward the bed.

“Shall we?”

You nodded once. “Let’s go.”

And together, you stepped into the scene.

You were already on the bed when they called action.

Sitting near the edge, legs folded under you, fingers curled lightly in the hem of your t-shirt. This part of the scene didn’t ask much of you except stillness. Waiting. The kind that held its breath.

You heard the door creak softly as he entered.

The sound of him was familiar now—bare footsteps, quiet breath, that stillness he carried when the scene asked for it. You stayed still, like the script said. Eyes down. Shoulders held a little too tightly.

He stopped just inside the room.

“You left,” he said, voice low. Like it might break something if he spoke too loud.

You looked up.

He was already watching you. T-shirt rumpled slightly, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His mouth opened, then closed again. You waited.

“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back,” you said.

He nodded. Not because he agreed. Because he understood.

“I didn’t want it to end like that,” he said. “Not with you.”

That was the moment the scene turned.

The shift you’d rehearsed. The beat the whole film had been circling.

He stepped closer and sat beside you on the bed, steady and familiar. The mattress dipped under his weight. His hand found balance behind you. His knee brushed yours.

Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of every version of this that never happened. Every almost. Every nearly.

You turned toward him.

He was close. Closer than usual. The kind of close that made silence feel like a question.

His eyes flicked down—your mouth, your hands—then came back up to meet yours again.

You moved first—only slightly.

He met you without hesitation.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. A breath before it landed. You could feel the warmth of him, the way his lips moved against yours like he’d already memorised the shape of it. His hand rested lightly on your leg. Yours slipped up to his chest.

The second kiss came a little deeper. Not rushed. Certain. The kind of kiss that filled a room without raising its voice.

His mouth tasted faintly of mint.

You stayed with it, let it build, felt it start to root somewhere deeper than rehearsal.

Still in character. Still focused.

But something in your chest had shifted. Something slow and warm and creeping.

You weren’t tracking marks or pacing anymore.

You were just kissing him.

And he was kissing you back like it meant something.

His hand slid up beneath your shirt. Warm across your stomach, steady as he pushed the fabric up. He knew the beat. You’d rehearsed it. You shifted to help, lifting your arms, letting him ease the fabric over your head. He dropped it off the side of the bed. You were already breathing differently.

You reached for his shirt in return, fingers brushing his skin as you pulled it over his head. He let you. No pause, no shift in rhythm. Now skin against skin, your chest rising against his with every breath.

You kissed him again.

And this time, as your mouths met, you moved—slowly—easing one leg over his lap, settling against him.

The bed creaked softly beneath you. His hands came to your thighs, anchoring you there. One slid up, fingers splaying lightly at your waist. The other stayed low, grounding you.

You felt the shape of him under you. Not against your bare skin—not yet—but close. Closer than rehearsal. The weight of him, the pressure of his hands, the way his eyes kept flicking between your mouth and your eyes, like the scene was happening in two places at once.

His lips trailed lower.

Down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone.

You tilted your head slightly to give him room.

His hand came up to your chest.

Fingers spreading. Thumb brushing across your breast.

You felt your nipples tighten at the contact—part from the cool air, part from the way he touched you. Careful. Measured. You’d practised this, but it felt different now the barrier of your sports bra had disappeared. He cupped you fully in his palm, and then—

His mouth followed.

Warm, soft, unhurried. Lips closing around your nipple, tongue catching enough to make you shift slightly in his lap. You kept your breathing even, stayed in character, but your body was already reacting. The scene didn’t ask for more than this yet. But you could feel something gathering. Low and quiet.

Then he looked up.

His mouth still on your skin. His eyes meeting yours.

And for a second, everything else dropped away.

You were just watching him watch you.

You inhaled, chest rising against his mouth.

And you felt yourself begin to lean into it.

His lips lingered another second, then lifted.

His hand slid from your breast back down to your waist, and with a shift in his weight, you both began to move, easing back across the mattress. You stayed close, bodies aligned as you let him guide you down.

He hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing lightly over your ribs. The rhythm didn’t break. This was where the pause lived. A breath. Something unspoken passing between two people who’d been circling this forever.

Your legs bent beneath him. The sheet rustled.

Then his hand slipped lower.

Fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts, past the edge of fabric, finding the smooth barrier taped carefully into place. His palm settled there, warm and solid. You’d rehearsed it, but it landed heavier now. Like your body had started listening more closely.

You rolled your hips—once.

Then again.

The pressure landed right where it was meant to. Precise. Calibrated. But sharper than you remembered.

You felt it instantly. A flicker of heat. Something low and tightening that hadn’t been there in rehearsal. Your body responding like it didn’t know the difference between performance and something else.

You blinked.

Tried to breathe through it. Tried to shake it off.

It’s choreography, you told yourself. Muscle memory. Contact over fabric. Nothing real.

But your chest felt tighter. Your limbs too aware of his weight above you, the way his gaze tracked every shift in yours.

You could stop. That thought surfaced—quick and quiet. If you tapped out, they’d cut. Reset. No one would question it.

But you didn’t.

Because nothing was wrong.

He hadn’t broken the scene. He hadn’t pushed or rushed or taken anything that wasn’t given. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, moving the way you’d rehearsed, watching you like he always did—with focus, with care, never with pressure.

You held still.

There was a flicker of heat low in your stomach. You noticed it. Filed it away. Only your body reacting to pressure, to breath, to rhythm. It would pass.

You’d trained for this. Layered every beat, anchored every moment. You could hold this.

Austin didn’t falter. His touch stayed steady. His eyes never left yours.

There was no hesitation in him. He was all presence, all intention.

So you stayed with him.

And he kept going—rhythm unchanged, breath slow, every movement shaped by the scene you were both holding in place.

He eased his hand back out from beneath your waistband.

No rush. It was part of the scene. The breath before the shift.

You let yours out slowly, fingers moving to the hem of your shorts. He reached for them too. Together, you pulled them down, until you had to lift your hips to help. They slid free with barely a sound. He tossed them aside.

Then he sat back on his heels and reached for his own waistband.

You stayed where you were, watching. A second too long.

His sweatpants came off easily, the soft fabric catching briefly at his knees before falling to the floor. You hadn’t meant to stare. But something about seeing him now—fully undressed except for the small, skin-coloured patch covering what the camera wouldn’t see—pulled your focus.

The shape of him. The way his body moved. The way he carried the stillness without tensing.

You’d never seen him like this. Not really. You’d mapped every moment, but now there was no extra layer. No fabric between the weight of him and the heat of you.

Your skin prickled. You blinked, looked away.

This was still a scene. Still choreography. You knew the rhythm. You knew your cues.

You lay back.

He followed.

Came over you slowly, hands bracketing your ribs, one thigh nudging between yours as his body lowered into place.

Then he kissed you.

It was meant to be soft. Familiar. A continuation of what came before.

And it was—until it wasn’t.

His mouth moved against yours like it always had, but this time, as his hips settled into position, his tongue brushed over yours.

The faintest flick. Tentative at first, then firmer.

You didn’t expect it.

The breath caught in your throat. A sound slipped out—half sigh, half noise you didn’t recognise.

You felt him pause, for a heartbeat.

Then the kiss deepened.

He held the shape of your mouth with his, steady and warm, letting the scene carry on like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Your fingers curled against his back. Your legs shifted slightly wider. The rhythm began—hip to hip, friction finding its place.

You were still in character.

Still hitting your marks.

But the sound you’d made hadn’t been planned.

Your body was reacting before your brain could reason with it.

He moved again.

Controlled. Deliberate. His hips pressing forward in the pace you’d agreed on, fabric brushing fabric, pressure steady between you. There was no rush, no fumbling. Only that quiet escalation the scene called for.

You felt him shift his weight slightly, adjusting the angle. His hand stayed firm at your waist, the other beside your head, fingers flexing once into the mattress. Your legs shifted higher, wrapping around his waist for the mark.

Then came the sounds.

Small, intentional—part of the scene.

His breath, unsteady but measured. A soft grunt on the next roll of his hips, just under his breath. The kind of sound meant to suggest release without exaggeration. Practised. Real enough to land.

You felt it all.

The weight of him. The tension in his arms. The way his jaw brushed yours when he dipped close, exhaling like he was on the edge of something.

He was performing it.

You knew that.

You’d heard it in rehearsal. You’d run it with Lizzy counting beats at the foot of the bed. But now—now with him above you, eyes flicking between your mouth and your face, his body rocking against yours like you were the only two people left in the world—it felt like more.

You lifted your hips to meet him again.

The friction was too good. Too exact. Every pass catching perfectly over the spot you were trying not to think about.

The heat bloomed fast.

You tried to breathe through it. Tried to stay with the scene. But your body wasn’t listening.

Austin let out another soft sound, low in his throat as he pressed into you again.

That’s what did it.

Not the contact. Not even the movement.

But that sound.

And then it hit.

A clench deep in your belly. Tight, hard, spreading in slow, impossible waves. Your legs tensed. Your breath caught.

It passed through you fast—quiet, sharp, almost invisible.

You didn’t cry out.

But your fingers curled. Your thighs trembled once. Your lips parted just enough to let something slip free—barely a sound.

Austin didn’t flinch.

He kept going. Perfectly on cue. Still in it. Still steady.

But in that second, as he looked down at you again, something in his eyes flickered.

And you wondered if he’d felt it too.

He kept moving, breath low and strained in his throat. You could feel the tension in his body—measured, deliberate—the kind of control that came from rehearsal, not instinct.

His hand slid from your waist to your thigh, anchoring you. His head dipped to your shoulder, and you felt his jaw flex as his body rolled once more into yours.

A soft sound escaped him. Weighted. Part of the scene. Part of the finish.

Then he kissed you again.

Gentle. Breathless. Like something settling.

His weight lowered onto you slightly.

You stayed still.

Your heart was hammering. Your skin flushed.

Shit.

Fuck.

No. No, no—

It had happened. You knew it. You could feel it still humming in your body, the aftershocks settling beneath your ribs. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. But real.

You came.

On camera.

With everyone watching.

“Cut.”

The word sliced through the air.

Austin’s body stilled above you. He exhaled through his nose and lifted his head slightly, hands braced to push off without pulling too fast. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, blinking up at the ceiling, trying not to let the shape of what had happened show on your face.

There was a pause. One of those charged, still seconds where no one moved—only the buzz of silence settling into the space you’d created.

Then:

“Holy shit,” came the director’s voice from behind the monitor.

Sharp. Breathless. Immediately followed by, “That was beautiful.”

Chairs scraped. People exhaled. The moment broke.

“Let’s reset for coverage,” she called. “But I want that one in the cut. That was—” A pause. “It didn’t feel like acting.”

Someone nearby murmured agreement. You heard the script supervisor say “Gave me chills.” Another voice—camera maybe—added, “The eye contact? Jesus.”

Lizzy stepped in from the edge of frame, already talking through small adjustments for the next take. Her tone was warm, reassuring. “You okay?” she asked, gently, already reaching out with a robe for each of you.

You nodded. Managed a small sound—something halfway between a breath and a “yeah.”

Austin rolled off you slowly, bracing a hand beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight. You felt the air hit your chest and pulled the robe over yourself without looking up.

He stayed close for a second longer than necessary. Not hovering, but steady. Grounding.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

There was something in it. More than routine concern. Something deeper. He’d felt it. Knew, at least on some level, what had happened. And he wasn’t pretending otherwise.

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He held your gaze for half a second longer—long enough to make your chest tighten—then gave a small nod and stood.

He offered his hand. You took it. Let him help you sit. Fingers clumsy at the robe’s tie.

Everyone else was still buzzing. Still riding the afterglow of a great take. Austin was already standing, sweatpants back on, robe loose around his shoulders, listening as Lizzy walked him through a minor camera shift.

He looked completely calm.

You tried to mirror it.

Tried to focus as someone handed you your shorts, your t-shirt folded neatly over them. You took them without speaking, your fingers trembling slightly as you clutched them to your chest.

“I mean it,” the director said again, her voice carrying across the room. “That was the best work I’ve seen from either of you. Whatever you tapped into—don’t let it go.”

The words landed too close. Too accurate.

You forced a smile. A nod.

Everyone read the look on your face as emotional exhaustion. Commitment. Like you were still in it. Someone even whispered, “She’s really gone there,” like it was a compliment.

And you didn’t correct them.

You kept your eyes on the floor. On the nearest mark. On anything but him.

The corridor felt too bright after the bedroom set.

Not blinding. Wrong, somehow. Like the light hadn’t caught up to the rest of you yet.

You kept your robe cinched tight, clothes folded against your chest. Someone passed with a clipboard. Another crew member rolled a rack of jackets toward storage. Everyone moved like the day was done.

You’d moved too. Through the coverage takes, through resets, through minor adjustments no one would remember tomorrow. They hadn’t needed the whole scene again—a few moments. Different angles. Fragments for the edit.

You’d hit every mark.

You’d said the line over his shoulder, felt his hand at your jaw, let him kiss the corner of your mouth while pretending your legs weren’t still shaking.

And you hadn’t looked at him once.

Not properly.

You’d seen him, of course—getting notes, sipping water, slipping back into his hoodie between takes. Once, you’d felt his gaze brush yours across the room and looked away so quickly you nearly knocked over a chair.

No one noticed.

They thought you were exhausted. Spent.

They were right, but not in the way they meant.

A PA held the door open as you stepped into wardrobe. You nodded in thanks and moved straight to your rail, pulling your hanger from the hook like you’d done a hundred times this shoot.

Shirt. Jeans. The things that made you feel like yourself.

You changed fast. Mechanically. Robe off, clothes on, avoiding the mirror. You didn’t want to see the flush still high on your chest, the way your eyes didn’t quite look back at you.

A voice echoed faintly down the corridor—low, familiar.

Austin.

You didn’t catch the words. Just the sound of him, talking to someone, maybe Lizzy or the director. You froze halfway through tying your shoe.

Then you turned—quietly—and slipped out the other way.

The hallway to the dressing rooms was half-lit, most of the crew already packing up elsewhere. You walked faster than you needed to, fingers still curled tightly around the edge of your script even though you hadn’t looked at it since morning.

Inside your room, the door clicked shut behind you.

No mirrors. No cameras. Just stillness.

And for the first time all day, you let yourself exhale.

You stayed in the dressing room longer than you needed to.

Not long enough for anyone to notice. Enough for the hallway to settle. The noise had drifted elsewhere—footsteps fading, radios crackling in the distance. Your bag was already packed. Your hoodie was looped over one arm. All you had to do was leave.

You pressed your palm to the door for a second before opening it. Breathed once. Then stepped out.

The lights were dimmed to end-of-day levels. Most of the crew had already headed out. You turned left toward the exit you knew would be quickest—then paused.

Austin was up ahead.

He stood near the back entrance, hoodie on, bag slung low over one shoulder. Talking to Lizzy in a low voice, both of them facing the far wall, mid-discussion.

He turned first.

Then Lizzy, already smiling as if to say goodbye. She peeled off toward the side hall.

And Austin looked at you.

His eyes met yours before you could drop them. Just a second. No expression. No smile. Only… watching.

You felt your whole chest tighten.

You shifted your grip on your bag and went back the way you came, turning right instead. Not the exit you’d planned. The long way round. The concrete floor echoed faintly under your shoes. You kept your pace even—steady, controlled.

And when you glanced back, he was still watching.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t call out.

He let you go.

You turned back, gaze low, and didn’t lift it again until the air hit your face. Then walked all the way to your car without looking back.

Your apartment was dark when you got in.

Not pitch black—a soft, shadowed quiet, the kind that comes from forgetting to leave a light on. You didn’t bother fixing it. You dropped your bag in the hallway, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a second, still wrapped in the quiet.

The silence wrapped around you too easily.

You peeled off your hoodie. Slipped into the kitchen to drink half a glass of water you didn’t really want. Let the fridge hum fill the corners of the room.

Your phone lit up on the counter.

Austin: Hey. Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re okay.

No emojis. No overthinking. It was him—true to form. Simple. Present. Kind.

You stared at it too long.

Part of you wanted to reply. To say yeah, all good, or thanks for earlier. Something normal. Something easy.

But your fingers didn’t move.

Because nothing about today had been normal. And easy didn’t feel honest.

So you flipped the phone over.

Screen facedown. Lights off. Bedroom door shut behind you.

And you let the message sit there, unread.

You hadn’t slept much.

Every time you closed your eyes, it came back—his body over yours, the weight of his gaze, the press of his hand, the exact second your body slipped past the edge and didn’t come back.

And the way he looked at you after.

He knew.

You were sure of it. It wasn’t a guess. It was in his voice when he asked if you were alright. In the pause before he stood. In the way his eyes had stayed on you even as the crew moved around you, like they were part of a different scene altogether.

He knew.

And he hadn’t said anything.

Neither had you.

You’d run the pickups. Dressed. Walked past him. Left the message on your phone unanswered.

And now you were sitting in your dressing room with your script in your lap, pretending to focus, your coffee untouched, your stomach tight. Reading the same half-page of dialogue about burnt toast and unsaid feelings, over and over again.

Today’s scene was simple.

But facing him wouldn’t be.

The door was open. You’d left it that way on purpose—some part of you hoping someone else might fill the space first. A call time. A wardrobe check. Anything.

Instead, there was a knock.

Soft. Two gentle taps against the frame.

You looked up.

Austin.

He was leaning lightly on the doorframe, one shoulder braced, sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He wasn’t smiling. He watched you, calm and still.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

His voice was steady. But you could feel something underneath it.

You didn’t answer right away.

You blinked slowly, heart thudding harder than it needed to, your fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the script.

He waited.

Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t take a step inside.

You nodded—small, barely there—and lifted one hand in a quiet gesture.

Come in.

He did.

Closed the door behind him, soft click of wood meeting frame, and crossed the room with the kind of unhurried calm that made you want to both shrink into your chair and lean toward him at the same time.

He didn’t sit yet. He paused there for a moment, giving you the chance to change your mind.

You looked down at the pages in your lap, then folded them closed. Not because you were ready. Because there was no point pretending anymore.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “Sorry I didn’t reply.”

Austin gave a small shake of his head, stepping further into the room.

“You don’t have to apologise.”

His voice was gentle. Uncomplicated. Meant to land softly.

He sat down opposite you—not too close, not too formal. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped lightly, like he wasn’t sure how long this would take but had already decided to wait as long as you needed.

“I didn’t send it expecting anything,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You nodded—once—but it felt like too much and not enough at the same time.

He didn’t press. He gave you that look again—level and open, like he had time. Like there was no version of this where he walked away without at least letting you speak.

The silence held for a beat.

Then two.

You let out a quiet breath and glanced down at your script again, thumb smoothing the folded corner like it might give you something useful to say. Then back up at him—finally—and cleared your throat.

“Okay,” you started, already flushed. “I’m just gonna say it, and then maybe I’ll dissolve into the floor and we can pretend this never happened.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You kept going, even though your voice caught halfway through.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you said. “I didn’t even realise what was happening, not really—not until it was already…”

You trailed off, the words stalling somewhere in your chest.

“I didn’t fake it, Austin. It happened. It caught me off guard. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I panicked. And left. And ignored your message. And thought about quitting acting and taking up landscape gardening.”

The heat in your face was instant. Crawling up your neck, into your ears.

“I don’t know if you knew. I mean—I think you did. You looked at me like maybe…”

You didn’t finish.

You didn’t need to.

Because he was already smiling—soft, crooked, steady.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head a little, “if it helps… you were very convincing.”

Your stomach flipped. The colour in your face doubled. You let out the most horrified sound of your life and dropped your face into your hands.

“Oh my god.”

He laughed, warm and gentle. Like he wasn’t shocked. Like it really, truly was okay.

You kept your face in your hands for a full three seconds longer than necessary.

Then peeked through your fingers.

He was still smiling—steady, soft around the edges. Like you’d given him something fragile and he’d known exactly how to hold it.

“I’m never going to work again,” you mumbled into your palms.

“Pretty sure that’s not true.”

“I might actually be the least professional person alive.”

“That also seems unlikely.”

You let your hands fall into your lap, still half-hiding behind your hair.

“I mean… who does that?”

Austin tilted his head, like he was giving it actual thought.

“Someone really committed to the scene?”

You groaned and leaned back in the chair. “Stop.”

He laughed—quiet, shoulders shaking a little. Then softer, “I’m serious. I don’t think anyone on that set had a clue. And even if they did—” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They’re not thinking about it the way you are.”

You looked at him. Properly.

“And you?” you asked, voice quieter. “How are you thinking about it?”

He didn’t look away.

“I think… it happened. That’s all. I think we built something that felt real, and that’s kind of the point, right?” His voice softened again. “And if it felt too real for a second—I’d rather that than the opposite.”

Your heart kicked hard in your chest.

You didn’t know what you expected him to say. But it wasn’t that.

Something in you eased.

Like maybe you weren’t going to break after all.

You let out a slow breath, eyes still on him. “I thought you might be weird about it.”

“I thought you might be,” he said, smiling gently.

You huffed a laugh, the sound catching at the edges. “I nearly sprinted out of here yesterday.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Okay—did sprint,” you admitted. “And yeah, I took the long way out so I wouldn’t have to walk past you.”

Austin gave a small, helpless shrug. “You know I saw that, right?”

You winced. “Of course you did.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

You dropped your head back against the chair and groaned. “Kill me.”

“Nah,” he said. “I need you for the press tour.”

Then, after a beat—“I mean…” He leaned back in the chair, playful now. “If someone asks about chemistry, I feel like I’ve got material.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “If anyone brings up method acting, I’ve got a pretty strong anecdote now.”

You grabbed your script and batted him lightly with it. “I will actually murder you.”

You pulled the script back into your lap, still half-smiling, still a little red.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time.

It was warm. Settled.

You watched him for a moment—he shifted into his chair bouncing his knee once before going still again. Like the nervous energy had nowhere left to go.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He looked up.

“For being…” You shook your head a little. “Exactly like this.”

His smile faded a little—softened into something more serious.

“Of course,” he said. “Always.”

There was a knock at the door before you could say anything else. A voice from the hallway. “Ten minutes!”

You both nodded at the same time.

He stood first. Adjusted the hem of his shirt, then glanced at you again like he wanted to say one more thing—but left it unspoken.

“I’ll see you out there?” he said.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He paused in the doorway for a second. Long enough to make sure you were really okay.

Then he was gone.

And somehow, your chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

The lights were flat and bright, designed for cameras more than comfort. The table was long — eight chairs wide — with placards lined in front of each seat and slim-necked water bottles sweating quietly beside them. The Cannes logo loomed behind like a watermark, and half the room was journalists with notebooks already open.

Austin sat third from the left. Y/N was to his right.

From where he sat, Austin could see the top of her knee bouncing—small, contained, but constant. A nervous tic she usually didn’t have. She was good under pressure, sharp during interviews, but something in her posture today was tighter. More alert. Like she was already rehearsing the answer in her head. The movement stopped the second someone asked about that scene.

“This one’s for Y/N and Austin,” the journalist said. “I wanted to ask about the intimacy scene. It’s a sex scene, technically, but it’s incredibly quiet. Almost reverent. There’s a lot of emotion but very little exaggeration. How did you approach that?”

Austin turned just enough to see her profile.

The stillness came first. Her inhale was shallow — barely there — but he caught it. That tiny moment of bracing. Like she knew this question was coming. Of course she did. They both did.

But it still landed.

He hadn’t forgotten what happened. Not for a second.

It was over a year ago now — and still, sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel it. The shape of her breath against his mouth. The moment her legs tensed. The sound she made, barely audible. So small he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t already been watching for it.

Not because he was trying to catch her out.

Because the second it started, he’d known.

The shift was subtle. A tremble just beneath the rhythm. The way her eyes lost focus for half a beat, like her body had slipped somewhere without her permission.

It had felt… private. More than anything else they’d filmed.

She hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t asked to cut.

So he hadn’t said a word.

He stayed where he was, kept the pacing right, and pretended he didn’t feel her come apart underneath him.

But he had.

And he’d thought about it more times than he probably should have.

Across from him now, she leaned slightly toward the mic.

“I think that tone was always intentional,” Y/N said. “Our intimacy coordinator — Lizzy — was with us from the beginning, and we rehearsed it like choreography. Every beat. Every moment. Nothing was improvised.”

Austin watched her closely.

She sounded calm. Grounded. But there was something in the way she kept her eyes focused just above the crowd — like she was holding a line and didn’t want to step over it.

“I think because so much of the film is about restraint,” she went on, “we knew the payoff had to match that. It wasn’t about tension exploding. It was about the weight of finally letting go. And Lizzy really helped us hold that tone—technically and emotionally.”

His chest pulled a little at the last line.

She was still protecting it. The secret of what had happened.

No one else in that room knew what had really happened. Not the director. Not the camera op. Not even Lizzy.

Only them.

When the room quieted again, Austin leaned into the mic.

“Y/N’s right,” he said. “We built everything on that foundation. Trust. Patience. Rehearsing until the tension wasn’t coming from discomfort — it was coming from the story.”

Out of the corner of his eye, her hand shifted slightly on her lap.

His gaze flicked to hers — not a full turn. Enough to let her know he was there. Still holding it with her. Still following her rhythm.

“I think that kind of quiet is harder to get right than people realise,” he added. “It only worked because she was right there with me in every moment.”

“I think we got lucky. I don’t know if that kind of trust happens on every job. But Y/N made it easy. She made it feel… honest.”

He meant it.

Not only as an actor.

There was a version of him that had felt something real in that moment. More than the weight of her under him — it was the trust she’d shown by letting the scene keep going.

She could’ve stopped him. Could’ve paused. Could’ve broken the frame and called cut.

But she didn’t.

And he’d been in awe of her ever since.

The journalist smiled. “It really was beautiful.”

There were nods. The moderator moved on. Someone else raised a hand.

And under the table, he felt it.

The lightest pressure. Her knee nudging gently against his.

Not insistent. Not drawing attention.

Simply there.

Like punctuation. Like thank you.

He nudged back.

Didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to.

But he smiled at the tablecloth anyway.

And let himself wonder—

just for a second—

what it might feel like if the next time wasn’t for a scene at all.

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222 @faegoddessog

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #fan fiction #fanfic #imagine #fiction #austin butler x reader #austin butler x y/n #austin butler x you #austin butler x #austin butler fanfic #austinbutler

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seungfl0wer · 9 months ago

Text

*𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕?*

Paring: Chan x Reader (Fem)

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Unprotected sex, Creampie, (P in V), dirty talk, use of princess, Oral (F), sorry if I missed any, not proofread so sorry for any mistakes

This was requested from my prompt list 6: “you weren’t supposed to hear that”

A/N: I’m sorry if this is all over the place. I haven’t had time to even think *Sigh* so I’m sorry if it’s not my best.

-🖤

Working late today, you just felt so exhausted from the long shift. Feeling tired and stressed you were honestly ready to scream. You were gonna head home but your friend’s place was a lot closer, You stayed there often especially after late shifts. You didn’t think he’d mind, he was probably still awake anyways. You shot him a message about crashing there but he never responded. You figured he was just working on something. When you go to his place you knocked before reaching for the space key he had given you.

Opening the door it was pretty quiet surprisingly. Normally there was at least music playing but nothing. You stayed quiet thinking he was probably just asleep. Making your way to the spare bedroom you placed your stuff down heading to the bathroom. You started to wash your face when you heard a noise. You tilted your head thinking you heard Chan call for you. The silence was so loud though, thinking you were going crazy you wiped your face.

Making your way back to the room you heard your name again, this time you really heard it. It sounded soft and then again this time mixed with noises and then you heard it “fuck y/n you feel so good.” Hearing this made your stomach flip. A knot in it slowly building as you walked towards his room. The door was half way open, peering in you saw him. He was bent over a pillow fully naked as he was thrusting into the makeshift ‘body’ he had made. You knew you shouldn’t be watching, you’d be mortified if he’d see you but god- did he look good.

His toned body glistening with sweat as moans and groans left his mouth. His movements were everywhere as he pushed himself in and out of the pillow. He gripped it tightly head falling backwards “fuck y/n I wanna fill you- ah- ah fuck need you wrapped around me” his words pour out like a faucet. “Y/n fuck- y/n” he moaned. The scene in front of you was turning you on more than you’d like to admit. Chans been your friend for a while now but he was definitely hot no doubt about it.

That smile of his alone made you weak but hearing him like this just- made a pool in your panties. He started moving not wanting to be found out as a creeper you quickly moved to the side. Nothing could have prepared you for the sweet noise you were about to hear “y/n! Fuck! Ah- cu-cuming!” The low groan he left out followed by moans and whimpers as he came. You stood there almost drooling over how hot he sounded. So many thoughts were swirling in your head that you didn’t hear him walking towards the door.

As he walked out he looked over at you, doing a double take trying to figure if he was tripping. “How long have you been- here?” He said his voice a bit shaky. You couldn’t think straight not after hearing what you did. Not only that but he was now standing infront of you fully naked. His cock slightly still hard, his body red glistening with sweat. “I uhm-“ you stuttered out eyes glancing over him.

“Y/n- I- how much did you hear?” He said his eyes burning a hole into you. “Well I” your words just wouldn’t come out. Everything just getting stuck like a cat actually had your tongue. “Fuck- you weren’t supposed to hear any of that- I mean obviously.. I didn’t know you were coming- I’m sorry- I hope you don’t think I’m weird. It’s just-“ he sighed. “You’re so- pretty and you always pop in my mind when I’m doing this and- and I can’t help it” he continues to ramble.

As he’s talking about it you could see his cock twitching like, being caught or telling you about it was turning him on again. You subconsciously rubbed your legs together, feeling hornier than you ever have. “Why didn’t you just ask for my help?” Your words came out without you even thinking about it. His eyes widened “are- are you serious?” He asked. “I- uhm I yes I’m serious” you stuttered out, eyes meeting for the first time. Without a second of thought he pulled you to him lips crashing into yours. His tongue found its way into your mouth his hands came down wrapping around your waist. He picked you up wrapping your legs around him making you squeal. He chuckled before chasing after your lips once again.

As he laid you down his hands frantically wondered your body. Finding their way to your pants he quickly pulled them down, his hands came under your legs lifting them up. He pressed himself between you his cock pressing against your folds, The contact making you both moan. He moved his hips his cock head coming up to press against your clit. His lips were making their way down to your neck sucking harshly at the skin. Both of you were desperate “Chan- please” you begged breathily hands pulling him to you.

He didn’t even hesitate before letting himself slip into you. Hands gripping tightly to him desperate for more contact. He didn’t move right away the feeling too good for him already. He must have been still for to long though, because you started to whine “move” you said softly. He looked down at you with the most fucked out face as he started to move slowly. He was so lost in the feeling of you, so drunk off of you he bottomed out almost immediately. His cock head kissing your cervix ever so perfectly.

“God you feel even better than I expected” he moaned. His movement were all over the place. He leaned down to you kissing you sloppily his tongue lapping at yours teeth biting at your bottom lip. His hands griped onto your legs desperately trying to find something to anchor him. He felt like he was in a dream, just minutes before he was getting off to the thought of you. Now he’s getting off with you, with him deep inside you. Your body felt addicting, he craved it needed it or he possible might die. “Y/n fuck I’m-“ he started to say his head falling back.

“Cum for me Chris, fuck- please” you say but he shook his head “n-no i wanna savor this moment. Need it to last longer.” He said before pulling out before you could even protest at the loss of him he was going down your body. His lips attached to your wet cunt like some hungry animal. He was fucking you with his tongue his fingers playing with your clit. Your body arched at the feeling moaning his name as you gripped at his hair. “Fuck!” Is all you could get out as he switched. Fingers now pumping into as he sucked harshly at your clit. “Cum for me- please I wanna taste every bit of you.” He said his words coming out like a plea.

He sped his movements up biting softly at your sensitive nub, you uncontrollably started to move your hips. Bucking them grinding into his tongue as you chased your high. “That’s it baby cum for me, fuck cum for princess” he said feeling you clench around his fingers. You came hard, harder than you ever have before. Pulling his hair hard almost screaming his name as your body levitated from the mattress. He continued through your high before quickly coming up to you. He leaned his head against yours eyes looking into each others.

He guided himself into you once again cock moving in and out, he watched as your face contorted in pleasure. Becoming sensitive from just cumming you felt a bigger knot in your stomach. It was already building once again as each thrust hit your g-spot. “Fuck- you feel so good. I’ve never wanted someone as much as I’ve wanted you. Fuck y/n! Fuck! Fuck!” He groaned out sitting up gripping your hips as he pushed deeper into you. His hand came down to play with your clit, thrust becoming sloppier. As you looked up at him the view was magnificent, his eyes were glossed over, lips swollen and mouth half open.

“I’m so fucking close y/n” he breathed out “Chris- c- cum inside” you moaned. The look on his face was everything, a mixture of shock and pure ecstasy “Yeah? I can? Really?” He said in disbelief. You nod yes making him groan. He leaned his body down laying it against yours head in the crook of your neck. He started to thrust sloppier into you his hand on your clit moving frantically. “I’m gonna fill you full, gonna fill this pretty pussy so full it only wants me” he said against your ear. “Y/n you’re all mine ok? Please I need you to be all mine” he babbled on.

He leaned up looking into your eyes “tell me please- say it” he said eyes locked on you. “Chris- I’m all yours. Only yours.” And with those words it pushed him over the edge his body was stuttering inside you cuming deep as he let out moans and curses. As he came the feeling of it mixed with the feeling of him playing with your abused clit made you cum. Something you didn’t expect though as you came it felt different, until you heard him groan even more “princess- fuck squirting all over me?” He said his voice shaky.

No one has ever been able to make you squirt but here you were covered in your mess, it covering Chans body. “Y/n did you really mean it? Are you all mine?” He said moving to look at you again. “Yes, I’d love to be all yours.” He smiled widely kissing you lovingly. You two stayed cuddled into each other for a few before Chan broke the silence. “Let’s go shower yeah?” You nodded “if I can walk” your comment making you both burst out laughing.

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Taglist: @satosugu4l @do-you-remember-summer-127 @xines16 @minh0scat @troublemaker02 @tr-mha-fan @lunearta @velvetmoonlght @minghaosimp

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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part eight)

warnings ; there’s a lil heavy makeout in the beginning but that’s it!

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; writing this part was like holding a lit match too close to my own chest. yeah. this isn’t just them screaming at each other, this is legit every character trait we’ve been slow-burning from chapter one crashing together like live wires. she shuts down before people can get too close. he pokes at her sore spots because he doesn’t know how to say “i care” without making it sound like a challenge. they are both so bad at being vulnerable and somehow even worse at pretending they don’t feel anything. and yet they keep coming back to each other like it’s instinct. like it’s home AHAJSSJD

this part was so fun and so devastating to write. we’re deep in this shit now, but we’re getting close to the end and i’m not okay about it!! i love these disaster babies with my whole entire heart. they’re messy and sharp and human and so damn soft in the moments they don’t mean to be. i just want to wrap them in a blanket and force them to have one honest conversation (but also i’m here for the angst. always).

also, required listening for this part: “the archer” by tswift. y’all hate to see me coming.

and if you’re wondering how it ends… let’s just say whatever version of an ending they get is earned. something they’ll have to choose, again and again, even when it’s hard. see you in part 9 lovers!!!!

playlist here

series masterlist here

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up here.

One minute you're wrapping up some corporate bullshit call in the Seoul office — all "projections" and "placements" and other words that make your degree worth something — and the next, you're pressed against the conference room door with Jungkook's mouth on yours like oxygen's going out of style.

The blinds are drawn. Lights off. Real classy setup you've got going. All you can hear is your own breathing, embarrassingly fast, and the whisper of his fingers playing with your blouse buttons like they're piano keys.

"You know," he mumbles against your jaw, voice low enough to make your stomach do that stupid fluttery thing, "you really shouldn't look at me like that during meetings."

You scoff, but it turns into something more pathetic when his lips find that spot on your neck. "I didn't look at you."

He makes this little amused sound that you can feel against your skin. "You did. Around the thirty-minute mark. Right after you tore the executive director a new one."

"I correct a lot of people," you say, trying to sound dismissive.

"Yeah, but you only bite your lip like that when you're trying not to smile at something I said."

You attempt an eye roll, but it's half-hearted at best because your hands are already grabbing fistfuls of his expensive shirt. You yank him closer and he doesn’t resist.

His thigh slides between yours as he pushes you harder against the door, his mouth still doing this maddening exploration of your throat like he's charting territory.

And fuck, this feels different.

It's not just the location. Not the risk of someone walking in, not the whole forbidden office hookup thing.

It's him. The way he's touching you isn't like the usual frantic, clothes-ripping urgency. It's deliberate, patient. Like he's already cataloged every spot that makes you gasp and he's just double-checking his research.

Yeah, his research is solid.

You press your palm against his chest. It's warm. Familiar. Infuriatingly pleasurable.

"This is a terrible idea," you whisper, even though your body is making absolutely zero effort to back up your words.

"You've been saying that every time," he murmurs back, his breath hot against your collarbone. "Still doesn't stop you."

You hate how right he is. But even more than that, you hate how you don't actually want to stop.

Your fingers drift up to his jaw, and for a second, one stupid second, you don't kiss him. You just look at him. Really look.

The soft flush spreading across his cheeks. That small, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. The way his lashes flutter when he realizes you're staring.

You could say something cutting right now. Something to grab back whatever shred of control you're pretending to have. But you don't.

Because this isn't about control anymore, is it? This isn't about who's winning whatever fucked-up game you've been playing.

You kiss him again instead. Less like the mistake you keep telling yourself it is, more like the choice you're actually making.

And Jungkook makes this sound against your mouth, quiet, raw, like you just punched all the air from his lungs and then his hands are back on your hips, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him like he thinks you might bolt if he loosens his grip.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, "You're different lately."

You raise an eyebrow, trying to look more composed than you feel. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs. Smiles that infuriating soft smile that makes something in your chest tighten. "I don't know. I think you like me."

You kiss him again instead of answering, if only to shut him up. To avoid that look in his eyes, the one that says he's starting to read you like a fucking book. You're terrified of just how many pages he might turn if you let him.

You don't know who moves first, whether it's your hand grabbing his collar like it's a lifeline or his arm snaking tighter around your waist, but suddenly you're moving, stumbling together across the room like drunks.

The kiss changes. It's not gentle anymore. His mouth takes, then gives, then takes again, hungry and demanding like he's been thinking about this all day, like he's been sitting through meetings just waiting for the chance to press you against something solid and make you forget your own name.

Your back collides with the edge of the desk. Papers go flying, a pen clatters to the floor.

Jungkook lifts you like you weigh nothing, hands sliding under your thighs to hoist you up until you're perched on the cool surface, legs automatically spreading to make room for him. He leans in, chasing your mouth again, lips hot and insistent. His hands are everywhere at once, gripping your waist, sliding up, fingers slipping beneath the edge of your blouse until he finds exactly what he's looking for.

You gasp when his hand finds your chest through the flimsy barrier of your bra, your breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your mouth. The sound drags a groan from him, unfiltered against your lips.

"Fuck," he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at you, heavy-lidded and breathless, chest rising and falling like he's run you ragged. "This desk's about to be my favorite piece of furniture."

You glare at him, but it lands about as effectively as a water balloon on concrete. "Don't be dramatic."

He smirks, hands still wandering beneath your blouse like they own the place. "I'm serious. Right here.. this desk. In this boring-ass office where everyone thinks you're made of ice."

"You're disgusting."

"And you're wet for me."

You open your mouth to bite back, but he's faster. His hands move with new purpose, dragging you closer to the edge of the desk until your knees bracket his hips, until you can feel every goddamn inch of him pressed against you.

His mouth traces a burning path along your jaw, then down your neck, words hot and damp against your skin.

"I want to fuck you right here," he breathes. "Don't care who hears. Let them hear."

Your nails dig little crescents into his shoulders as he sucks what's definitely going to be a mark into the hollow beneath your collarbone. You're trying (and failing spectacularly) not to show how badly you want exactly what he's offering. It’s bad enough that he even got you in the room, that you let him close the door. That you let your back hit it without protest, knowing full well how dangerous proximity to Jeon Jungkook is, how risky it is to give him even an inch, especially when he never stops at that.

Lately, everything he does has you folding faster than you can recover. A late-night knock and you’re letting him in. A quiet “you forgot to eat again” and suddenly you’re sitting across from him at some hidden booth, sharing food you swore you didn’t want. One hand at your lower back during a team dinner, and your breath’s hitching like he’s got a knife to your spine.

"You're unbelievable," you whisper, but your voice is already cracking at the edges, already betraying you.

"I know," he mutters, kissing you again, slower this time, like he's savoring something rare. "You love it."

You hate that he's right. You hate it even more when he presses you flat against the desk and looms over you like he's acquired the rights to your body, like he's not even asking permission anymore because he knows exactly how far you'll let him go.

You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be doing this.

The thought keeps circling your brain like some half-dead moth around a light — distant, insistent, ultimately pointless.

Because even as you lie back across the desk, skirt rucked up around your thighs, blouse hanging open, Jungkook standing between your legs with that knowing look darkening his eyes, you're still clinging to the illusion that you're calling the shots.

"I have a meeting," you murmur, the words barely making it past your lips as your hands press against his chest. Not to stop him, just to pretend you might. "In twenty minutes."

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. Instead, his fingers trail down the inside of your thigh, deliberate and unhurried, knuckles skimming across skin like he's mapping territory he already knows is his. Like the ending's already written.

"Oh?" he says, voice carrying that dangerous calm. "Then I guess we better not waste time."

"Jungkook—"

His fingers slip beneath your skirt in one fluid motion. You jolt, hips jerking on instinct, the air punched straight out of your lungs.

And just like that, your brain shorts out. Your spine curves off the desk, hands gripping the edge like it might save you, but it doesn't. Nothing does.

Your mind is still scrambling to keep up. You were just telling him to stop. You were just reminding him and yourself that you have a meeting. That this is reckless. That your life doesn't have room for moments like this.

But now his mouth is back on your neck, lips brushing that spot below your ear that makes everything else fade.

You're losing your grip.

The most dangerous part isn't his touch. It's the way it makes you forget — your job title, your packed schedule, your ironclad self-control. It's the way he doesn't even have to undress you to completely take you apart.

"God," you whisper, clinging to whatever scraps of language your brain can still produce, "you're a menace."

He hums against your throat, still touching you like he's got all day. "You keep calling me that. And yet..."

His fingers tease again. Your breath catches, hips lift barely and he smirks. “Seems like you're not exactly rushing to that meeting."

His fingers slide beneath your skirt with that infuriating confidence, brushing over the edge of your lace panties like he's savoring the moment before he unwraps something he knows is already his.

The teasing is unbearable. Calculated. Your thighs twitch under his touch, exhales coming in fragments as your head drops back against the desk. The ceiling blurs into nothing. His mouth is everywhere; your jaw, your throat, dragging slow kisses down your neck. His breath burns against your skin, his lips softer than they have any right to be, and every time he speaks, it cuts straight through you.

"Hmm, you smell like coconut today. New lotion?" he murmurs, thumb tracing circles on your hipbone.

You gasp when he touches you again, and he drinks in the sound like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

Your fingers are tangled in his hair now. Your skirt is bunched around your waist. You're half-dressed, half-ruined, and not even pretending to give a shit about resistance anymore.

And then, just as your head tips back, lips parting on some broken, helpless sound, something shifts behind you.

You don't notice it at first. Neither does he. Too lost in the heat, in the tension, in the way his mouth is traveling lower.

But the faint creak of the door filters in too late, and by the time the sound registers, it's already wide open.

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry—"

Daniel's voice. Loud. Hint of horrified.

Then there’s just the slam of the door as it shuts again with enough force to rattle the walls.

You freeze. Every muscle locks up like you've been hit with a stun gun. And Jungkook, still between your thighs, freezes with you.

The silence that follows is deafening. This is exactly what you knew was coming. The second you heard the door click open, the second Daniel’s voice cut through the stillness of the room like a blade, you knew. You knew you’d have to watch your career start to unravel in real time, thread by thread, under the weight of his stare. His few words said more than shouting would have. Said what the fuck are you doing, said I trusted you, said do you even realize how much is at stake? And all you could do was stand there with your blouse half-buttoned and your mouth still swollen, your pulse roaring in your ears as Jungkook looked just as guilty.

This wasn’t just a misstep. This was everything you built burning to dust at your feet. The part that makes your throat burn and your hands shake, is that you saw it coming. You did this anyway. You let him in. You let yourself want, and now here you are, standing in the wreckage of the version of you who never made mistakes like this.

You're still panting, your blouse hanging open, your hair a disaster, your skirt bunched around your waist like cheap curtains. You can feel your heartbeat in your teeth, skin on fire.

Your shame burns hotter than all of it.

You shove him off you hard, like he's something toxic you just realized you've been letting touch you.

"What the hell," you breathe, pushing him back, yanking your skirt down with hands that won't stop shaking. "What the actual hell?"

"Hey—" Jungkook tries, reaching for you. "It's okay. It was just—"

"Don't." Your voice could cut glass, your eyes already stinging with that special cocktail of fury and humiliation. "Don't even breathe in my direction."

You button your blouse with clumsy fingers, hands fumbling like you've forgotten how clothes work as you scramble to reconstruct yourself. Your pulse is a freight train. Your heart's trying to punch through your ribcage. You can't even look at him.

What… the fuck were you doing?

Worse: what the fuck did Daniel just witness?

You barely finish working on your blouse before you're bolting through the door, your heels clicking an angry rhythm down the hallway. The air feels cold against your overheated skin as you move, your skirt still crooked, hair looking like you just survived a hurricane.

You spot Daniel ahead, practically sprinting for the elevators like he’s trying to erase what he saw by sheer distance.

"Daniel," you call, but he doesn't turn. “Daniel!"

He's already jamming the button, the silver doors lighting up in response.

You reach him just before they open, grabbing his arm with enough force to make your point. He freezes, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed forward like he's developed a sudden fascination with the elevator's inspection certificate.

"It's not what it looks like," you say, voice low and desperate.

It's a lie so transparent it might as well be cellophane.

Daniel glances at you, his expression carved from corporate boardroom marble, that careful blankness they teach in management seminars but never put in the employee handbook. He tilts his head, offers you a smile so professional it could be used in the company's next PR disaster.

"Of course not," he says, tone flatter than week-old soda. "You don't owe me an explanation."

You stare at him, something closing around your throat. "Daniel—"

"I really do have somewhere to be," he cuts in with practiced politeness, eyes darting to the elevator like it's his personal rescue boat. "But... if you need to talk, I'm always happy to make time. CMO to subordinate."

The words hit you like a slap. Daniel’s always been the one person you could count on, even before the title made it official. Years of late nights and early calls and campaign launches that nearly killed you both. Drinks after client meetings. Inside jokes in the back of boardrooms. You’ve known him longer than anyone at the company, trusted him more than anyone in the industry. He’s seen you screw up before, seen you burnt out, but he never made you feel small for it.

That’s what makes this whole debacle even more pathetic. Because when he walked in on you, you didn’t need to see the shock in his face. Right now, you’re seeing recognition. You’re seeing the moment he remembered you’re the Chief Marketing Officer and he’s not, that you hold more power, more risk, more to lose. That shift, that quiet acknowledgment of difference, is what shatters you. If even Daniel looks at you differently now, if even he thinks you’ve compromised who you are for Jungkook, then maybe you really have.

You blink. He steps into the elevator.

Just before the doors slide shut, he gives you one last perfunctory nod. "Hope everything gets sorted. Have a good rest of your afternoon."

Then he's gone. You’re left standing in the hallway, heart hammering, shame screaming in your ears.

You can handle marketing disasters, media shitstorms, celebrity meltdowns. But this? This might be the one PR nightmare you never saw coming.

You don't even remember walking back through the office. You don't register the sideways glances, the way heads dip like prairie dogs sensing a hawk, or the sound of your heels cracking against the floor as if you're trying to break through it.

You're moving on autopilot. Fury and humiliation surging through your veins, threatening to boil over with every step.

Your body is trembling, skirt still twisted on your hips. Blouse looks like it spent the night on the floor, your lipstick smeared. You look like a cautionary tale from an HR seminar.

Your heart is pounding so hard it's starting to echo, a hollow thump thump thump like the countdown to something you can't stop.

When you reach the office, you don't hesitate. You don't pause or so much as think. You push the door open and slam it shut behind you hard enough to make your ears pop.

Jungkook's head snaps up. He's still standing by the desk, half-dressed, shirt buttoned wrong. He looks shell-shocked, caught, mouth open like he was practicing explanations that dried up on his tongue.

With a heaving chest, you stare at him, vision blurred at the edges with rage. “What the fuck is wrong with you?" you snap, the words cracking across the room like summer lightning.

His eyebrows inch up, a slow-motion surrender. "What do you mean—"

"I told you I had a meeting." Your voice isn't loud, but it's sharp enough to draw blood. Panic edging every syllable. "I told you.. twenty minutes, Jungkook. You couldn't even give me that?"

He takes a step toward you, hands raised like you're some wild animal he's trying not to spook. "You wanted it too."

"Oh, don't you fucking dare," you hiss, slicing through his bullshit. "Don't spin this like you're not part of the problem."

He blinks, eyes narrowing just enough to tell you he's getting defensive. "Part of the problem? Do you hear yourself right now?"

But you're not listening. Not really.

Your brain is in freefall, spinning too fast to grab onto anything solid, cycling through every possible headline, every office whisper, every version of this getting out. Daniel's face keeps flashing through your mind like some corporate horror show on repeat.

You press your fingers to your temples, trying to breathe, trying to anchor yourself to something but it's like trying to grab smoke.

You've worked your entire fucking life for this. Clawed your way up from nothing. Built yourself into someone untouchable.

Now you're standing in an office, looking like you've been mauled, with your career-making brand campaign hanging by a thread, and Jeon Jungkook watching you like he can't decide whether to comfort you or make a break for the door.

You lower your hands. Look at him. Suddenly, your voice drops to something quieter. “I can't think when I'm around you."

The sentence hangs there, unfiltered, more honest than anything you've said in months.

When his expression softens, even slightly, you want to put your fist through a wall. The last thing you need right now is his understanding. Not from him. Not when you're barely holding yourself together.

His silence only twists the knife deeper. The longer he stands there, the more your panic multiplies, pressing into your chest like some invasive growth. You feel it everywhere — your throat, your lungs, your fingertips. The air in the room suddenly feels too thin, like the walls are inching closer with every breath.

Jungkook, still standing by that desk, watching you like you're some natural disaster he didn't prepare for, finally breaks the silence. “What are you even saying right now?" His voice hovers somewhere between confusion and disbelief. "You're acting like I'm the one who—"

"This needs to be over."

You say it too fast. Like yanking out stitches before they're ready. Like maybe if you're the one to say it first, you won't feel it.

He stares at you. Fully deadpans. "What?"

You can't look at him. You focus on the desk, the floor, the fucking ceiling tiles — anything else.

"This was a mistake," you say, voice steadier now, more controlled, though your hands are still betraying you at your sides. "All of it. Every time. I never should've—"

"Stop." His voice slices through the air, sharper than before. He moves now, closing the distance between you, his eyes locked on yours like he's daring you to keep going.

"Don't do that," he says again, quieter but harder. "Don't pretend like none of it meant anything."

"It didn't." The lie flies out before you can catch it.

Damage is instant.

Jungkook's jaw tightens. His brows pull together, not in anger but pure disbelief. “You're really gonna stand there and say that?"

You cross your arms over your chest, nails digging half-moons into your skin. "I'm your brand executive. You are a global ambassador for Calvin Klein. And I just let my junior team member walk in on us in a fucking office hookup. Do you understand how monumentally fucked this is?"

He shakes his head. "So you're embarrassed."

You laugh, a sound like breaking glass. "I'm not just embarrassed, Jungkook. I'm responsible for an entire campaign that launches in less than a week. If anything tanks, if a single rumor gets out, it's not your name on the line, it's mine. My job. My reputation. My entire fucking career."

"And that's my fault?"

"I should never have touched you."

There's a pause. One second. Two. Three. You stop counting.

He blinks slowly, like he's trying to translate what you just said into something that makes sense. His mouth opens, then closes. Jungkook’s eyes drift away for the first time.

You keep going, voice rising with each word. Not out of cruelty, more so out of some desperate need to save yourself. “I've worked too fucking hard for this. I came from nothing. Do you understand that? Do you get what it means to watch everything you've spent your life building turn to ash?"

"I do," he says sharply. "More than you think."

You ignore him. You're in free fall now.

"This can't keep happening. I can't think when I'm around you, I can't focus, I'm bombing meetings, making shit decisions… this thing, whatever the hell it is, it's destroying me."

He steps closer, eyes drilling into yours, every muscle in his body coiled tight. "So your solution is to pretend it never happened?"

"It has to be," you say, something collapsing in your throat. "It has to be."

He stares at you like you've morphed into someone he doesn't recognize. Maybe you don't recognize yourself either.

Truth is, this isn't about your job or corporate image. It's fear of what he represents. Of how easily he's dismantling the fortress you've spent years building around yourself.

You watch it hit him too.

For a moment, he doesn't speak. There's no teasing in his eyes, no smug curve to his mouth, no flirtation threading through his words. It's just him. Standing in the middle of a room that suddenly feels like a coffin.

"I don't believe you," Jungkook says finally, tone holding on by the thinnest thread. "You can say whatever you want. You can lie to me, fine. But don't fucking lie to yourself."

"I'm not lying—"

"Yes, you are."

His gaze sharpens, just enough to make you flinch. "You want to end this because you're terrified. Because you finally feel something real, and you have no idea what to do with it."

You shake your head, biting down on that burning pressure behind your eyes. "Don't turn this into something it's not."

"It's already something."

"I don't want this to be a thing," you say, voice climbing toward hysteria. "This isn't anything. You were just—" Your breath catches in your throat. "You were just convenient. That's all."

He flinches. Actually fucking flinches, like you backhanded him across the face.

You push through it. If you don't say it now, you'll never say it. And if you don't kill this now, it'll burn you to the ground.

"We are done, Jungkook."

The finality in your voice echoes off the walls.

And for a second, the room is so quiet you can hear everything — the soft mechanical hum of the air vent, the ticking of some distant clock, the sound of your heart trying to punch its way out of your chest.

He doesn't chase after you. He doesn't call your name or grab your arm. He just stands there, frozen in place, watching in silence as the you bolt for the nearest exit, and the door clicks shut between you.

You don't slam it this time. You don't even risk a glance back.

You walk as fast as you can, teetering on a run. Like the ground beneath you might swallow you whole if you slow down. Down the hallway, through the maze of desks and glass partitions and stares, your heels crack against the floor like gunshots. Every face you pass blends into a smear of features, their eyes following you like security cameras. You don't look at anyone.

Your skin feels sunburned, breath ragged. You're coming apart thread by thread, your mask slipping like something you can't hold onto anymore. By the time you reach the elevator, your reflection in the metal doors is a stranger, clothes disheveled, hair a mess, jaw clenched so tight you can feel the pressure in your teeth.

When the doors open, you step inside without hesitation. The descent feels endless.

You blow through the lobby without acknowledging the receptionist's greeting, eyes locked straight ahead, vision tunneled to the only thing that matters: getting the fuck out.

The second the glass doors part and the cold Seoul air slaps your face, your lungs finally expand.

You keep walking until you're down the steps, far enough away that no one from the building can see the way your shoulders finally collapse. You're shaking, and then before you can stop it, you let out a visceral cry.

Not those delicate, camera-ready tears. A full, raw disintegration. Everything you've been choking down for months has clawed its way to the surface, and there's nothing left to do but let it tear you apart.

Your face is buried in your hands and you honestly couldn’t care less who sees.You don’t care if someone from your team walks past. Or if Daniel looks out the window. Or if Jungkook is standing at the top of the building, watching you come undone like a loose thread in the very campaign you built.

Powerhouse of the marketing world? Long gone. You’re not the woman who never flinches, never falters. You’re just some girl from Busan, crying alone on the sidewalk.

No strategy, no plan — just the crushing weight of everything you can’t undo.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The next few days blur into a smear of silence and avoidance tactics. You bury yourself in work, becoming a ghost that haunts your office during daylight and hides in your hotel room after dark. Your calendar fills with back-to-back bullshit — strategy meetings, brand syncs, damage control sessions for other campaigns you’re working — but nothing feels as urgent as your desperate need to feel absolutely nothing.

You don't speak to Jungkook. You don't touch the texts he sends. You ignore Daniel's carefully worded check-in email, though you write and delete four different responses, each one more pathetic than the last.

Instead, you go through the motions. You approve designs, slash through edits with your red pen, bark orders at Seoul and New York and Paris, and pretend like you didn't just torch something that wasn't even supposed to exist.

But no matter how many tasks you pile onto your plate, the weight of it sits on your chest like a concrete block.

You spend your nights alone now. One of them (maybe the third since the fallout, or the fourth, who the hell knows anymore), you drag yourself down to the overpriced bar in your hotel lobby. It's all mood lighting and pretentious minimalism, nearly empty except for a couple of business types avoiding their hotel rooms.

You order a whiskey neat. Then another. And when you catch your reflection in the mirrored shelf behind the bottles, you almost laugh.

Hair yanked back in a clip, blazer still wrinkled from twelve hours of wear, lipstick faded, eyes hollow. You look like a fucking cliché. The kind of woman you used to silently judge. Alone at the bar, drinking at midnight. Looking like heartbreak in a two-thousand-dollar suit.

Christ. You're pathetic.

You drink anyway. At least for those few burning seconds, it drowns out everything else. The ghost of his mouth. The phantom weight of his hands. The way he looked at you like he could see all the way through your entire facade of a composed woman.

You told him it was over and you meant every word. So why does it still feel like he's everywhere?

His voice still echoes in your head. His scent clings to the edges of your memory.

You finish your drink. Order another. You don't want to think about him. You don't want to think about whatever it was you sacrificed or why being right feels so much like drowning.

At some point, you know you can't hide from him anymore, or even from Daniel.

Daniel has been kind, careful, measured. His texts have devolved from breezy to brief, from sarcasm to silence. His emails read like they've been drafted by a corporate robot, stripped of his usual parentheses and smartass commentary. No exclamation points. No inside jokes. Just bullet points and attachments and those CC threads that feel like public executions.

You know that tone. It's the tone he reserves for clients who've crossed boundaries. For interns who can't hit deadlines. For moments exactly like this one.

Technically, you can’t blame him.

You've spent days either ducking behind your laptop screen or drowning in edits and reshoots, acting like if you just type fast enough, if you just look busy enough, you won't have to deal with the fact that he saw something he was never supposed to witness.

But Daniel's patient. He lets you spiral in your own personal hell until the spiral starts to look permanent.

And that's when he knocks.

It's mid-afternoon when he raps on your office door, then pushes it open without waiting for permission. He's holding a coffee in one hand and a folder in the other, his expression blank.

You look up from your laptop, startled, blinking at him like he's caught you with your hand in the company safe.

"Hey," he says in a neutral register. “Got a minute?"

You nod before your brain can catch up with the movement.

He walks in and closes the door behind him, setting the coffee down in front of you like some kind of peace offering.

The apology floods out of you in a torrent of words you never rehearsed. Your voice is already cracking before you even finish the first pathetic sentence. “I'm so sorry, Daniel. I don't even know where to start. That wasn't supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to see that. I—I should've known better, I do know better, I wasn't thinking, and now it's awkward and you're avoiding me and I completely understand if you hate me or if you think I'm some walking HR disaster, and—"

"Whoa, whoa," he says, holding up a hand. "Take a breath before you pass out."

You suck in air, shaky and thin. Your hands are death-gripping the edge of your desk, nails making some kind of indents in your palms.

“I don’t hate you,” Daniel says, but it lands harder than it should. Not gentle. Not forgiving… just tired.

He drops into the chair across from you like he’s run out of places to pace, like if he keeps standing, he might say something worse. His elbows dig into his knees, hands clasped together, and when he finally looks at you, it’s not anger exactly. It’s disappointment with teeth.

You take a breath. Ask the thing you’ve been trying not to ask since the door clicked shut behind him. “Are you going to report me?”

His eyes flick up. There’s no hesitation. “I was going to.”

It hits sharper than you expect. You try not to let it show.

“I had the whole thing written,” he says. “Typed. Saved. Detailed as hell. Everything from the moment I went into the room to the second I noticed his hands on your chest.”

You look down, too embarrassed to face his eyes, “So what stopped you?”

Daniel pauses before letting out a chortle that feels more bitter than anything, “You’ve kept some secrets for me too.”

Your head lifts slowly.

And you do know exactly what he’s talking about.

Years ago, early days of the company, before either of you had titles worth whispering, he’d hooked up with some intern in the copy room during work. The guy was closeted. Daniel has always been out. You had walked in. The story nearly made it out to HR, but you’d buried it. You’d “accidentally” deleted the hallway security footage. You’d vouched for him with your old boss, the man who looked down on you two every time you so much as farted. You never asked for anything in return.

He never forgot it.

“I didn’t forget what you did for me,” he says now, “But I also didn’t think I’d have to cash it in like this. Watching you risk everything for him like you don’t know better. You spent your whole life climbing just to throw yourself off the edge for some idiot.”

He shakes his head, something venomous creeping into the corner of his mouth. “You made me your accomplice the second you didn’t lock that door.”

“I’m so sorry,” The tears that threaten to spill from your eyes linger. You mean every ounce of that apology. Truly, cross your heart and hope to die.

“I’m not used to seeing you like this,” he continues, softer now, but no less direct. “You… the woman who eats deadlines for breakfast. Kinda thought you didn’t have time for that stuff. It rattled me. Because if you’re out here losing your shit over some pretty boy in overpriced underwear ads, what hope is there for the rest of us mortals?"

You laugh, or try to. It comes out sounding like something breaking.

He smiles. "That was me trying to lighten the mood. Was it terrible?"

"No," you say quietly, something hot and sharp behind your eyes. "It was perfect."

There's another really long pause. One that feels like an exhale instead of drowning. He taps a finger against the coffee cup he brought you. "Listen. I don't know the details, and I don't need to. But I've known you long enough. You don't make reckless choices. So if something happened, it wasn't nothing."

Your throat closes up. You don't trust yourself to say a word. He leans back in his chair, watching you with eyes that see too much. "Whatever this is, just... don't forget who you are, okay? You've survived worse than Jeon Jungkook."

Nodding slowly, you press your fingertips to your temple like you might hold back the headache building there. "I know. I just feel... insane."

"Well," Daniel says, rising from the chair with a soft grunt, "then I'll sit with you until you find your way back."

He squeezes your shoulder as he passes, then walks to the door.

When Daniel finally leaves you alone with your thoughts, you realize just how fucking good you've gotten at avoiding Jungkook.

You know his schedule. You memorized it without even trying. You know which meetings he'll show up for and which ones he'll conveniently "miss." You know the sound of his voice through walls, the weight of his presence in a hallway, the subtle shift in atmospheric pressure when he's nearby, and you've become a goddamn expert at walking the other direction.

It's not just about keeping your sanity intact. It's about survival. About keeping your head down, wearing your title like body armor, and not letting him see the hairline fractures still spreading through everything.

You made peace with Daniel. You're slowly regaining your balance. You're getting through your inbox without your stomach dropping. You're back to being the boss, reviewing assets, dissecting launch strategy without your pulse going haywire.

You're almost whole.

But that peace lasts just about two whole milliseconds.

Because of fucking course, Jungkook finds you.

You're walking out of a meeting on the 17th floor, tablet still in hand, already mentally juggling the next three hours of corporate bullshit. You turn the corner to take the back stairs… and there he is.

Leaning against the glass like he owns the place, arms crossed, legs stretched out like he didn't help demolish your world.

His eyes lift when he sees you. And he doesn't smile. That somehow makes it a thousand times worse.

"Nope," you mutter instantly, spinning on your heel like you're fleeing a crime scene, but he pushes off the wall and follows, moving with that purpose that makes your stomach drop.

"Wait," he says.

"No," you snap, refusing to even glance his way, your steps quickening to escape velocity. "Absolutely not. I just patched things up with Daniel, and I'm not about to torch that progress by getting caught in another clusterfuck with you—"

"Would you just stop?"

His voice slices down the corridor, not loud, but sharp enough to cut.

You do stop. You freeze mid-stride, shoulders going rigid, teeth clenched so tight you can feel your head pounding. You turn around with painful slowness, blinking back whatever emotion is threatening to surface.

He's right there, barely arm's length away. Close enough that you could touch him if you were stupid enough.

It’s infuriating how quickly your body remembers exactly what he feels like.

"I don't want to fight," he swallows, voice dropping to something softer. "I just—"

You hold up a hand like a traffic cop. "Don't."

"Can we just talk?"

"Jungkook," you hiss through your teeth, glancing over your shoulder to make sure there's no audience for this train wreck. "You're a walking disaster, and I don't have the time or sanity to keep spinning your name into fucking gold right now. So please… get out of my way."

He stares at you, something passing over his face that you can't decipher. He won’t budge, just looks at you like he's trying to read between lines you didn't even know you were writing.

You begin to walk away, yet this time, you allow yourself to look back at his wistful expression. That’s the whole problem, isn't it? No matter how many boundaries you draw in permanent marker, he always finds the one you forgot existed.

You barely register the tug on your wrist before you're being dragged sideways, away from the glass hallway and through a side door, the cold stairwell swallowing you both like some concrete mouth. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound bouncing off the walls.

"What the hell are you doing?" you snap, yanking your arm back like it's burning. Your heels scrape against the stairs, those shitty fluorescent lights humming overhead. "Are you out of your mind?"

"You've been ignoring me," Jungkook says, his voice cutting through the stale air. "For days."

"Good," you shoot back, something you qualify as dust catching in your throat. "Maybe take the hint next time."

His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Why? Because Daniel walked in on something he didn't understand? He’s all good now you said it yourself that you guys patched things up."

"You don't get to talk about Daniel," you hiss, the words sharp enough to draw blood. "You don't know what I've had to fix."

He steps down the stairwell, arms spreading wide in frustration. "What is there to fix? We didn't murder someone, we were kissing!"

"That's not all it was and you know it!" Your voice splinters. It ricochets off the walls.

He freezes and so do you. Your heart hammers against your ribs, vision crystallizing with fury. His face is a locked door; tense, brow creased, eyes dark as bruises. But you keep going, because the rage is a living thing inside you now.

"You don't understand what's at stake for me," you say, quieter but brittle as glass. "You never have. You walk into a room and everyone parts for you. You smile and the world forgives you. But me? If I mess up, even once, they will never let me come back from it."

He's standing there like a statue, watching you like he can't decide if he should be angry or wounded.

"I clawed my way into this position," you whisper, the words scraping your throat. "And every single day, I have to prove I deserve it. That I'm not some girl from Busan who got lucky. That I'm not fragile. That I'm not just a pretty face with an expensive resume. I don't get the luxury of being messy, Jungkook. Not like you."

His expression shifts, a crack in the marble. "You think that's who I am?" he retorts, "You think I haven't had to fight for anything?"

"You're an idol," you snap, the word leaving your mouth like a bullet. "A loved one. Protected. Handled. You don't even manage your own schedule. There are three people for that."

The words land harder than you intended. You see it in the way his shoulders pull back, in the silence that falls like a guillotine. There's a pause so thick you could choke on it.

"Right," he says finally, bitterly. "Because everything I've worked for doesn't count. Got it."

You really didn't mean to go for the jugular like that.

He laughs once, "You think being an idol is easy? That it doesn't come with a thousand rules and eyes and expectations? You think I don't know what it feels like to lose sleep wondering if today's the day the internet turns on you?"

You press your spine against the cold wall, head tilted away, “This was never supposed to matter," you whisper.

"Yeah," he says. "But it did."

You look at him. You hate how true it rings. You hate the guilt gnawing at your insides. You hate that your first instinct is to soften, to reach for him, to take it all back.

At the end of the day, this is your career. This is everything. If it’s a race between CMO or Jungkook, that position is taking first place.

So instead, you just say, "I can't afford to let it matter."

The words float between you two. He laughs again, this sharp, jagged sound that slices through the stairwell like an axe. He steps closer, something burning behind his eyes now, voice rising not in volume but in something far more devastating — disappointment. “Right," he says, muscle working in his jaw. "Of course you can't. God forbid anything in your life matter more than power. Than control. Than your perfect fucking empire."

You turn to him, eyes narrowing to slits, pulse hammering in your throat. "Don't you dare—"

He keeps going, relentless. He's not shouting, but it feels like he is. "You know what your problem is? You only care about money. About image. You care more about looking powerful than being happy."

Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms. "Excuse me?"

He takes another step closer, not touching you but near enough that your breath halts, near enough that the heat between your bodies feels like something alive.

"You didn't even want to see your parents," he challenges ,"You were back in Busan for three days, and you nearly drank yourself sick instead of facing them. You think I didn't notice that? You think I didn't see the way you flinched every time you talked about home?"

Your whole body goes still. The silence swallows everything — your breath, your thoughts, the distant hum of the building around you. It roars in your ears like an ocean you're drowning in.

Those words, when put together into a coherent sentence, describe exactly why you don’t let anyone in. Never have. You let people orbit. You let them see enough to feel close, but never the core. Never the part that still aches when you think about your mother’s voice on the phone, or the silence you perpetrated between you and your sister who used to be your best friend. You let people near the burn, but never close enough to touch the match. And yet somehow, impossibly, he’s already there. Past the fences, past the warning signs, past the places you thought were locked so tightly even you forgot where the keys were.

It doesn’t even sound cruel. It sounds like he knows. Like he’s seen that quiet, aching center of you and reached straight into it without permission. All you can do is stand there, aching pain caught in your throat, because the truth is you shut people out to keep yourself from bleeding. But it’s too late. He’s already inside. Now you have no idea how to stitch yourself back up around him.

Your voice, when it finally claws its way out, is carved from something furious. “How fucking dare you," you murmur, "How fucking dare you use that against me."

"I'm not using it against you," he fires back, "I'm telling you that this, whatever it is between us, matters. And you're the one running from it. You're the one pretending none of it touched you. So yeah, I'm angry. I'm angry because you make me feel like I'm nothing more than a risk. Like I'm something to hide. Something to be ashamed of."

"You don't get to talk to me about shame," you snap, whole body trembling with a rage that feels like it might tear you open. "You think just because you've been famous for a decade, you understand what it's like to be a woman in this industry? To fight for every room you're allowed to exist in, to be doubted and diminished and dismissed every time you breathe too loudly? Do you know how many men in this building would celebrate my downfall like it's a fucking holiday?"

His lips press into a bloodless line. "So?. At least then you'd be honest. At least then you wouldn't be hiding behind this mask like nothing ever reaches you."

"You want honesty?" you spit, stepping toward him now, close enough to count his eyelashes. "Here's honesty. I don't trust anyone. Not you. Not this. I have fought for every microscopic particle of my existence, and you walked in, half-naked and dripping arrogance, and decided you were entitled to all of it, like I owe you something because you want me. But I don't owe you a goddamn thing, Jungkook."

His eyes flare with something dangerous. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?" you demand, the question hanging between you like smoke. "Because it sure as hell isn't casual anymore. And I don't know what it is, and I don't have the time to figure it out, and I swear to God if you ever bring up my family again—"

He cuts you off, not with words, but with their absence. His jaw is clenched tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. There's color burning across his cheekbones, and something wild and wounded blazing behind his eyes.

You're both breathing like you've been running, standing so close you can feel the electricity crackling in the narrow gap between your bodies. It's not desire anymore, or lust. Not even that soft, aching hunger that comes with wanting.

This is something else entirely. This is two people who've gone too far, felt too much, unraveled completely. This is war with no boundaries.

You can hear your pulse in your ears. Not the steady rhythm of life, but a violent percussion thundering against the fragile walls of your composure. Each beat echoes the fault lines spreading through whatever remains of your defenses.

Your voice emerges from some deep place you seldom acknowledge, not trembling from fear, but vibrating with the particular rage that comes from having something sacred violated. From watching him reach into the darkest corners of your history and pull out the one thing you've spent years burying beneath ambition and achievement.

"If you ever," you begin, hands quivering with the effort of restraint, "ever bring up my family again, Jeon Jungkook—"

You eliminate what little distance remains between you, until your accusation brushes against the vulnerable hollow of his throat, until you're drowning in the maelstrom of his eyes, that peculiar blend of fury layered atop something deeper, something he's desperately trying to conceal beneath his anger.

"You're dead to me."

The silence crystallizes between you, sharp-edged and dangerous as broken mirrors.

"Even more than you are right now," you finish, voice barely audible yet somehow filling the stairwell with its venom.

Jungkook remains perfectly still, a statue carved from tension. Only his breath betrays him,, ragged and uneven, the exhale of someone who's been struck somewhere vital.

"Wow," he mutters finally, shaking his head with a terrible comprehension dawning. "That's what you think of me?"

You laugh sarcastically, "Don't act surprised. You've been pushing since day one. Testing limits. Undermining me in front of my team, flirting with Jennie in front of the entire industry, fucking me in conference rooms and pretending it didn't matter. So no, Jungkook, I don't owe you any soft version of myself. Not now. Not ever."

He's regarding you now with the disoriented gaze of someone who's woken up in unfamiliar territory, as though the map he's been following has suddenly revealed itself to be for another country entirely. Like perhaps he mistook your moments of vulnerability for surrender.

But you can't afford softness. Not when everything within you feels precariously balanced on the edge of collapse. Not when admitting the truth might dissolve whatever remains of your world.

"You're so scared of being known," he says, and the words emerge not as an accusation but as a revelation, quiet and devastating in their naked honesty. "So scared of letting anyone see you. Even me."

You scoff, armoring yourself against the terrifying accuracy of his observation. "Don't make this about feelings."

"It was always about feelings," he snaps,"You're just the only one too stubborn to admit it."

Your heart performs a strange, painful contortion, folding in on itself like origami made from something that was never meant to bend.

You want to say more. You want to scream until your voice shatters against the concrete walls. You want to curse him for every emotion he's excavated from the depths you've spent years paving over, for every second he stood there refusing to retreat, for every moment he made you believe that perhaps someone had finally seen past the constructed architecture of your public self to the trembling foundation beneath.

But if you part your lips now, the flood that follows might sweep away everything you've built.

So instead, you draw in a breath that feels more final. And you say, "I don't want to see you again unless it's for the fucking campaign."

Jungkook flinches. A microexpression of pain that ripples across his features like a stone disturbing still water, enough for you to register, to catalog, to store away in that dangerous archive of moments when his armor has slipped.

Then you pivot away, your heels striking a funeral march up the stairwell and out the door as you abandon him in the hollow space of your shared destruction.

You don't permit yourself the luxury of a backward glance.

You can't.

Because if you do, you might forgive him. And right now, you need the anger to win.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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#jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts jungkook #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfic #jeon jeongguk #jjk #jjk x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook x you

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thisapplepielife · 3 months ago

Text

Written for @steddiebingo and @steddiesongfics.

we left our hearts on our sleeves (and the clothes all over the floor)

Steddie Bingo Prompt: Souvenir | Steddie Song Fics March Prompt: Free Space (Hotel Key by Old Dominion) | Word Count: 2000 | Rating: E | CW: Explicit Sex, Open Lavender Marriage, Recreational Weed/Alcohol Use | POV: Eddie | Tags: Future Fic, Old Friends, Reconnecting, One-Night Stand, Platonic Stobin, Happy Ending

Also on ao3.

Eddie tugs on the collar of Steve's dress shirt, yanking him back into his body. Hotel key for a place down some street he can't even pronounce, burning a hole in his pocket. A chance meeting, a blast from the past that he never thought he'd see again. Steve Harrington. All grown up. Sitting at Eddie's regular bar, tie hanging loose around his neck.

Being sure it was him didn't even cross Eddie's mind, he just walked up behind him, and covered his eyes, leaning against his back. He'd recognize Steve anywhere, even with the years between them.

"Guess who?" Eddie had asked, leaning close to Steve's face.

Steve had laughed, open and bright, like he knew.

He did.

And now Eddie's hand shakes as he slides the key into the heavy lock, with Steve draped over his back, breathing down his neck. Lips brushing against his skin.

He's gonna have a one night stand with Steve Harrington.

Goddamn. Holy shit.

It's the laughing, the kissing, the wandering hands that are really doing it for Eddie. He's had hookups before, but this feels familiar, even if they've never done this before. Not together.

Steve's on his knees, forearms braced on the bed as Eddie slams into him, over and over. Thrusts knocking his hip bones against Steve's ass. And Steve takes him, moaning, clawing at the sheets, and it's the hottest fucking thing Eddie's ever experienced.

He's fucking Steve Harrington.

Twenty-year-old him, stumbling through the woods of the Upside Down scared to death, could have never fathomed this turn of events.

Good things come to those who wait, he guesses.

He reaches around and fists Steve's leaking cock. He's big, thick, and Eddie definitely wants to reverse their positions before Steve slips away for another dozen years.

"Harder," Steve demands, pushing back against Eddie, and fucking hell, Eddie will give it to him harder.

Controlled, firm thrusts. Not faster, he didn't ask for faster, he asked for harder, and Steve's hanging his head. Making a low, pornographic sound that Eddie prays will never stop rattling around in his brain.

He's keeping it, a souvenir, definitive proof the wild interlude in his otherwise rather mundane life actually happened.

Steve Harrington. Under him. Fuckin' A.

Eddie doesn't even want to blink, doesn't want to miss a moment of this. And he doesn't. He stays in the goddamn zone until Steve comes, clenching down on Eddie's cock, painting the sheets, and Eddie's fist.

Only then does Eddie stop holding out, giving one more hard thrust as he buries himself to the hilt, coming as he squeezes Steve's hip with his free hand.

Flopping onto the bed, avoiding the wet spot, Steve's chest is heaving. Eddie takes his hand into his own. Thumbing at the ring on his left hand. Steve hasn't said he's married, and Eddie isn't going to ask. Not his business.

"Robin," Steve says, "I'm married to Robin. But, you know, not like that."

"You're her beard?" Eddie asks, and Steve just shrugs against the pillow, shifting his hips. His cock is big, even soft, nestled against his thigh. Eddie wants it in his mouth, his ass, everywhere.

He wants to make sure neither of them can walk by morning. If they aren't crawling out of here, they didn't do it right.

"I guess? We're each other's? I don't know. It felt like the thing to do. I wanted to get married, and she wanted to stop having people look at her like there was something wrong with her. And my unused college fund was converted into a trust that wouldn't kick in until I was married, or fifty. So, we had more than one reason."

"Fifty, goddamn," Eddie says, that's a hell of a collar for his folks to put on him. They really must have been mad at him for not going to college, not following his father into the family business. Unless he has, now? He was in a suit.

"Kids?" Eddie asks, and Steve shakes his head. "She knows about you doing this?" Eddie follows up, waving their joined hands in the air.

Steve nods.

"She is not in charge of anything below my belt," Steve laughs, "that's a direct quote."

Eddie laughs. Steve married Robin in some sort of lavender marriage, and now he's the one that gets to fuck him tonight. He wasn't looking for love anyway. Win-win.

"I just have to be discreet. Nothing to raise eyebrows around town. So, business trips. You know?"

And Eddie nods. He isn't expecting anything more from him, this alone was above and beyond his wildest dreams.

"You being safe out there?" Eddie asks, "Staying out of the bathhouses and stuff?"

"Yeah," Steve says, nodding, "I mostly pick up women. It's easier, you know?"

Eddie knows, in theory. That's just not what butters his bread.

"But sometimes I just wanna get fucked. Lucky that I stumbled across you," Steve says with a smile, "It was nice to really let loose with a trusted old friend."

An old friend. He's old friends with Steve Harrington. That seems crazy, but it's true. They lived through their Vecna ordeal, and then just drifted away. But that summer of '86, they were friends. Real, true friends.

If he could stay in touch now, reconnecting with both him and Robin, that'd be pretty awesome. He's missed them.

"Pray tell, what does Steve Harrington do for a living?"

"Insurance. I sell insurance," Steve says, and Eddie grins.

Steve Harrington sells insurance. What's this world coming to?

Eddie feels warm and loose. They're working their way through the mini bar. Shots, a joint passed back and forth, and expensive mini bar snacks they're devouring after sharing the half ounce they were smoking from. Now, he's staring at Steve Harrington sitting in the middle of the bed, legs crossed, stoned, half-drunk, with a big ol' grin on his face. Eddie's t-shirt is the only stitch of clothes he has on.

Eddie's shirtless, standing at the foot of the bed, just watching him eating overpriced Pringles, and looking fucking gorgeous.

This is the best night Eddie's had in a long fucking time.

Eddie puts the do not disturb sign on the door, and turns and grins.

They might not have forever, but they have tonight.

It's three in the afternoon, and Eddie rolls closer to Steve. Check-out was technically noon, but they've slept through it, comfortable and warm together in this bed that Eddie isn't ready to leave.

Steve's on his back, and Eddie slings his leg over Steve's bare hips, grinding down on his thighs. Steve's big hands come up and grip his hips, his eyes still closed, but a smile is pulling at the corners of his lips.

Eddie toys with Steve's chest hair that is somehow thicker, even more impressive than it was back when they were just kids.

It's gorgeous. Steve's gorgeous.

Eddie wants it all. If this is all they get, he's gonna enjoy every second.

He wraps his hand around Steve's half-hard dick, and strokes him as he clenches his thighs, pulling himself upwards. Reaching for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, and he slicks up his own fingers, pushing two inside himself. Getting himself ready as he lazily strokes Steve to full hardness underneath him.

Steve's arms are tucked behind his head, and he looks confident, cocky. Satisfied.

He looks happy.

"Are you happy?" Eddie asks, and Steve's smile blooms. A mischievous, toothy grin that Eddie hasn't seen since they were sneaking cigarettes, and yeah, a little weed, behind Robin's back during that summer when they were supposed to be resting. Healing.

"I've got no complaints at the moment," Steve answers.

Eddie meant in life, all of life, but he'll take it. He's making Steve happy right now, and that sends a wave of want through him as he brushes against his own prostate.

He whines, closing his eyes, tilting his head backwards.

"You gonna do that without me?" Steve asks, teasing, and Eddie shakes his head. He's ready. Fuck. He's more than ready.

He extracts his fingers, and has Steve open a condom with his unslick fingers. Then Eddie slides it on Steve's cock, then sinks down on him with a groan. He's so fucking full.

If Steve's happy, Eddie's elated.

"Goddamn, Eddie," Steve says, hand reaching up to brush Eddie's hair out of his face. It's soft, tender, and the warm sunlight casting a glow around the rented room makes it feel magical.

Eddie works himself up and down, enjoying the view of Steve below him in the glow of this afternoon delight.

He laughs, and Steve cocks an eyebrow, amused.

"Rubbin' sticks and stones together make the sparks ignite," he sings, and Steve's stomach ripples with laughter. Delighted. Hips coming up off the bed, driving himself deeper into Eddie.

Eddie moans.

"Best afternoon delight I've had in years," Steve teases.

The thought of loving him is an exciting jolt, but one Eddie knows he'll have to tamp down. Bury deep.

They've got this.

And this is good.

With the sun setting, Steve picks up the room key off the table, and slides it into his pocket. Eddie grins, he's totally fine with Steve keeping that as a souvenir of their night together. He wishes he'd thought of it first.

Eddie scrawls his number on a sheet of hotel stationary, and puts it on top of Steve's jacket. No pressure. But if he doesn't want to lose touch again, the ball can be in his court.

He knows they can't re-open this door. Physically and metaphorically. But they were friends first, and he'd love to be able to say that again. Steve still presses him into the door, while they're on this side of it, locked in their bubble, and kisses him.

"This was fun," he says when he pulls back.

"Definitely," Eddie agrees, and he wants to throw out the offer that he's always available for a repeat performance, but he doesn't want to make Steve let him down gently.

"It was good to see you," Steve says, and wraps him up in a warm hug that Eddie greedily accepts.

"Tell the wife hi," Eddie teases as they pull apart. Steve grins, promises he will, and then he's gone.

Three months later, Steve is sitting in the same bar, but he's turned towards the room, as if he's waiting. For someone, or something.

Eddie grins, and hell, maybe Steve was.

He steps up next to him, and looks down, "Hey, stranger."

Steve smiles, reaching out to let his fingers graze Eddie's thigh. Then he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a familiar hotel key. Different room number, though.

Eddie's about to make a comment, when Robin slides onto the open stool next to Steve.

"Buckley!" he shouts, a little too loud before wrapping her up in a hug she's fighting more than reciprocating. But she's laughing.

"Get off me," she says, and he does. But he stands there grinning at her. Maybe Steve was waiting for her, not Eddie. But he had the hotel key, so now Eddie's just confused.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Accompanying my husband to meet up with his boyfriend," she snarks, in a hushed whisper.

Eddie's not, they're not, but maybe. They've talked a few times. But he had no idea Steve was coming back to town. It was never mentioned.

Steve's grinning, and like, goddamn. Fuck yes. Game on.

"If you steal a second key as another souvenir we may get real famous on the behind the desk do not rent to bulletin board," Eddie teases, and Steve giggles, reaching forward, slipping the offered key into Eddie's back pocket.

"Totally worth it," Steve says, grinning.

They'll just find another hotel, next time. Or Steve can just come home with Eddie if they're actually doing this, with Robin's blessing, apparently.

Because Eddie already knows, looking in Steve's eyes, there's gonna be a next time.

And more.

If you want to sign up for a future bingo event or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiebingo and @steddiesongfics and follow along with the fun!

#steddiebingo2025 #steddiebingo #prompt: souvenir #steddiesongfics #steddie #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steddie fan fic #steddie fic #stranger things #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddiebingo #thisapplepielife: steddiesongfics

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reiderwriter · 2 years ago

Text

Unhappy Holidays

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're unlucky enough to run into Spencer Reid at holiday celebrations four years in a row. In the New Year, you're resolving to rid him from your mind forever, but you never were one to stick to resolutions 👻🦃🎄🎆

Warnings: SMUT 18+ minors dni, enemies to lovers, low-key work rivals, semi-public sex, car sex, hate sex, fingering, thigh riding, creampie, unprotected sex (no condoms but contraceptive mentioned), slight spoilers for s4 of Criminal Minds (but not really).

Prompt Request: #50"You're so fucking obsessed with me.” #82"Really? Because your pussy is saying something different, sweetheart.” #93"Use my thigh. You've been staring at it all night anyway.”

A/N: This is my first submission for @imagining-in-the-margins November/December Office Party writing challenge! I'm sorry I've been so busy recently, but the holiday season really does take a lot of effort to get through at work lmao. Hopefully, I'll be able to post more over my vacation! For now, enjoy some very unserious smut~♡ (as if I write any other kind).

Here's a link to my masterlist, where you can find all my work!~☆

Working with the FBI was no walk in the park, which, from your desk at the opposite corner of the bullpen, Spencer Reid sure made it look like.

Working on adjacent teams for the last three years had become gradually infuriating. You were forever in the man's orbit, stuck dealing with the other women on your team sat giggling about him and his many stupid haircuts, and wondering just how far you'd fallen to have to stare at his stupid face 5 days a week.

If you were unlucky. His team did happen to be out on cases a lot more, whereas yours handled correspondence and consulting cases, a cushy and safe job.

It annoyed you to no end that you had multiple field-based qualifications, extensive fire arms training and were top of your class at the academy only to be relegated yo desk duty whilst boy wonder with his doctorates was allowed to trip over his own feet catching actual killers.

Other people wondered where your dislike of the man sprang from, and you could only let out a disgruntled squeak and tell them your horror stories.

A few months into your job, your been fresh faced and bushy tailed or however that saying goes, and overly eager to take any assignment that came your way. Even if the assignment was baby-sitting an injured Doctor Spencer Reid. He'd been shot whilst out on a case whilst trying to talk down an unsub, and you'd jumped at the chance to get to know him.

He was an office legend, of course, though those days it was more for his characteristic lack of social graces rather than the beauty he'd grown into. You'd been so eager to get to pick his brains, find out how he'd managed to score the position on the BAU at such an early age.

Reality had hit you square in the face when he'd spent a week ignoring you, making you run around like a headless chicken searching for hard copies of documents the FBI had digitised a millennia ago, and hadn't so much as spared you a glance.

The straw that broke the camel's back came as you were running back to him triumphant with a document he'd requested eight hours before and had let yourself into Penelope Garcia’s office quietly, only to hear him bad mouthing you.

“She makes me uncomfortable. I've had her out searching for useless files all day because I don't know what to do with her.”

“She's trying to help, Spencer, it's her job right now, cut her some slack.”

“Her job is currently getting in the way of mine. I even tried writing my own doctor's note so I could get rid of her, but Hotch wouldn't allow it.”

You'd dropped the file loudly on the table, watched the two spin around with horrified looks and turned silently and left the room.

He hadn't once tried to find you after that, and you let your apprenticeship under Doctor Reid quietly fizzle out as you got back to your regular work.

Your resentment still burned though.

Each time you'd been caught in the same elevator with him, you'd ignored him to an almost insane degree, enjoying the way he squirmed and tried to make small talk.

You'd been in contact with JJ and his Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner as well, through cases you'd recommended, but always maintained your cold shoulder.

The one place you could not ignore him, however, was a Penelope Garcia party.

After you'd slammed the file down on her desk, Penelope had guiltily sent you a gift basket filled with sweet treats and books, and had hounded you for a week to make sure your feelings weren't too damaged by her friend's stupidity.

You actually liked her, and found at least one silver lining to the storm that was Spencer Reid ripping through your life.

In the three years since the “incident,” you'd found yourself at three parties where Penelope in all of her heartwarming ways had tried her best to force a reconciliation between the two of you, to disastrous results.

The first was a Halloween party, and you'd been incredibly proud of your Princess Laia costume when you'd arrived. Only until you'd gone to the kitchen to top up your drink to hear Spencer Reid boring some guest or the other about how Star Trek was more advanced, and had a richer plot line.

Penelope had stepped into the kitchen just as he'd caught a glimpse of your (rather skimpy) outfit - yes, you'd chosen swimsuit Laia, yes, you were going to own it - and had immediately jumped into introductions, as if you weren't already intimately acquainted.

“Spencer! This is Y/N! She loves Halloween, too, she makes all of her costumes. You guys should talk.” She'd led the other guest away and left you there with Spencer as you'd awkwardly looked upon his own costume.

“Are you the Tenth Doctor?” You asked begrudgingly, noting his pin-striped suit and the shorter hairstyle he'd chosen.

“Are you a fan? I prefer the original show run more than the current stuff, but David Tennant has really been doing a wonderful-”

“I'm sorry, let me stop you there. I don't watch Doctor Who. I guess I prefer something with a… How should I say, richer plot?”

He'd snapped his mouth shut and didn't have chance to open it again before you turned dramatically and walked away from him.

The second party you'd been cornered into was just over a year later.

Having been stuck in the office over Halloween, Penelope was determined to get in one last celebration before Christmas steam-rolled every other holiday, and thus you'd been invited to her single-people-only-friendsgiving-potluck, and you'd found yourself having to navigate knocking on her door with a casserole dish in your hands.

Luckily a large hand had appeared from behind you and knocked on the door for you. Unfortunately, the sudden shock from the silent appearance of a man right behind you startled you so much that the dish fell straight from your hands anyway.

Penelope opened her door upon hearing the crash and you whirled on your would-be attacker.

It was Spencer again, eyes round in shock, hand still curled into a fist.

You took a calming breath as you gathered yourself, trying not to bite his head off. You wanted to scream and shout and rip his head out but you didn't, instead letting the fury drip into your voice as you finally opened your eyes again.

“That dish took me four fucking hours to make.” You huffed in anger once more as Penelope guided you into the apartment and poured you a glass of wine before you moved back to the entry hall to clean it up again.

Needless to say he didn't care to converse with you after that.

A few small parties in between had been blissfully Spencer-less and you'd lulled yourself into a false sense of security. That's when you accepted the Christmas party invitation.

As one of the unlucky few members of the FBI who had to stay out over christmas in case of some emergency or the other, you'd been grounded in Virginia, unable to travel home for the holidays. So Penelope Garcia's singles-only-Christmas-fun-time-Party was your last ditch effort to spend the holidays actually resting and eating good food.

Learning from last time, Penelope reassured you that there was no potluck, that she had prepared all the food herself, and all you'd need were a bottle of wine and a willingness to party.

You'd taken those recommendations as law and had immediately let yourself into a glass of mulled wine as you arrived, and - noticing that the party was Reid-free - had allowed it to raise your Christmas spirits slightly more than you usually would.

By hour two of the event, you were full of yuletide joy and swaying freely along to the tune of Silent Night.

Spencer’s late entrance really would have gone unnoticed by you had you not bumped face first into his chest as you spun yourself around in your dance, his hands quickly falling to your hips to steady you.

The few moments it took you to gather yourself were about as long as you needed to realised that he'd caught you in his arms underneath the mistletoe. And with your mind fogged by mulled-whatever-it-was-Penelope-mixed-into-that-punch, the part of your brain that objected to the very existence of Spencer Reid went silent, and the incredibly tiny and somewhat damaged part of your brain that instead saw him as attractive started shouting loud instructions.

Before your common sense could return, you pushed yourself up on your tiptoes to kiss the very warm, very close man holding you upright.

“Mistletoe,” you muttered as you clawed his arms off of you and took yourself straight to Penelope's bathroom to throw up.

So yes, your acquaintance with Spencer Reid had never been good, and you were perfectly fine with resenting him from afar, privately.

With three years of bad experiences under your belt, you weren't excited at completing your yearly tradition of horrendous interaction. Which is perhaps why you immediately and loudly protested Penelope’s New Years Eve party invitation.

“Y/N, it's a party. What's the worst that can happen?” She pleaded as she followed you down the corridors of the office building.

“I could see Spencer Reid. I could be forced to converse with Spencer Reid. I could get absolutely wasted and kiss Spencer Reid. There, three options, please accept my resignation from partying.”

“Y/N we both know you don't drink anymore, so at least one of those is unlikely to happen. And Spencer might not even come, he has tickets for an indie theatre from 6pm onwards, they're playing some Russian movie from the 60s that's like 4 hours long or something. So u retire yourself and tell me you'll come?” She had to take three or four steps for each of your own, not that you were so different in height but because you were practically marching in order to avoid the topic.

But you finally stopped and let out a sigh as you turned back to Penelope who stopped just before she ran into you.

“You're sure he won't be there?”

“I'm sure he RSVP’d no.”

“Fine. But I'm not drinking and I will still be expecting the Penelope Garcia virgin punch experience.”

“Bring the party poppers and you have a deal.”

“Done.”

–X–

Over the week since you'd accepted the invitation, you'd made peace with it. For the most part, you did love a Penelope Garcia production. There was something wonderful about your friend and her ability to brighten anyone's mood, an ability that was only heightened at holidays. She was like a glittered goddess gaining power when worshippers used her altar, except the altar was her house and the worship was a range of hallmark-induced holidays.

You arrived at the party at 10pm, and though that was the start time you'd been given, you weren't surprised to see a full house of Penelope’s team mates already in attendance. Derek Morgan, Jennifer Jareau and Emily Prentiss sat spread across the sofa in the living room area, and you noticed a few techie friends also grabbing drinks and chatting.

“Y/N, I'm so glad you're here! You remember everyone on the team, right?” She pulled you into a hug and then sat you down in the middle of the group, waiting for you to mingle and become comfortable before she ran off to more hostess duties.

“Of course, nice to see you guys.” You grabbed your promised punch and sat back comfortably, striking up a conversation with Emily about how bleak the dating scene had been recently.

“It seems like all the men around me are jackasses,” Emily muttered and you giggled along.

“I'm wounded,” Morgan shot back, a hand pressed to his chest in faux pain.

“Good. You're like a lion out there in the clubs stalking gazelles, it's like watching a nature documentary when you're out there.”

You almost snorted your entire drink up your nose as Emily finished, needing to compose yourself for a second.

“I guess the men on our team aren't great with romance,” JJ laughed and took a swing. “Hotch and Rossi have four divorces between them, and Derek here is a lost cause.”

“Our only hope is young Spencer. May he grow into a respectful young gentleman and break out curse,” Emily toasted.

“Oh that ship has sailed,” your laugh this time was bitter, your mood immediately growing sour with even the smallest mention of Spencer Reid.

“Ah, Penelope mentioned you had a problem with our boy wonder. Care to share?”

You opened your mouth to give your standard non-answer and move the conversation along, but you were interrupted.

“Yes, Y/N, care to share? I am slightly curious about that as well.” You turned around and there he was, and your stomach turned in disgust.

Just one time, just one party. You'd been having fun, and here he was to ruin it.

“What are you doing here?” you gaped up at him, unsurprised to see him still decked out in sweater vest and slacks even in his down time.

“I was invited.”

“You declined, Penelope said you had movie tickets.”

“Ticket, singular. And it was cancelled so here I am. What's your problem with me, Y/N?” His jaw clenched and he grabbed the back of your chair and leaned down. It was supposed to be intimidating, but you rolled your eyes. When he looked that attractive, veins in his arms popping out of the sleeves he'd pulled up, you couldn't see him as intimidating. His arms were distracting yes, but God that was nothing compared to his thighs. His pants were tight, and you thanked whatever Clueless tailor had sewn them, because you now allowed yourself a momentary lapse to enjoy the appearance of his lower body.

You tried to shake the thought of his attractiveness from your mind, reminding yourself where you were and in what company.

“I don't think I need to answer that. I think I'll enjoy holding it over your head instead,” you said, standing up and beginning to gather your things.

“Wait, Y/N, where are you going? New Year isn't for another 30 minutes.” Penelope scrambled over and grabbed your hand, pleading with you to stay.

“I'm sorry Pen, but there's just this very annoying bug buzzing around me, and I think I need to get away from it.” You said your goodbyes and excused yourself from the party, happy to have walked away relatively undamaged.

Fate had other plans, and as you stepped out of the apartment building ready to walk yourself home, a hand caught yours from behind as a voice chased you.

“Y/N, wait. I'll go. You go back inside.”

“And return with my tail tucked between my legs after making a grand exit? I'll pass, thanks boy genius.” You shook yourself from his grasp and made to walk away again, but he quickly matched your pace and stepped into your path, cutting you off.

“I can't let you walk home. It's like 40° out here, and your coat is more style than substance.”

“Get into a car with a stranger? I'm sure you of all people know how stupid that sounds.” You stuck a finger out and poked his chest, but he grabbed your hand and held it in place as he spat out his next words.

“I'm not a stranger, I'm the man you're obsessed with, Y/N. Big difference.” You laughed, mostly in shock at his indignance, but he stared at your face as serious as could be.

“Me? Obsessed with you? I'm not the one who followed a woman they're barely acquainted with out of a party filled with all of my friends. Sounds like you're projecting, Spencer.”

“Am I?” He questioned, stepping closer and grabbing your hip as he continued his questioning. “I wasn't the one who was sat there talking about me with all of my colleagues.”

“Well, I wasn't the one who turned up to a party I'd declined an invitation to.”

He was imperceptibly close now, hand gripping your hip so tight you wondered if it'd leave you with a mark.

“I certainly was not the one who initiated a kiss last year, Y/N. You need to face the facts, you're so fucking obsessed with me.” If his hands had you feeling dizzy, his words were completely knocking the sense out of you. Suddenly you returned to the person you'd been under that Mistletoe, and everything from his closeness to the rough edge to his voice begged you to do it once again.

“Go fuck yourself,” was about all the words you could manage as he finally let his lips fall down and crush into your own.

You should've pushed him away, but instead your traitorous body wanted to prove his point, opening up for him faster than you'd opened up to anyone else before.

His tongue flicked against your lips and you gladly let him explore your mouth, opening up to tangle your tongue with his.

He tasted sweet, like the punch Penelope had handed you earlier, only now you wondered if someone had accidentally laced it with how free you were being with your affections.

He resurfaced for air, but you didn't care if there was nothing in your lungs at all if it meant that his lips would engage your own in battle once again.

“Look how much you want me,” he smirked. “Look how needy you are after a single kiss, chasing my lips like that.”

“You and your big fucking mouth. I wish you'd shut up once in a while.”

“I'll make it my new year’s resolution.” His lips joined your own again, and you clashed hard, exploring as much as you could muster as he pulled you in the direction of his car.

“I'm not driving… home… with you,” you growled between kisses, trying not to put your teeth to his neck and bite down hard. You're not sure if that impulse was a murderous one or a kinky one.

“I'm not putting you in the front seat, Y/N, I'm putting you in the back. You should be familiar with the idea.”

Heat sparked between your legs, and you allowed yourself to be manhandled into the beat-up trash heap of a car.

He'd not taken his hands off you as he got you in, pushing himself in first and then pulling you by the hand that you'd unconsciously gripped hard. You immediately straddled his hips, skirt naturally riding up in the process. He noticed and looked curiously down at you, growling as you pressed your lips against his neck and grabbed you instead by the hair gathered in a ponytail at the back of your head.

“See, you're obsessed with me. Just admit it.” Without breaking eye contact, he dug his fingers into the material of your tights and pulled in opposite directions, leaving your underwear exposed to his wandering eyes.

“I'm not obsessed with you,” your voice needed conviction to land, but it came out as a lusty whisper, especially as he slipped his fingers inside your underwear and finally touched your aching cunt.

“Really? Because your pussy is saying something else, Princess.” He found your clit faster than you'd ever expected, rubbing slow circles into your skin as you began rocking your hips back and forth.

It was becoming hard to disagree with him, with each flick of wrist growing the heat between your legs. You attacked his neck again, hands practically ripping at his top buttons so you could muffle the sounds of your arousal against his neck, collarbone, chest, any stretch of that pale skin available to you.

He forced your hips to a stop with one hand as he slipped a single digit inside of your hole, gathering your arousal as he set a steady pace, thumb keeping your bundle of nerves occupied.

“Listen, Y/N, can you hear that?”

“I can't h-hear anything.” You had to grind your teeth together to get the words out with minimal interruptions of moans bursting from the pit of your stomach.

He leaned in close to your ear, nuzzling your neck and placing chaste kisses up towards your ear, finally pulling away just enough to whisper a single word in your ear.

“Liar.”

His hand stilled and pulled off you quickly and your eyes broke open, hands unconsciously fitting into his shirt as if you were worried he was going to leave you there like this, on the edge of pleasure but still so far away.

“Use my thigh. You've been staring at it all night anyway.”

“Jackass. You've only been here for like 20 minutes.”

“You can climb right out of this car if you want to, Y/N.” He tried to keep his tone light, but the death grip he had on your thighs, the very obvious tent pitched in his pants and the way his eyes couldn't go five seconds without undressing you told you you had more power in this interaction than he wanted to give you.

There was no way either of you were letting the other go unused tonight.

You relaxed your grip on his shirt and shifted your weight to one of his thighs. Lithe he may be, but lowering yourself down there was an unexpected strength there. He watched on curiously as you rocked experimentally against him. Back and forth you rocked, trying desperately to keep up his momentum or tempt him to help you out again.

It was time to let your voice back out, and you did, moaning without a care as you hummed his leg like a bitch in heat.

“You're enjoying this lot, huh, Y/N,” he muttered, and you watched as his hand worked his pants zip open, removing one of the barriers in the way between the two of you, as he began palming himself.

“What's that saying? Anything you can do, I can do better?” He growled at that response but didn't stop you. Instead he bought a hand down on your ass as you moved, so hard you jolted at the sudden pain. Your eyes shot open as your hips stilled, but you felt warmth grow between your legs.

“Yes, you definitely enjoyed that. Should I do that again, or do you think we should hurry this up and go back up for the countdown?”

You hesitated only a second before you pushed his hand off his lap, shifting your hips further towards his knees before letting your hand reach for where his had just been.

You didn't let yourself think about how big he was as you pulled his cock free, didn't let yourself wonder how he measured up against anyone you'd been with before. You didn't let yourself waste time thinking about how various office rumours were true, and definitely not a second was wasted feeling jealous about how those rumours were spread in the first place.

Instead you simply slammed your lips back against his, mouth opening to let your tongue engage his as you lifted your hips with his help and lowered yourself down on him.

You didn't have to rid yourself of sinful thoughts after that as he purged every single brain cell from your head, filling you so contently that there was simply no space for anything but him.

You locked up on top of him, clawing at his shoulders as you whimpered at the stretched, falling so he was balls deep inside you. You wanted to move, to use him for your pleasure, but your walls tightened every time you even thought about it as he stroked your hair through it all.

It had been some time since you'd last had a sexual partner, and you needed the few minutes to overcome the first uncomfortable bliss of it all.

“That good?” he whispered, but the harsh tone of earlier was gone, replaced only by unsure humour to break the silence.

“Been a while.” He nodded, kissing you again to distraction as he shifted your positions.

Cradling your neck and securing your legs comfortably around him, he lowered you against the backseat, pulling out slightly as you adjusted to the new angle.

“Better?” You nodded quickly, because it was. There was no more pressure on your legs, and despite the cramped space in the car, you had enough space to lie almost flat.

“Yes… thank you.” Just as his cutting tone had escaped him, you also heard your own tone softening, the sigh of contentment slipping past your lips almost sweet. Almost.

“Are you going to fuck me now, or what?”

He let out a shocked laugh, but lent down to shut you up with a kiss nonetheless. Bracing himself against the car door, his hips softly rocked into you, pace increasing until you were back to the edge of cumming, nails pressed hard into his skin until you were sure he was going to complain.

He didn't though, but kept up his thrusts, until your vision suddenly darkened and stars exploded in them, rolled back in your head as they were.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, where should I…?” He panicked, but you wrapped your legs around him, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him down to swallow his moan as he shot his load inside of you.

“Birth control.” You whispered when you finally let him go, gasping for air. “Contraceptive pill. No need to get the car dirty.”

He collapsed on top of you then, forehead resting against your own as you both caught your breaths.

The moment was silent, and you found the synchronicity of your breaths almost calming. Eventually you had to break apart, and he helped you up to a sitting position, but didn't break eye contact as fell back into his lap.

His hands stroked your back, dipping to your ass at times, but he didn't talk. Neither of you did.

The eye contact between the two of you was possibly the most pleasant conversation you'd ever had.

“I'm sorry.” He blurted, just as fireworks erupted into the night sky. Your heart shook, and you weren't sure of it was the shock of the sound, or the way the rainbow of lights illuminated his sincere expression.

“You don't have to apologise for cumming in me, Spencer.”

“Not that. Before. The casserole and the mistletoe, and the Halloween costume.”

“Wow. Um, okay. Apology accepted, I guess, though I'm not entirely sure why you're apologising now.”

He took a deep breath just as another set of fireworks went up.

“I pulled you under the mistletoe. It was Penelope’s idea, she knew how stupid I was being around you and sent me over. I saw it and took the chance.”

“Fuck. Why?”

“Because I was pretty useless at being chivalrous the year before.”

You climbed off his lap in a scramble and sat on the seat beside him, mind racing, trying to figure out where the hell he was going with this.

He turned to you, trying to keep your attention as he stumbled over the words.

“You couldn't knock on the door, so I wanted to help you, but I didn't think I'd scare you so much you'd drop it.”

“You didn't scare me it was a momentary lapse in my observational skills.”

“You shrieked,” a smile threatened to pull his lips up, they twitched as you flushed red.

“And Halloween?” You looked at him again now, trying to figure out what the hell was going on between the two of you.

“You refused to look at me for a year after we stopped working together,” he shrugged quickly running a hand through his hair and expelling a breath. “I don’t really know how to talk to women.”

“You just know how to piss them off?”

“Morgan says it comes naturally.”

“Yeah, well, Morgan is very wise.”

A brief silence stretched between you, or as silent as a night full of cracks, pops, whizzes and bangs could be.

“I don't get it. You tried your best to get rid of me when I was there to help you. I wanted to impress you, and you kept sending me on meaningless errands, and now you're saying what? You wanted my attention?” There was a quiet anger to your voice, but you were surprised to find it diminished and tired.

“I wanted you gone because you were distracting me, Y/N, not because I hated you.”

“Well, what's the difference, Doctor Reid? Please indulge me.” You huffed a little but kept your eyes on him, trying not to seem too desperate for his answer.

“I have an IQ of 187. Emily says when I'm around a pretty girl it's more like 52,” he fidgeted with his pants, forcing the words out.

“You're a pretty girl. We had a case to work and all I could think about was how to get you to like me. Hotch chewed me out like three separate times for being absent minded.”

He was looking anywhere but you, trying his best not to appear like a fool but you were locked onto him.

“Oh my god you're an idiot.”

“When you're around, yes.”

“And that means I'm equally stupid.”

“No, you just jump to conclusions and hold grudges. There wasn't anything really that stupid about your actions, though it could be suggested that not thoroughly thinking through the wording of the conversation you overheard-”

You cut him off with a kiss, pulling him down again mlby his tie.

“Oh my god, shut up,” you whispered as you broke apart.

“Does that mean we can do this again? Because I'd like to do this again?”

“Stop talking, start kissing jackass.”

He finally didn't argue with that, pulling you back into him as you sat under the stars in his car welcoming the new year.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #criminal minds smut #cm writing challenge

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lady-lostmind · 5 months ago

Text

Starting Over

Written for @steddiebingo Countdown to Midnight Prompt: Only One Bed and Main Card Prompt: Starting Over

Rating: T | WC: 2765

Thank you @oh-stars for betaing!!

Steve turns the key and shoves the sticky door open with a sigh. It’s been a long day. A long drive since there was no way in hell he was letting Eddie drive. All he wants to do is get in, throw their shit down, take a shower, and go to sleep.

Eddie stumbles in behind him, whistling low as he looks around the tiny apartment. “Not too shabby. Thanks, Buckley.”

Steve huffs out a laugh tossing a bag to the side and turning to head back down to get another load. Eddie nudges him before he gets to the door and nods to the hallway. “Let's look at the rest of the place first. Fight over who gets the bigger room.”

Steve rolls his eyes with a smile. “Fine.”

Eddie bounces down the hall, poking his head into every room he comes to before freezing in front of the last room and looking over at Steve with a confused look. “Robin said they were leaving all the furniture while they’re gone, right?”

Steve nods, walking down the hall to catch up with him. “Yeah, why?”

Steve turns to look in the bedroom Eddie is staring into with wide eyes and– it’s empty. He hops across the hall to the other room and peers in– bed, side table, dresser, even Robin’s beat up tv from her bedroom at home. He turns back to Eddie with his hands on his hips. “Huh– I guess Cassidy actually moved out, then?”

Eddie shrugs. “Thought they were both coming back after the semester is over.”

Steve sighs and goes into Robin’s room, perching on the edge of the bed and grabbing the phone off the table. He digs in his pocket for the piece of paper he scribbled her number on and squints at it as he dials, hoping he’s not way off on the time difference and she’s actually awake. She answers after the fourth ring with a groan. “Whoever you are, you better be dead. Or– dying. Actually, maybe I’m going to kill you.”

Steve grins and huffs out a laugh. “Sorry, Robs. I haven’t figured out when you’re actually awake yet.”

Robin groans again. “Die.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “So nice to hear from you too. So glad you made it okay. We also made it through our trip fine, thanks for asking.”

Robin groans.

Steve laughs and settles on the bed more. “What gives, I thought Cassidy agreed to let us rent the place as is for the semester?”

Robin is quiet for a minute and then clearly confused. “What do you mean? She did.”

Steve shakes his head. “I mean…her room is totally empty so–”

“WHAT!?” Robin squawks in his ear.

Steve grimaces. “I don’t know! All her stuff is gone!”

Robin is silent and then sniffles, like maybe she’s trying not to cry.

Steve sits up, gripping the phone harder as his heart sinks. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

Robin still doesn’t say anything and Steve sighs, realizing what an idiot he’s been. “So you guys were–”

Robin sighs, and Steve knows the answer. “I’m so sorry, babe. What can I do?”

Robin huffs out a wet laugh. “It’s my fault. Really. We got in a fight before I left.” She sighs. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I’m sorry though. I know I promised you guys a fully furnished place while you figure something else out.”

“Don’t even worry about it. We’ll figure something out. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m on the adventure of a lifetime, babe. Probably for the best anyway.”

Steve sighs. “Okay, but call me if you need to.”

“I will, dingus.”

Steve hangs up with her after lots of promises on both ends to call more. He glances up at Eddie who is waiting impatiently to be filled in.

“So– what’s the deal?”

Steve sighs, shaking his head. “Cassidy bailed on her.”

Eddie lets out a low whistle. “That sucks.” He looks around at the room with a shrug. “Dibs on Buckley’s room.”

Steve’s jaw drops open with a gasp. “You can’t call dibs on the only room with a fucking bed. If anyone gets her room, it’s me. We’re platonic whatevers. She doesn’t want you sleeping in her bed.”

Eddie scoffs. “What am I, some feral animal? Why wouldn’t she want me in her bed!?”

Steve’s face scrunches in disgust. “We all saw your mattress, dude.”

Eddie’s mouth clenches into a hard line before opening and closing a few times. “I honestly have no argument for that.”

Steve laughs. “We could switch on and off until we can afford another bed? One on the couch, one in here?”

Eddie sighs, tugging at the end of his hair. “We could just share?”

Steve’s brows cinch together. “Like, just sleep here, together?”

Eddie huffs out a laugh. “I mean, unless you had something else in mind, big boy.”

Steve’s face goes beat red and he rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the little swoop in his stomach. “Fuck you.”

Eddie shrugs, opening his mouth to make another snide remark but Steve throws a pillow at his head, effectively shutting him up.

Steve sighs, trying to come up with any excuse to say no. “I guess it’s just temporary, right?”

Eddie nods, hugging the pillow to his chest.

Steve sighs, “Fine.”

The rest of the night is spent unloading all their crap from Eddie’s van, and bickering over where to put things. When they’re finally unpacked, Steve collapses on the couch with a groan and looks up where Eddie is hovering over him with a menacing grin. Steve narrows his eyes. “What?”

Eddie bounces on his toes. “Can we order a pizza?”

Steve sighs. “We need to save money.”

Eddie nods.”I know but we also need to eat. And we didn’t stop for lunch earlier so we could really say we’re just using money already allotted for take out and–” He flashes him another smile. “I really want to try a Chicago deep dish.”

Steve sighs again, but his stomach rumbles loudly, betraying him and Eddie’s smile spreads even further. Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine! But I get the shelf in the bathroom.”

Eddie sticks his hand out and grabs Steve’s, shaking it roughly. “Sold. Pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

Steve shakes his head and pulls his hand back. “You order and I’ll go take a shower.”

Eddie gives him a little salute and heads off toward the kitchen.

The pizza is good. Way better than anything they have in Hawkins, that’s for sure. Steve is full, and happy. Can’t believe they actually did it. They got out. They’re starting over. Away from all the crazy monsters and other dimensions. Normal lives. He can actually see having a life here. And when Robin gets back, it’ll be even better. But for now it’s just him and Eddie. And he thinks it’s going to be good. They both need this reset. They need a fresh start.

Steve yawns and stretches his legs out on the couch, his feet pushing against Eddie’s leg. Eddie swats at his foot with a grin and tosses his paper plate on the coffee table. “You ready for bed?”

Steve nods, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. I’m exhausted.”

Eddie nods. “Me too.”

By the time Steve gets done with his nightly routine, Eddie is already splayed out in the middle of the bed, snoring softly. Steve rolls his eyes fondly as he turns off the lamp and tries to squeeze in next to him, tugging the blanket from his tight grip and hanging off the edge of the bed. Steve sighs and tries to nudge Eddie over to his side of the bed but instead of turning away from Steve he turns toward him, his arm wrapping around his middle and pulling him close. Steve’s eyes go wide and he freezes. This is quite literally his worst nightmare. Or maybe a dream come true, if the way his heart leaps into his throat has anything to say about it. But– he can’t listen to his stupid heart. That thing gets him in too much trouble.

Steve sighs, not sure how to extract himself from Eddie’s death grip without waking him up. He tries to carefully wiggle out of his grasp but no matter how he moves Eddie just holds on tight, and snuggles closer into Steve’s back. Steve goes limp with a huff. Robin is a big cuddler when she sleeps, too. This isn’t any different, right? It doesn’t have to mean– It doesn’t mean anything. They’re friends. Just like Robin. And he doesn’t mind, really. Just thought it might be a little…awkward if they wake up like this. But, he’s so comfortable, and it’s not like Eddie knows, right? And he’s fucking exhausted so–

Steve settles into the bed and goes to sleep with Eddie wrapped firmly around him.

When Steve wakes up, he’s alone in the bed. Which seems weird since Eddie is never awake before noon. He turns over and squints at the clock on the bedside table.

9:35am

Steve shakes his head. Guess we’re going with awkward, then. He gets out of bed, taking his time before making his way down the hall. Eddie is sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, which he almost spills when he looks up and sees Steve standing in the doorway. Steve raises his eyebrows at him and heads to the kitchen to make himself a cup too. When he turns back around, he finds Eddie already staring at him. “You good, man?”

Eddie drops his eyes and clears his throat. “Oh, yeah. Uh– I’m okay. Good– yeah. Fine.”

Steve’s brow scrunches together. “Okay–” He sits down on the couch next to Eddie and sighs when Eddie visibly scoots a few inches away from him.

Steve rolls his eyes and turns to face him more. “Okay, seriously. What’s your problem, man?”

Eddie still won’t look at him, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Nothing.”

Steve glares at him. “Okay–” A mean little smirk pulls across his face as he settles back on the couch. “How’d you sleep?”

Steve can barely hold in his laughter as he watches Eddie’s face turn bright red, his eyes going wide and shocked. “Uh– I uh–”

Steve takes a sip of his coffee. “You were up pretty early. Was the bed not comfortable?”

Eddie tugs at the end of his hair and looks at his hands. “No! It was–” He lets out a heavy sigh. “It was fine. Just uh– thought I’d get a jump start today. You know.”

Steve bites his cheek to stop from laughing. He’s being a little mean. He knows he is. Eddie is obviously embarrassed about this. But it’s so ridiculous Steve can’t help himself. So Eddie cuddled up to him in his sleep last night. Big deal. Plus, it’s fun to tease him. Eddie teases everyone about everything, and is usually unphased by anything thrown his way. So seeing him flustered, well– who could resist?

Steve shrugs. “Well, I slept great.”

Eddie sucks in a short breath, the red on his face deepening even more.

Steve decides to take pity on him, leaning forward to grab the paper off the table. “Let’s see if there’s any good job listings, yeah?”

Eddie gives him a tiny nod and visibly relaxes into the couch.

–

It’s been a week since they moved in and Eddie has spent every night on the couch. Steve feels awful. He can tell he isn’t sleeping for shit, and if he hadn’t teased him about that first night, he wouldn’t be avoiding the bed, and Steve, like this.

Steve pauses at the doorway to the living room, hands on his hips. “Eddie, come on, man. You can’t sleep out here on that shitty couch. Just come to bed.”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, it’s cool. I really don’t mind it out here.”

Steve rolls his eyes. He hasn’t asked him about it directly. He hasn’t even brought it up at all. But this is getting ridiculous. “Listen–”

Eddie groans and rakes his hands down his face. “I can’t, okay? I–” He sighs heavily and looks up at Steve with his big, sad doe eyes.

Steve’s brow scrunches and he shakes his head, confused. He knows he embarrassed him about the cuddling thing but he’s acting like it would be the end of the world to sleep next to him again. Does he– Oh shit. He figured it out. He knows Steve has this massive embarrassing crush on him. He thought he was doing a good job of hiding it. Or at least a better job after– Steve cringes thinking about that night so long ago when they were high and Steve had stupidly reached out and brushed his pretty hair out of his face. The shock he’d seen in Eddie’s eyes. The way he froze and watched Steve’s hand as if he were moving in slow motion. Steve knew he made a mistake. That he’d…read things wrong. He brushed it off as best as he could, and buried his feelings as deep as possible so he wouldn’t lose Eddie as a friend. And it worked. Besides Robin, Eddie is his best friend. They moved past it.

Until now. Now Steve’s stupid crush is showing its head again and it’s going to ruin everything right when things are supposed to be getting better. Maybe he can fix this. Maybe he can backtrack all of this. Maybe he can scrounge enough cash together to buy a fucking bed and pretend this never–

“I like you, Steve.” Eddie’s voice filters through his internal spiral but it doesn’t make any sense. At all.

Steve’s face scrunches as he rolls that around in his head a few times. But it’s still coming out all wrong. “What–?”

Eddie tugs his fingers through his hair. “I can’t sleep next to you, okay? I thought it would be fine, and I could be fucking normal about it, but I can’t. My stupid unconscious brain is no good at hiding this. I–” Eddie looks up at Steve with horror in his eyes. “I fucking plastered myself to you while we we sleeping, Steve.” Eddie sighs heavily and slumps against the couch. “I’m so sorry. I should have known better. I have a hard enough time controlling myself around you when I’m actually awake, so–”

Steve’s brain finally catches up with the program. Realizes what Eddie’s actually saying. “Oh.” A little smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “You like me.”

Eddie slumps against the couch looking completely defeated. “Yeah–” Steve starts walking toward Eddie, whose eyes get wider and wider as he gets closer and closer. He sinks further into the couch like he’s afraid Steve is about to sucker punch him or something, his words coming out in a rambled rush. “And I’m sorry, okay? I know this probably ruins every–”

Steve leans down and cups Eddie’s jaw, tilting his head up to look at him as he leans in close, their lips almost touching. Eddie pulls back, eyes still wide and scared. “What are you doing?” He whispers.

Steve smirks, running his thumb along Eddie’s skin. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Eddie’s eyes flick between Steve’s, like he can’t believe what’s happening. “Don’t fuck with me, Steve.”

Steve huffs out a little laugh. “I don’t know. I was hoping we might get around to that.” Eddie’s eyes grow comically large and he sucks in a little gasp. “But I figured we could start with a kiss. See where it go–”

Eddie’s lips press harshly against his and his hand winds its way into Steve’s hair, tugging gently. Steve smiles against Eddie’s mouth, chuckling lightly and making him pull back with worry. “Sorry, did I–”

Steve shakes his head. “No. No, just–” He leans back in, pressing his lips more gently to Eddie’s, licking softly at his lower lip until Eddie’s relaxes and parts his lips, letting Steve into his mouth. They both moan into it, hands gripping harder, pulling each other closer. Steve slips down onto Eddie’s lap, straddling his thighs and sighing when Eddie’s hands slide down to grab his ass. They stay that way, tongues tangling together and rocking slowly against each other until Eddie finally breaks the kiss with a laugh. He shakes his head staring at Steve like he’s mesmerized by him. “Is this fucking real right now?”

Steve huffs out a laugh and shrugs before climbing off of Eddie’s lap and nodding toward the hallway. “Wanna come to bed and find out?”

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #lady lostmind #steddiebingo2025 #steddiebingo #steddiebingocountdowntomidnight

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