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superhoeva · 1 month ago

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𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid.

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.”

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.”

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

#the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #michael robinavitch smut #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavich x reader #dr robby smut #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #robby robinavitch x reader #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #the pitt fic #the pitt hbo #noah wyle

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godmadeaterribleerror · 6 months ago

Text

Hold You Tight In My Mind

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, blowjobs, kinda fingering), soft angst, injury, hurt/comfort, demon possession, friends-with-benefits to lovers.

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have an agreement. Best friends who have sex, no strings attached. But when a case goes south, you learn a few things about Dean, specifically his thoughts on the arrangement.

Maybe you won't have to love him in silence after all.

Author's Note: Kinda request from @brtodd!! Nothing I love more than a good old love confession, enjoy!

Title from Terrance Loves You by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.5k

That’s a lot of blood. You’ve spent nights in motels stitching wounds and lost yourself on the side of the highway shouting for help, your guts half spilled on the pavement, but you’ve never seen that much blood.

“Son of a bitch, that’s a lot of blood.”

Dean, apparently, hasn’t seen this much blood either.

“Should we, um,” you scan over the tile floor, your nose slightly scrunched. “Should we take a picture for Sam?”

“Yeah, he should see this shit too-“

“No, Dean,” you give him a flat look. “For the case. To help him figure out what the hell this thing is.”

Dean gives you a bright, boyish grin and nod of approval. “Good thinkin’, in case he gets mad at us-“

“Gets mad at you,” you correct, moving to stand at Dean’s shoulder as he takes the photo. “I’m not a part of this. I just wanna go home.”

Dean shrugs. “We all wanna go home, Sweetheart. Hell, I’ve got a wife and kids- Shit-“

He doubles over slightly from your elbow in his ribs, and you roll your eyes.

“You have a fake wife and kids. And your fake wife,” you jab your thumb at your own chest. “Doesn’t want her fake brother-in-law to kill her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dean’s never allowed to have fun.” He mutters, rubbing his side. “And Sammy wouldn’t kill ya’-“

“He’d kill my fake husband.” You pout at Dean, placing a hand over your heart. “And that would kill me.”

Dean chuckles, rising back to his full height. “I love it when you pretend that you care about me. Makes me warm and fuzzy.”

You roll your eyes, hoping he can’t see the low flush on your face. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “You’re into it, though. C’mon, we gotta see if there’s actually a body in here, or Sam’ll kill both of us.”

Dean trudges off through the lake of blood, and you have to shake your head slightly to clear it. This case is going to kill you. This is so fucking gross, and the longer you’re here—in this room, in this town, on this case—the sicker you feel.

And it’s not just the blood. It’s all of this. It’s the haughty country club patrons who are downright impossible to properly interrogate, it’s the extra fancy clothing you have to wear for the investigations, and the shitty little tea cakes that the club serves. Tea cakes that you can feel your stomach growling for, because you haven’t had a chance to eat all day, and that only makes you feel worse. As every hour passes, you only feel more and more sick. You only spiral into starving mess that needs either food or Dean.

And that just makes you ill. Every time you look at Dean and hear him say wife, you want to strangle him then kiss him and it’s exhausting. Because you’d walked into this stupid fucking country club with a plan that would’ve worked fine—Sam’s your driver because he drew the short stick, Dean’s your bodyguard, you’re some fancy heiress looking to spend some money—and everything went sideways the moment the front desk asked how many household members, and Dean said four. Dean said that he was your husband, and you have kids, and that he knows he’s punchin’ above his weight class, but damn him, he can’t feel bad about it.

You want to hate him for that. You want to throttle him for how he’s treating this like it’s casual and easy, like every time he says wife it’s not so quietly cruel to your heart. How it flutters and glows before withering, because you’ll never have that. Dean always says wife with a teasing voice and nudge of your shoulder, and you can only grin at him like it’s not killing you, reminding you of what you can’t have.

But you can’t hate Dean. You don’t really know how to hate Dean. And he doesn’t know that this is like torture, because he really thinks you’re happy with this. Not just the fake wife thing—because you are playing into it, trading the same taunts and jokes and grins—but the very real, no-strings-attached fuck-buddies arrangement you have. Have had for fucking years. The one where you’ll follow him to the ends of the earth and never, ever look back to see what you’d left behind, but all he’s asking is that you stay in his bed and let him fuck you when he asks.

It’s not a bad arrangement. He’s a sex god, he gives as good as he gets, and you’re technically exclusive, but it’s still not what you want. Crave. Desire more than you’ve ever desired anything.

Because you really just want all of Dean. Something he’s never offered anyone‚ will certainly never offer you, and you’re going to chase until it kills you. You’ll warm Dean’s bed and touch his body for as long as you’re allowed, and cling to these small deaths of maybe this could be real until they all finally catch up to your heart. You’ll gather small offerings he drops in your lap without knowing—you’re the only person he looks at, and his eyes don’t seem to stray, and he’s the one who decided you should be fake married—and build a shrine to him along your ribs he’ll never be allowed to see.

But his voice still haunts your dreams with words you feel over your skin where he’s touched you before. Words you’ve heard a million times—so pretty, sweetheart, good girl—and words you’ll never hear. Words that circle your brain and bang on your skull all the fucking time, even in this disgusting, haunting mess of blood. Words that make some small part of you spark whenever you hear Dean’s deep, strong voice say your name, because you’re a little pathetic and you can’t stop praying that he’ll say them. He won’t. He never does.

He calls your name, and that spark kicks up your spine, and he still doesn’t say them.

“I got it!” He sounds so proud, and you hate that it makes you smile. “We’re looking at a demon!”

You turn, pushing through the blood to join Dean at where he’s standing at a fireplace, running his finger over the mantle with a twisted expression of disgust.

“Sulfur?” You ask, stopping as close to his side as he can manage, and he shoots you a grin, holding up a bloodied—but blackened—finger.

“Bingo, Sweetheart.” He winks, obviously missing your open, wanting gape at him as he looks back to the mantle. “Nasty son of bitch, though, I’ve never seen one of those douchebags do this.”

Dean gestures around the room, and you hum an agreement.

“So we’re good?” You ask, standing slightly on your toes to survey the sulfur buildup. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call my wife, tell her I’ll be home for dinner-“

You whack his arm, and he laughs like a handsome, cocky fucking asshole you still can’t figure out how to hate.

“Your wife is starving, and tired of standing in blood.” You kick your foot through the mess, wrinkling your nose. “Can we please go?”

“I dunno, I think this is kinda romantic.” Dean gives you a shit-eating grin, and you swallow. “I mean, this is freakin’ gross, but it’s just us and all these guts, I think we could waste some time-“

“Shut up.” You shove him, and he doesn’t stop grinning at you. “Haul ass, Winchester, or you’ll be in the fake doghouse.”

He chuckles, rebalancing in a second. “You’re being a little dramatic, kid-“

“Don’t kid me, Dean Winchester, I’m your fake wife. I gave birth to your fake kids-“

“You’ve got some good points,“ Dean drawls your name, pulling you right against his chest, and suddenly the smell of metallic blood is nothing compared to the leather and whiskey and gunpowder of Dean. The sticky heat of the room is overtaken by the heat in your core, the heat of Dean’s breath as he lowers down to kiss right behind your ear, his voice dropping to a deep, teasing growl. “And I’m gonna real fuck you when we get back to the motel. But I gotta call Sam and catch him up, can you-“

You nod, reaching into his pocket to grab the keys, and force yourself not to look back as you leave. You wince slightly as you lean into the Impala—starting the car before rising back up and leaning against the door—but it’s not like she’s never been covered in blood before. This just… a lot more blood than usual.

Dean takes a year to join you, and when he walks out of the building he’s smirking, spreading his arms in a wide aren’t you happy to see me? gesture.

“Sam’s workin’ it.” He stops right in front of you, too close and never close enough. “Can I buy a pretty lady a beer?”

“You can buy her some food.” You cross your arms, grinning up at him. “I saw a drive-thru down the road, we shouldn’t go inside looking like this.”

“Smart.” He places his hand on your lower back, guiding you around the car and into the passenger’s seat, and just being so fucking impossible as he opens the door and helps you inside. “Greasy fast-food for me and my girl, comin’ right up.”

You have to learn how to hate him. You have to learn how to flip Dean off and mean it, how to not flush and giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush under his attention. He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t know how to mean it, but it still makes your lower gut warm and your face split into a wide, stupid grin when he calls you my girl, drawls your name in the car, and rests his hand on your knee as you pull through the ordering window. When he parks in the lot and you laugh together, his eyes rarely leaving yours and his smile never falling from his face.

Even when he gets out to use the bathroom—promising he’ll be fast and try, somehow, not to draw attention to how he’s soaked in blood—Dean still grins and winks at you, and you can’t figure out how to shove his chest and shout that this is mean. That he’s mocking you and stringing your heart up on wires to play with, and he can’t be expected to know that but this is so fucking mean. He needs to stop smiling at you, and stop saying wife all the time like it’s real when it’s not. It won’t be, it can’t be, and now that’s going to haunt you forever.

You sit there for long, lonely minutes while Dean’s gone, trying get as little blood as you can on the upholstery, because Dean had already started grumbling about how much work this is gonna be to clean up and you can’t bring yourself to make anything harder for him. You spiral through the sound of Dean calling you my girl and promising to fuck you, sit in the ghost of his big, warm hand on your body and his chest pressed right against your breasts. The gleam in his eyes that was full of promises, and the fantasy of all the plans he might have for that aforementioned fucking.

Then you hear his phone ring, and you frown. Dean almost never forgets his phone in the car, even if he’s just getting beer or paying for gas. It’s a hazard, to not have it. To not be able to reach you or Sam if he needs to, for you and Sam to not be able to reach him.

And he’s been gone a while. Long enough that your throat starts to form a small lump, and—when you pick up the call—your voice is a little unsteady, your attention on where Dean had disappeared into the building.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hey.” Sam says your name through the speaker, his tone a little surprised. “Where’s Dean?”

“Bathroom.” You frown at the building, desperate for Dean to just appear, and soothe this horrible twisting in your gut. “What’s up?”

“I figured out what we’re looking at.” You can hear some papers shuffling on Sam’s end, his words slow and careful. “Special kind of demon that feeds off of lustful blood, which explains why he’s been going after all those rich people. Like, ten ladies and five dudes have tried to sleep with me this week, and I know you and Dean got that, uh, offer-“

“Sam.” You mutter, your eyes still on the building. “Can we exercise it?”

“Kind of. We can’t use the normal one, because it’s not a normal demon, but there is a way. And these guys seem to be capable of being injured, more dependent on their vessels or something. So-“

“If we find him we can knock him down,” you mutter. “Hold him until we figure out how to flush him out.”

“Exactly. And I’m trying to work on the flushing part,” Sam sighs, and you can picture his sheepish expression. “But I don’t have it yet. Are you-“

“We’re coming back soon. Do you want us gone a little while longer, so you can focus-“

“No, Dean told me about all the blood. Sounded gross.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “It was. But-“

“I’ll take the car, need to stop at the library anyway.” Sam says your name through the phone, and there’s a sound of pity in it that makes you curl slightly into yourself. “You and Dean can shower, relax, do, uh, whatever you do-“

You sigh. “Please don’t give me permission to fuck your brother, dude. It’s weird.”

“Yeah.” Sam chuckles through the static. “Sorry. I just know he’s been trying to get you alone-“

“He’s always trying to get me alone.” A dumb smile takes over your face as Dean reappears, and he’s fine. Still covered in blood, but grinning at you with a dizzying joy and gleam in his eyes. “I’ll tell him what we’ve got, and text us when you’ve got the exorcism.”

“Will do. Call me if you need anything, or if, uh, I should stay away longer-“

“Suck my dick.”

You end the call as Sam laughs, and look up to find Dean tapping on your window with a smirk. You blink at him, because he might be covered in more blood than before. There’s a bruise on his forehead that wasn’t there a second ago, his shirt is on backwards, and his jacket is drenched, but he’s look at you like he won the lottery, and you’re not sure what the hell is going on.

“Dean,” you frown at him as you roll the window down, your brow furrowed as he braces an arm on the roof of Baby. “Are you-“

He cuts off your words by ducking down, grabbing your chin, and pulling you into a long, mind-numbing, sloppy kiss that leaves you gaping and dumb. Your fingers curling in his shirt, his low chuckle rolling through your body as he pushes his tongue down your throat, the taste of Dean—lingering burger and sweet soda and salt for your food, plus something innately Dean that’s heady and always leaves a perfect aftertaste on your tongue whenever he kisses you—overtaking the taste of blood just enough override your sense of this is kinda gross, and make you pull him closer.

When Dean pulls back—leaving you starting at him, your breathing ragged and heart trying to escape your chest as he grins at you—he grins at you, his voice a gravely promise.

“You ready to head back, darlin’?”

You blink at him. He’s never called you darling. Darling doesn’t sound like a Dean word. “Uh, yeah, but are you feeling okay? You were in there a while-“

“Food didn’t sit right,” he shrugs, drawing back up with a last wink. “Trust me, Sweetheart, it ain’t gonna be an issue anymore. I’m all flushed out.”

He rounds the car, and you watch him move with a frown. That’s the Dean swagger-walk, but it’s longer, with almost no urgency. Dean always walks with a least a little urgency, and he calls you Sweetheart but not darlin’, and something is still squeezing around your throat and telling you something’s wrong, when Dean’s right here. He’s winking at you from the driver’s seat, driving with the same cool ease Dean always has behind the wheel, and talking to you like he always does. Like your every word is fascinating and amusing, and you could say the grossest thing in the world but he’d still call you adorable.

You hate that he does that. It’s perfect and painful, feeding that shrine over your ribs, and almost enough to distract you from how weird he’s being. How he doesn’t seem at all interested to hear about the blood demon, how his first clarification is so Sam’s gonna leave us in the motel, and how he’s growing bolder with his hand on your leg. Trailing fingers lazily up your thigh and grinning when he brushes over the apex of your thighs, chuckling at your small gasp.

“Think we’re ready for that fuckin’, Sweetheart?” He drawls, pulling into the motel lot. “You sure seem real needy-“

“We’re not having sex, Dean, there’s a demon on the loose-“

“A demon Sammy’s handlin’.” He shrugs. “And I’ve been tryin’ to get you alone all freakin’ week. C’mon, we deserve some time together.“ Dean leans forward, smirking at you. “And I know you want it, babygirl. I bet you’re real fuckin’ wet for me.” He reaches up to your face, running his thumb over your lower lip. “So pretty, darlin’-“

There it is again. Darling. Darling, and the excessive drawling, and the slow walk, and the glint in his eyes you’re only now noticing. It’s colder than how Dean ever looks at you. It’s shallow and crude, like he can’t see anything past a pretty face and body, when Dean is—above all else—your friend. When there’s always a shining light when he looks at you that—both amazingly and awfully—reminds you that you’re more than just a body, and he mostly sees you as the best friend he’s ever had. The one he can do this with, because you care about each other too much to complicate things, and who he’ll always respect.

And this doesn’t feel respectful. It doesn’t feel like Dean. His hands are touching you, but there’s something off about them. Dean would be tracing his fingers over your inner thigh, not moving any further until your either grabbed his hand and moved it for him, or downright pleaded for him to touch you. He’d be disgusted by keeping your bloodied clothing in Baby for even a second more, and choose to back you against the motel wall instead of whatever this is. He’d let you get a word in, for your mock sparring and teasing that he always seems to win.

He would’ve worked in a joke about wanting to fuck his wife, because she can be a real brat when he neglects her. And you’d have smacked his chest, and he’d have laughed, raising his brows and saying see? She gets all bitchy and dramatic when I don’t fuck her right.

But Dean’s not doing that right now. And when you reach over the seat, trailing your hand up his chest in a pretend gesture of need, you feel it.

Warm, sticky blood that’s fresh, and seeping through his shirt. Pouring from a wound you can feel the dip of, that somehow doesn’t make him flinch when you press slightly on it.

A wound right over his anti-possession tattoo.

You move before the demon—not Dean, this isn’t Dean, and you feel fucking ill—can register what’s happening. You pull one of the Impala’s random guns out from the glove compartment, thank a God who’s obviously not listening that it’s weighed and heavy, and ram the butt of it into Dean’s temple. Not hard enough to kill him—you do want your Dean back after this�� but hard enough to knock him out. To buy you enough time to grab his by the neck of his jacket and drag him out of the impala. You kick open the motel room door, scream to Sam for help, and haul him into a chair. Sam ties him down, while you take long, deep breathes, and your words are soft and short when you finally manage to speak.

“He’s possessed.” You whisper, starting at the floor. “They carved through the tattoo.”

“Shit,” Sam starts to pace, and there’s a ringing in your ears that makes it hard to hear him. “It’s-“

You nod. “The blood demon.”

“Are you good to stay here?” Sam marches over to the table and shoving his laptop into his bag. “I’ll go to the library, find what we’re looking for, and call you when I’ve got it. Okay?”

You nod, trying not flinch at Sam’s sympathetic pat of your shoulder, and stare at Dean as Sam leaves. You feel vile. That’s not Dean, but it’s Dean’s body. Dean will still be injured when you get this piece of shit out of his body. He’ll still be covered in bloody, disgusting clothing, and he’ll remember you knocking him out. He’ll ask questions that you’ll have to answer, about how you knew. And you’ll have to tell him that you just did. You’ll leave out the part about how you have every piece of him memorized to worship, so that even if the demon had tried a little harder to pretend to be Dean, you probably still would have caught on. You’d recognizes Dean’s bones in the grave. You’d recognize his voice in space. You’d recognize him just fucking near you if you were being waterboarded and flayed alive. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes and say the painfully basic and obscuring answer of I just did, and that will hurt.

But you have time to practice. The demon’s still knocked out in Dean’s body, and Sam’s taking too long to figure this out, but you don’t have anywhere to be. You can tug Dean’s jacket off his body with a mumbled apology he can’t hear, and busy yourself trying to clean it. You can’t stop looking at him—battered, vulnerable, his face so painfully slack—and the warm, soap-covered cloth isn’t enough to keep you from spiraling. From flinching as the blood, Dean’s blood, becomes red bubbles, and trying to convince yourself that this isn’t going to be so impossibly horrible. That, maybe, the demon just won’t wake up, and you won’t have to do anything but clean Dean’s jacket until Sam gets back

But you’re not that lucky.

Pretty, green eyes that are but don’t look like Dean’s flutter open, the demon drops any pretense of playing pretend, and your skin begins to crawl as it speaks.

“Good mornin’,” it leers at you from the chair, pulling slightly on the bonds. “Aren’t you a pretty sight to see after some forced shut eye.”

You start to scrub on the leather to a degree that can’t be helpful, your knuckles white.

“Knockin’ us out wasn’t very nice to your friend in here, Sweetheart. He’s awfully torn up about it. Feelin’ like he failed you, beggin’ me not to hurt you, hates that I was able to get the up on him and touch you at all. But can I tell you a secret,” the demon says your name, and your blood curls in your body. “He really wants to touch you himself. You’ve got a real dirty minded fellow on your hands. Who woulda thought the great Dean Winchester’s weakness would be a smart-mouthed bitch-“

The demon seems to choke on that last word, and when your gaze shoots up Dean’s body looks like it’s in pain. He’s curving into himself—his eyes screwed shut and sweat forming on his brow—and you’re moving before you know what’s happening. Jumping out of your seat and grabbing his face between your hands, your voice high and frantic over the blood pounding in your ears.

“Dean?” You run your thumb over his cheek, and he twitches, like he can’t figure out if he wants to flinch away or lean into your touch. “Shit, Dean, I need you to talk to me-“

Dean’s eyes snap open—that foul glint still rooted deep into them—and he laughs as you jerk away like he’d burned you.

“I’ll give ‘im this.” The demon says, the words still slightly strained. “He ain’t an easy ride. Keeps tryin’ to break out and talk to you, tell you not to listen to me and go find Sammy.” The demon laughs again, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. It’s Dean’s laugh, but inverted. Cold and hateful and wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking an unsteady step back, and the demon raises Dean’s brows.

“Well, darlin’, you’re just breakin’ poor Dean’s heart. Hurtin’ him, tellin’ him to shut up, tyin’ him up-“ The demon cuts himself off, twisting Dean’s face into a smirk. “Well, that one’s a funny little case, ain’t it. He’s too much of a pathetic little bitch to admit it-“

You scowl, standing a little taller. “Dean’s notpathetic-“

The demon pushes on as if you’d said nothing at all. “But he’s kinda into this. Likes the idea of you havin’ some fun with him however you want, pleasin’ you however you like, or,” the Demon’s grin grows mocking and crude. “Switchin’ places. Keepin’ you down to find out if he can make you scream louder than when he does that thing with his tongue, see if he can get you beggin’ all pretty. Nothin’ gets him goin’ more than when you beg-“

“Shut up.“ You hiss, grabbing your phone off your bed. “I don’t know what your fucking angle is, but I’d recommend you get out of my-“ you catch yourself, taking a short breath before plowing on. “Out of Dean-“

The demon caught it, though, and his smirk grows. “Your what? He ain’t your boyfriend, darlin’. But Jesus, he hates that too. I don’t think you’d keep indulgin’ this asshole if you could spend a second in here with ‘im like I am. He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you, it’s goddamn pathetic-“

You clench your jaw so hard you might break teeth, your movements rough as you scroll for Sam’s contact. “I said shut up-“

“He thinks he’s fuckin’ poison.” The demon sneers, and you can’t look at Dean’s face—can’t see it cruel and filled with hate—or you might start crying. “And shit, darlin’, he’d like to poison you. He’d like to do everythin’ to you. Fuck ya’ and buy you flowers and marry ya’,” the demon cackles, and you feel a little dizzy. “’S why he’s been doin’ this stupid fuckin’ charade all week. He wants to bruise ya’ and bite ya’, then whine and bitch about how he’s so disgustingly in love with you-“ The demon hacks a slight cough, and shakes his head with a mocking grimace. “Makes me fuckin’ sick, how needy and weak this piece of shit is-“

“I said,” you cross back to the chair, fisting Dean’s blood-covered shirt in your hand and yanking him up with cold words and words you hate on your tongue. “Shut the fuck up. And get out of him, before I fucking kill you.”

The demon just laughs at you, spit covering your face. “You ain’t gonna kill me, Sweetheart. Not while I’m in your precious Dean’s body. Not while you got me here, tellin’ you all the nasty things he’d like to do to ya’, how he worships the ground your fuckin’ walk on and dreams about you sayin’ you love a pile of trash like him-“

You tear off your own jacket, bundle up the sleeve, and stuff it the demons mouth. You don’t fucking care if it’s trapped in Dean’s body until Sam gets back, you can’t keep listening to it. Listening to it fucking lie and rip you apart with only words, watch it eyes gleam as it puppets Dean’s mouth to torture you. Why the fuck would it say things like that. It can’t be to hurt Dean, because all he’ll have to do is tell you when this is over that he’s sorry about what the demon said, and that it’s all just lies. And the demon doesn’t know—can’t know—that it just ripped your heart out of your chest and ran it through a meat-grinder. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, and you feel like your skin is trying to fly off your body, and Dean’s still covered in blood and it’s horrible-

Your phone buzzes on the floor—slightly cracked from being suddenly dropped—and it’s Sam. When you pick up he doesn’t wait to hear you before he launches into frantic words, practically shouting into the speaker.

“Found it!” He sounds a little out of breath, and you wouldn’t doubt that he’s been running back to the car. “Can you put me on-“

“Yep.” You press speaker, ripping your jacket out the demons mouth and turning the volume all the way up. “Go.”

Sam starts to recite a long, fancy string of Latin words, and you can’t bear to see Dean’s body thrash and roar and fold in pain, but you need to make sure the demon goes. That when Sam finishes and Dean’s eyes start to flutter, it’s safe to thank Sam, hang up the phone, and fall to your knees at Dean’s side.

“Dean,” you cup his jaw, angling his head slightly back. “Shit, Dean, please say something-“

He moans your name, and you almost start crying in relief, dropping your head carefully onto his leg.

“I, shit-“ Dean’s voice is hoarse as he pulls slightly at the bonds around him. “I’m happy to see you too, Sweetheart, but I kinda need you do untie me-“

“Fuck, sorry-“ You scramble with the ropes, scanning over his body as you do. “I’m gonna go get Sam’s medkit, can you take your shirt off-“

“Well, I’d usually make you but me some dinner- shit-“ He’d already started to pull his shirt off, his whole body shuddering as his arms tried to raise up.

“Dean-“

“Gimme three, I’ve got it-“

“No, you don’t. I’m cutting your shirt off, just-“ You move to your feet, pointing a stern finger at him. “Stay.”

He raises his hands, flinching slightly at the movement. “Yes, ma’am.”

Neither of you speak for a long while. You throw yourself entirely into his stitches, tossing the bloodied rags of his shirt into the trash and stealing small at Dean’s handsome, exhausted features. He’s watching you the whole time, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but it’s sure where to start. When he finally clears his throat, you hum, keeping your hands steady on the stitches.

“This fucking sucks.” He grumbles, and you huff a dry laugh.

“Yeah. It really does.” You pull another stitch through the gash, and Dean winces. “Shit, I’m sorry-“

“Don’t apologize.” He mutters. “I should be apologizing to you.”

You frown up at him, your hands coming to a still. “Why?”

“I let that asshole get one up on me.” He grunts, refusing to meet your eyes. “Couldn’t get a hold over him, either. Let him say all that shit to you-“

Something cracks in your heart, but you just shrug. “That’s not on you, Dean. Demon’s lie, you don’t have to explain it-“

Now Dean’s frowning at you. “What?”

“The demon,” you mumble, your face flushing slightly. “What he said. I get it, it’s what they do, you don’t need to-“

“The demon didn’t,” Dean coughs, his face redder than you’ve ever seen it, his voice almost nervous. “It didn’t lie. He was a dick about how he said it, but he didn’t lie.”

“I, um, I don’t-“ You gape at him for a long second, trying to figure out if he’s joking. This isn’t something Dean would joke about, but that just means you must have heard him wrong. The demon said Dean loved you, and Dean didn’t love you—you haven’t even allowed yourself to entertain the thought outside of secret fantasies and feverish dreams—so the demon lied. The demon lied. The demon had to have lied, but why would Dean-

He says your name, tone cautious and features soft when you blink at him. “Lost you for a second, Sweetheart, are you-“

“I’m okay.” You mumble, refocusing on the stiches. “I’m probably just tired, I thought I heard you say-“

“That I love you?”

You swallow. There it is again. “I-“

He says your name again, careful fingers brushing hair from your face. “Look at me.”

You can’t. You don’t know what’s going on, and there’s still so much blood.

Dean hand moving under your chin and guides your gaze up, you lips parting slightly as your eyes meet his. He’s scanning over you, a slight furrow to his brow, and you can’t stop your hand from moving up and wiping a little blood off his cheek.

“Dean-“

“Never mind.” He mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Thought that we, uh, never mind.”

When you finish the stitches—your hands shaking slightly, your head spinning with confusion—you force him to shower first. It gives you time to spiral down, down, down, your brain turning desperately to figure out what that was. Why Dean would say that, why he’s acting so strange, why the demon would say that, why Sam’s being such a dick and insisting that he’s getting a second room, because Dean would—allegedly—rather have you here as the three of you had already been rotating through the floor, couch, and bed.

Which means you’re stuck with alone Dean for the night. And he’s not fully looking at you when he exits the shower, and you’re mostly just mumbling to each other, and he doesn’t love you but he looks like a kicked puppy. He picks up your own blood-covered jacket, helps you carefully out of your seat, takes the soapy rag from your hands, and flat out refuses to sit until you move to the shower.

And the water doesn’t help. You feel cleaner, but the steam makes your head spin all the more, and you can’t stop picturing Dean’s fallen, almost pained features, and playing the demons words over in your mind.

Dean’s disgustingly in love with you. He worships the ground you walk on and dreams about you saying you love him. And you do love him, but he doesn’t love you, and it’s dangerous to hope that he’d love you, and-

And he still looks so beaten down when you exit the shower. He barely looks at you as you cross the room, his attention wholly on your jacket, and when you drop on the bed and clear your throat, you could sworn he pales.

“Are you,” you swallow, forcing your voice to be stronger. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yep” He mutters, still not looking up. “Stitches are fine, Sweetheart. Good work.”

You flush slightly, but push on. “And your head?”

“Pounding like a bitch, but I’ve gotten through worse.” He shrugs, and words start to creep like vomit up your throat. “We’ll grab Sam in the morning and get goin’-“

“What did you mean?” You blurt, and Dean freezes. “When you said the demon wasn’t lying?”

Dean sighs, and drops the rag, running his hands over his face before turning to you, his voice low and elbows braced on his knees. “What I said.” He grunts, his eyes now refusing to leave yours. “He didn’t lie.”

“About-“

“All of it.”

Your breathing is shallow, your voice barely a whisper, but you have to ask. It will ruin everything, but you need to ask.

But you’re a coward, and you ask the wrong thing.

“Why did you tell the country club we were married?”

Dean lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Because I thought it would be fun. I’d get to call you my wife and see you blush all freakin’ week, and this case was gonna be shit so I thought what the hell.”

“Oh.” You whisper, unsure what to make of that. “Okay.”

Dean still doesn’t look away. If anything his eyes sear into you as his voice drops lower, his expression darkness and unreadable. “How’d you figure out I was possessed?”

You’d practiced this. You just did. You just knew it wasn’t him. That’s all you have to say, and you can’t. Something grabs your tongue and all you can say is the truth.

“Because I know you.” You mumble, unable to break his gaze. “And that wasn’t my Dean.”

“Your Dean,” He chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you. “Wasn’t sure I was your anything, kid-“

“Well, I didn’t think you loved me.”

You say the words before you can actually think them through, and time freezes. Dust seems to the hanging static in the air, red water still and motionless on the table, the hum of the bathroom fan stuck on one long note, and you and Dean both trapped in place. Neither of you strong enough to speak, but not weak enough to run, and why did you say that, Dean doesn’t love you-

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.” He’s searching over your face, words low and whole body tensed. “And I’d try to take it back for you, but-“

“Don’t take it back!” You almost yelp, and Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “I don’t want you to take it back, I just- I don’t-“

“You don’t believe me.”

You nod weakly, wishing he would look away. Wishing Dean would just let you curl into yourself and hide for a million years, until this ends. Until this sore heat of shame over your skin and blooming warmth of hope that Dean might, maybe, really, possibly love you both die a quiet, easy death.

But he doesn’t look away. Dean pushes himself out of the chair with a grunt, walks on unsteady legs to stand before you, and takes your face between his hand, his words deep and firm.

“I love you,” he says your name, lowering his face to yours. “And I know it’s not what you want, but I do. I won’t apologize for it, but if you’re done messing around with me because of that, I’m never gonna make you pretend you love me back-“

You’d been sent into a daze of Dean loves you, he’s saying it himself and it’s the truth and he loves you, and that snaps you out of it. You close the last breath of space between your lips without effort, and this is a long, lazy, peaceful kiss that people without blood and demons would have. It’s cementing, steeling it fully into you that Dean loves you. You’ll never have to try and force yourself to hate him, because it’s shit work to hate Dean Winchester and there’s no point it anymore. He loves you, and it’s impossible to doubt that he loves you when he’s kissing you like this—not invasive but deep, not demanding but still dragging small moans and happy sighs from your throat, holding your cheek with one hand and cupping the back of your head with the other—so it’s not a war with yourself push him back a little and finally say words that have been stuck in your throat for years.

“I love you too.” You smile at him, and his eyes flash. “I don’t have to pretend, and this is what I want, so please,” you take a shaking breath, moving your hand to hold his against you. “Please don’t apologize for this. And please,” you lean a little further forward, bumping your nose with his as he continues to stare. “Keep messing around with me, Dean. I love you, so I’d-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak as Dean pulls you back into a kiss, this one heavier and sloppier, leaving you with ragged breath and puffed lips. Your hands curl into his shirt as he drops onto the bed at your side, hauls you over him with only a low, slightly pained grunt, and looks up at you with a slight frown on his face.

“That son of a bitch kissed you.”

“I thought it was you,” you mumble, tracing a small patten on his chest with one finger. “Sorry-“

“I’m not mad at you,” Dean gives you an amused look, pressing another, smaller kiss to your lips. “I’m mad at that douchebag, for trying to get with my girl.”

His words are mumbled against your lips, settling deep and warm in your stomach, and you can barely manage a hum of, “Oh. Okay.”

He chuckles, his hand moving under your shirt to run up the skin of your waist, your body shivering with pleasure at the touch. “I’d like to fuck you,” he mutters your name, his eyes on yours so attentive and dark that you might agree to jump off a cliff if he asks. “But my doctor said I need to take it easy-“

“I’m your doctor,” you gasp, dropping your brow to Dean’s as he brushes the underside of your breast. “And I think that- shit, Dean-“ He’s adjusted you in his arms, settling your core right over the obvious, proud bulge in his jeans. “If we take it easy, and you promise to let me stay on top-“

Dean shakes his head, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. “That’s gonna be a real hard,” he ruts up into you, and you whimper. “Promise to keep, babygirl-“

“Well it’s that,” you lean back, giving him a stern glare. “Or nothing, Winchester. Your choice.”

He gives you a look of mock disbelief. “I can’t believe I fake married someone so freakin’ mean to me-“

“I can.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your own lips curling up slightly. “What’s it gonna be.”

Dean narrows his eyes at you, his hand trailing down your stomach to cup you right over your pussy as he drawls. “I think you should make that choice, Sweetheart. Tell me exactly how you want me to fuck you.”

“I-“ You lean forwards, burying your face in his neck to try and stifle your moans. “I already-“

“You said you stay on top, but that can mean a million things,” he mutters your name, kissing right under your ear. “I can fuck up into you, or you can ride me, or,” Dean starts to rub you through your pants, his thumb drawing rough, taunting circle over your clit. “I can finger fuck this pretty pussy until you cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”

“Dean,” you moan against his skin, your nails digging into his back. “Fuck, I-“

“This,” he moves his free hand up, playing with the waistband of your pants. “Seems to be getting in our way. Take it off for me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. You almost scramble to pull off your clothing—still manage to shoot Dean a glare for his low, teasing wolf-whistle when you’re fully bare before him—and almost throw yourself back onto him before you freeze. He’s still dressed—you can see the outline of where his pants must be becoming painful—and he’s still hurt. That’s why you had to stay on top in the first place. Dean won’t say it, but he’s in pain, and that’s more important than sex. You’re aching for him between your legs, you whole body whining to be pressed to his, but you can’t let him injure himself.

So you drop to your knees, help him out of his pants and boxers—feeling Dean track your every movement, remaining silent as you work—and swallow as his cock springs into view. You’ll never get tired of the sight of it. Big and meant to fit so well inside of you, pretty because it’s Dean’s, and he’s not really capable of being ugly.

Dean grunts your name as you take him in your hand, your fingers trailing over his strong thighs as you start to pump him slowly.

You smile up at him, raising your brows. “Do you like that?”

“Of course I fucking like that-“

“Do you love me?”

You say the words innocently, squeezing your hand lightly, and he blushes slightly, throwing his head back as he groans. “Shit, Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me-“

“I do,” you whisper, pressing an open mouth kissed to the broad, red tip of his cock. “You do it to me too.”

“’S not-“ You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and letting him bump against your throat, and he cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, ’s not the same-“

You pop off of him with a frown. “It is. I love you too.”

“I know, pretty girl.” He mutters, moving hold your cheek, his cock twitching in your hands as you lean into the touch. “But you don’t gotta do this for me just cause you love me-“

“I like doing it.” You shrug, licking a long stripe up his shaft to prove your point, savoring the grunt it draws from his chest, the way his hand moves to fist in your hair. “I might love you, Dean Winchester,” you grin at him, replacing your mouth with your hand as you speak. “But I also really just like sucking your cock.”

“Son of a-“ Dean’s voice is a growl, his eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “You’re- fuck it.”

You squeak as he pulls you up, back to his lap, and impales you on his cock in one smooth motion.

“Dean!” You try to gain a little power over your mouth, your fingers running over his fresh stitches. “Your doctor did not, fuck-“ He rolls his hips, and you bite your tongue to stop your moan. “Winchester, your doctor did not approve picking heavy things up-“

“You’re not that heavy.” He shrugs, kissing your shoulder as his arm braces you against this chest, his words teasing and low. “And lucky me, my fake doctor is also my fake wife, and they’re both,” he moves his mouth back over yours, muttering against your lips. “Begging me to fuck them all pretty.” His other arm wraps around you, starting to guide the rolls of your hips, his eyes on yours so soft for how he’s splitting you open and bumping against the deepest places inside of you. “And get them to cum all over my fuckin’ cock.”

You moan, throwing your head back as you start to grind down on him, and you’ve done this a million times before, but it feels different. You’ve fucked Dean enough that you must have covered every base—rough and fast and soft and slow and teasing and desperate and angry and blissful—and it’s the same to your body, but different to your mind. Dean’s hands still ignite fire on your skin as he holds you as close as he can manage, but you’re not worried about how they might drop away. He’s still kissing you everywhere he can reach, but there’s nothing turning in your head about how he might not like what he tastes. He’s doing it all right—he always does it right—but it’s so much more.

You squeeze around his cock and he moans your name, almost pinning you into his laps as he latches his mouth to your upper chest. Sucking and nipping you where people can see. He’s always kept his small habit of marking you to where it won’t be visible, where people won’t jokingly ask you who got messy. But people will see this, and he knows that, and it seems to spur him on. His mouth crashes back into yours, his hands keeping your rhythm on him steady as his mouth and cock unravel you above him.

“You gonna cum, Sweetheart?” Dean growls down your throat, and you just nod frantically, swiveling your hips around him.

“So close,” you whine, trying to find just a little more friction. “Please, Dean-“

He starts to slam up into you, holding you steady with one arm as he leans back, bracing himself on the bed. His stitches are somehow still closed, he’s looking at you like you’re all the world gathered for him to hold, and his mouth is lowering to pull your nipple between his teeth. Keeping you right on the edge as his thrusts grow uneven, his hands bruising on your skin in the best way.

“Fuck, you wanna cum with me, babygirl?” He groans, flicking your nipple with his tongue before pulling you down to him, dragging you into a kiss of spit and need and pure fucking desire. “Think you can ask me real pretty-“

“Please. Please, Dean, please.” You gasp, your clit starting to rub against his abdomen, your whole body so close to bursting into flames. “So fucking close, need it so bad-“

He bites on your lower lip, smirking at your high whine. “Good girl.” He jerks up into you one last time, the movement rough and uncontrolled, and groans into your ear. “Cum.”

You might have screamed, but everything goes blinding and loud and holy like a hymn you only know in the language of Dean, and you never want to stop singing for the rest of your life. You can hear him shouting your name as he spills up into you, but you’re so high on your pleasure— on the smell of Dean everywhere around you and his lingering taste on your tongue—that it’s distant and only a rush of good. Dean feels good, and he’s muttering in your ear that he loves you, so you think everything might be really good.

And it is. This isn’t blood or work. This is Dean’s cock still buried inside you, his hot, warm cum running down your thighs, and your hands tracing over his warm skin to check that his stitches are still together. This is your face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck, his hands combing through your hair, and a priceless sense of peace. It’s always lingered before, but it would wash away as you both left the bed, and drift into nothing as you wandered back into the real world. It feels more certain now. It feels more set into your bones, and you know you’ll see more blood and stitch more wounds, but this is going to stay. Dean is going to stay, and you have all of him. And that’s welcoming this sense of peace that’s so finite and rare, you’d have to be insane to let it go.

So you won’t. And you won’t have to cling to him, because Dean isn’t foolish enough to let you go either. You’ll keep all of Dean, he’ll do the same for you, and he’ll keep igniting a spark in your gut by saying my girl that you won’t ever allow to go out.

End Note: Look! A Rare Dean Winchester dealing with his own emotions! Spotted in the wild! And I am physically incapable of writing a short one-shot, and I'm very sorry about that.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature

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tokkiwrites · 8 months ago

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summary: you own a local flower shop, and with each passing day, you notice the same man come byㅡ watching. you try to forget about him and try your hand at dating, but you didn't know you were his from the first day he laid his eyes on you. tags: obsessive/stalker!sergei kravinoff , afab reader, mention of violation, short mention of murder, mean sergei, degradation, unprotected p in v (spooky!), head m receiving, breath play, creampie, slight breeding kink. /ᐠ - ˕ -マ⁩ authors note 𑁯 ✿ happy spookytokki kinktober!! the last fic is her, wowza! i had so much fun writing all of these for you guys, n i hope you enjoyed them as much as i did. this has around 4.48k words, so it's the longest of the bunch. i loved the premise. >:) obsessive kraven and flower shop owner reader. remember, this is all fiction, and i dont encourage behavior like that in real life!!! anyway, maybe i will make it into a series. not betad!

It started in April. You remember because the daffodils had just come in, their yellow heads still stiff from the cold. You’d been wiping down the counter, lost in your routine, when you first noticed him— standing across the street, his eyes fixed on your window. He wasn’t a regular, not even someone you’d ever seen around town, but something about the way he stood there, hands buried in the pockets of his worn coat, made you pause.

He hadn’t come in that day, just lingered for a while before moving on. But the image of him stayed with you long after—broad shoulders, sharp features, his face caught in the shadow of his collar like he was hiding something.

That was six months ago.

Now, it’s October. The light is thinner, weaker, as you arrange chrysanthemums in small clusters. You catch sight of him again today, across the street like always. It’s not every day, but often enough that you’ve come to expect it. Sometimes, you wonder what he does in the moments between his appearances, where he goes. Why he always walk past but never stops.

You try to shake it off, focusing on the customer in front of you. An older man, looking for a dozen roses, but his words don’t quite register. You’ve seen the way Sergei watches the shop, the way his gaze follows people inside, lingering too long when you talk to other men. You shouldn’t care, but the thought of it—of him—sends a strange warmth flooding through you.

The old man clears his throat, and you snap back to reality, managing an awkward smile as you finish wrapping the bouquet.

“Thanks,” you mumble, handing it over.

Outside, Sergei is gone.

It’s three days later when the bell above your door finally rings, and he steps in. The air shifts with his presence, something heavy and deliberate in the way he moves toward the counter. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften the rough edges of his voice when he finally speaks.

“Do you have anything that lasts longer than a week?” he asks, his gaze holding yours in a way that makes it hard to breathe. His accent is faint, buried under years of elsewhere, but it’s there, just enough to make the question sound more like a demand.

You blink, trying to remember what he said. “Uh, the lilies,” you manage. “They—um, they hold up pretty well.”

He nods, eyes shifting to the bouquets behind you, though you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still looking at you, not the flowers. He doesn’t say anything. he just lets the silence stretch between you until you turn to gather a few stems. Your fingers tremble slightly, and you hope he doesn’t notice.

“You’re here a lot,” you say quietly, not sure why you decided to speak now, but needing to fill the space. “I mean… passing by.”

Sergei’s lips twitch, just enough to show the hint of a smile, but there’s nothing warm about it. “I walk this way often.” You nod, though the answer feels hollow, like it’s only part of the truth.

As you wrap the lilies, you feel his eyes on you, studying you, and something about it is thrilling in a way you don’t want to admit. When you finally hand him the flowers, your fingers brush his, just for a second. His skin is rough, cold, and the touch leaves a shiver running up your spine.

“Thank you,” he says, but there’s something strange in his voice, like the words are unfamiliar to him. Then, without another word, he’s gone.

By November, you’ve almost convinced yourself that it’s nothing. Sergei’s just a quiet man, someone who happens to walk by your shop. You try not to think about him too much, though that’s easier said than done. The men who come into the shop are kind, sweet even. You’ve gone out for coffee a few times, tried to meet their eyes, and pretend you felt something for them. But it never lasts.

None of them leave you breathless like Sergei does with just a glance.

And that’s the problem. You don’t know him. You know nothing about him, except the way he makes you feel—on edge, watched, but also... wanted. It’s confusing, this push and pull, this desire for someone you barely know. And it doesn’t help that, whenever you catch his gaze, there’s something dark in it. Something possessive. Something that makes you wonder what he’s thinking when he sees you talking to other men.

it's like you already belong to him; and you know it.

It’s late November when it happens again. The first cold snap has set in, the chill making your breath cloud the window as you adjust a vase of poinsettias. The shop is quiet, and you’re alone, lost in thought, when the door opens and Sergei steps in once more. His presence fills the space, the air somehow feeling heavier, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

“I’ll take the white ones,” he says, gesturing toward the lilies. His voice is lower this time, rougher, like he’s been thinking too much or not sleeping enough.

You wrap them in silence, aware of his eyes on you again. The tension between you feels thicker today, almost unbearable. As you hand him the bouquet, you can’t stop yourself from asking, “Do you ever buy these for someone?”

Sergei’s eyes flicker, narrowing slightly. For a moment, you think he won’t answer, but then he leans forward just a fraction, his voice low and controlled.

“No."

It’s just a word, but it wraps itself around you, a confirmation of something unspoken. You look down, feeling heat rise in your cheeks, and when you glance up again, he’s already turning to leave.

“See you soon,” he mutters before the door closes behind him, and you realize that you want to.

It’s late December now, and the snow has started to fall, gentle flakes that coat the windows of your little shop. The poinsettias are in full bloom, their deep reds and whites filling the space with a festive calm. But your mind isn’t on flowers today. It’s been difficult to focus lately—especially after last week.

That was the day Sergei saw you cry.

You hadn’t meant for anyone to see. The shop had been empty, the late afternoon light casting long shadows as you sat on the stool behind the counter, head in your hands. You’d just finished arguing with Mark, a guy you’d been seeing for a few weeks. Nothing serious, but you thought maybe it could be, until he said something that cut deeper than you expected. Something cruel, dismissive, about how you were "too quiet," how it was "hard to keep a conversation going with someone who never has anything to say."

You hadn’t even responded, too stunned by the way he looked at you, like your softness was some kind of weakness. So you let him leave, biting your lip until the door closed behind him. It wasn’t until later, when you were alone, that the tears came.

Sergei must have been watching from across the street, unnoticed as usual, though this time he didn’t just walk by. You hadn’t seen him enter, hadn’t heard the bell chime, but suddenly he was there, standing in the corner of the shop. Silent. His eyes were on you, sharp and steady, watching the tears slip down your cheeks.

For a moment, he said nothing. Didn’t ask if you were okay, didn’t offer any words of comfort. He just stood there, his expression unreadable. But something about the way he looked at you made you shiver—not from the cold, but from the feeling that he liked seeing you like this. Vulnerable. Soft and broken, just for him to witness.

You’d wiped your face quickly, embarrassed, pulling yourself together before he could say anything. And then, just as silently as he’d appeared, Sergei had left, the door closing softly behind him. You didn’t know what to make of it. The way his presence lingered after he was gone, like a shadow that clung to the edges of your thoughts.

It wasn’t until a few days later, after another argument with Mark, that things turned. Mark had come back, all apologies and excuses, but something about the way he spoke to you still felt off. He’d asked you to meet him after work, so you did, more out of habit than desire. The conversation hadn’t gone well. He was frustrated, saying things he didn’t mean, but the look in his eyes as he spoke made you flinch. It wasn’t until he grabbed your wrist—harder than he should have—that the tears started again. This time, not out of sadness, but fear.

What you didn’t know was that Sergei had been watching. He always seemed to know when you needed to be seen, always appeared at the edges of your world when you thought you were alone. Later, you would wonder how he knew where to find Mark. Whether he followed him, waited, or if it was just luck that they crossed paths that night after you’d gone home, shaken and silent. All you knew was that Mark never came back.

You didn’t see the violence, didn’t hear the crack of bone or the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, but when the news came days later—a body found in the river, no suspects—you felt the air in your lungs freeze. You tried to convince yourself it was a coincidence, tried to push away the gnawing suspicion in your gut. But when Sergei came into the shop the next day, silent and cold as always, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew. That he had done something.

It was snowing again when he walked in, the cold biting at the edges of the door before it clicked shut behind him. You were alone, rearranging the poinsettias for the third time that day, trying to distract yourself from the unease settling in your chest.

“You alright?” His voice was low, almost a growl, breaking the silence. His accent was sharper today, more pronounced, as if he was trying to draw you in with the weight of his words.

You didn’t look up right away. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though it didn’t sound convincing even to your own ears.

He took a step closer, his boots heavy against the wooden floor, and you felt the tension settle over you like a second skin. When you finally met his gaze, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. A darkness. Something more than just quiet observance. Something possessive.

“Mark,” he said slowly, testing the name in his mouth like it was something he had already chewed up and spat out. “He won’t bother you anymore.” You blinked, confused, the words hanging in the air between you like a dense fog. He wasn’t asking. He was telling you. And in that moment, you understood. “What did you do?” Your voice was barely a whisper, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from him.

Sergei didn’t answer right away, just watched you in that way he always did—intense, unblinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected, but no less terrifying.

“I did what needed to be done.”

Your heart raced, the realization sinking in. You should have felt scared, horrified even, but instead, you felt... safe. Like, in some twisted way, Sergei was protecting you, looking after you in ways no one else had.

It was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But standing there, in that small shop filled with delicate flowers and fragile stems, you felt something stir inside you—a recognition of the dark and dangerous things hiding just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You should have told him to leave. You should have been afraid. But instead, you took a breath, nodded slowly, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Sergei’s lips twitched again, that almost-smile that never quite reached his eyes. Then, without another word, he came closer, the cold air from outside still clinging to him. "Is it wrong I want to kiss you right now?" he asks, voice rough, like the question wasn't even thatㅡ it was undeniable.

You couldn't speak. The words stuck in your throat as your pulse quickened. You should say something, anything. You should step back, put distance between you, but you didn't. Instead, your mind raced with a thousand thoughts, none of which seemed capable of grounding you.

Sergei's gaze flickered to your lips, his hand lifting slightly, like he might reach out and touch you but was holding himself back, his restraint barely visible under the surface. There was something raw in his voice, something that made your chest tighten because you weren't sure if it was wrong- or if it was exactly what you wanted too.

But it was dangerous. He was dangerous. You knew that now. You'd felt it from the start, Still, you stood frozen, much like the trees outside. You swallowed hard, finally finding your voice, though it was barely a whisper. "I don't know if it's wrong..."

His fingers brushed your jaw, slow, deliberate, as though testing your reaction. And then, so bitter, he murmured, “Is it wrong that… I want to see you cry, but not by the hands of others?”

The words stood there between you, filling the space with something you couldn’t quite name. Your breath caught in your throat, a sharp, involuntary intake, the meaning of what he said settled over you like ice. You should have felt fear—anyone else would have—but instead, there was only that pulse of something in your core you couldn't ignore.

His thumb traced the edge of your cheek, lingering near your lips, his eyes still locked on yours. You tried to swallow the sudden lump in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest, but the intensity of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to move or even think clearly. it all felt hazy.

You should step back, should pull away. This was crossing a line, a line you hadn’t even realized existed until now. But you didn’t. You stood there, the tension between you thick enough to suffocate, his words playing over and over in your mind until he spoke again.

Sergei’s hand moved to your chin, tilting your face upward, forcing you to meet his eyes. There was a heat there, something primal and raw, something he wasn’t hiding anymore. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer, yet somehow even more dangerous.

“I don’t want anyone else to hurt you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip, “but I want to see you break—because of me.” The confession should have terrified you, should have sent you running. instead, you felt yourself leaning into his touch, your body betraying the warning signs flashing in the back of your mind.

“Why?” you whispered, voice trembling. Sergei’s eyes flickered with amusement, as if he was mocking you. “Because,” he said slowly, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to make your breath hitch, “I want to know how far you’ll let me go.”

You could feel the space closing in, feel the weight of his words sinking deeper. It was a game nowㅡ his game, one you weren’t sure you knew how to play, but it was too late to back out. And somehow, some part of you didn’t want to.

you'd let him do it all. anything.

You stared at him, unsure of whether you should push him away or pull him closer. But the truth, the part you couldn’t admit to yourself, was that a twisted, hurt part of you wanted to let him see you break, wanted to be undone by him and only him. "Please kiss me." you manage to pull out from the pit of your soul, your senses filled by his smell mixed with the ones in your flower shop.

In one swift, consuming motion, he kissed you. It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was intense, fierce, like he'd been holding back for too long. His lips crashed against yours with a hunger that matched the heat rising in your chest. You felt his fingers thread into your hair, pulling you closer, as though he needed to feel you against him, needed to claim this moment.

And in that instant, all the fear, all the uncertainty, melted away. There was nothing left but him.

For a few seconds, he pulls away from the kiss, staring at your puffy lips and blushed cheeks, like he’s studying the effect he has on you, savoring it. "I want to have you crumble through my fingers and then build you up just to have you kneel at my feet again." It’s twisted, wrong, but it lights something inside of you, making you drip with arousal.

"You want this." he breathes against your lips, "I can see it." Sergei leans in, nose now flush to your neck as he huffs a deep inhale. "Smell it." you can feel him smile against the skin of your shoulder, palms riding down to cup your hips, grip not easing. "Feel it." he draws a long strip from the crook of your neck up to your ear, earning a soft moan from your parted lips. "Let me ruin you."

It wasn't a request but a demand, one that you were far too deep to deny him. the panties you had on were already soaked, and your hair stood up on end as Sergei trailed his calloused fingertips down your back. "Please..." it sounded so pathetic, weak, but that made him desire this even more. he listened to your pleads in no time, practically ripping the clothes off of you. the cold air hit your body, making it sting, nipples now pebbled. this was never something you imagined could happen, you fully naked and him fully clothed, scanning you as if you were his next full course meal.

"Kneel." this catches you off guard, but he's quick to notice the lack of response so he takes it in his own hands to make you obey. He roughly pushes you down to your knees, tapping the top of your head to look up at him. he's fast, unapologetic and carnal. he's what you're notㅡ what you need.

"Say you're sorry." The word cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, but you couldn’t understand why, it left you dumbfounded and for a split second, you just stare at him, breathless, unsure. "F-for what?" Sergei, ever attuned to your hesitation, doesn’t wait for you to respond. His patience isn’t one of his virtues, and you’re learning that quickly. he tuts, rolling i strand of your hair through his digits. “What do you mean ‘for what?’” he repeats slowly, his voice dripping with disdain, as though you should already know. “How many guys have you seen since you met me?”

Your stomach tightens at the accusation, the memory of each fleeting, empty attempt at connection flashing in your mind—Mark, and the others who never seemed to fill the space Sergei occupied without even trying. He leans down, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but there’s nothing soft about the way his words cut into you. “Even though you knew—felt—that you belonged to me?” it makes you realize you’d never stood a chance.

"Say it." you can feel the truth claw its way out. “IㅡI’m sorry.” a satisfied gleam flashing in his eyes. But the hunger remains. He isn’t done, not yet.

“Good girl,” your tummy flips as he says those words, a soft smile creeping upon your face. that feeling dissipates quick as you hear the buckle on his pants come undone and with a swift motion his zipper coming down.

"Show me how sorry you are." Sergei bites, taking out his hard-on and letting it spring free. your eyes widened at the sight. you'd never seen something so bigㅡ it was intimidating, but the churn in your stomach pushed you closer, slowly wraping your rosy lips around the tip. "yeah, like that. i wanna see you choke on my cock, c'mon." he says before thrusting deep in your throat, "Maybe if you weren’t such a needy whore.." he drags out "I would've fucked that pretty pussy like you wanted me to. But you don't deserve it. Not yet. You need to know who you belong to." he snaps his hips, the tip of his dick promptly hitting the back of your esophagus, drool and tears already dripping down your face.

for a moment he stops, and you feel him pull out a little bit, leaving only half of his shaft inside of your mouth, two of his fingers pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply. he was toying with you. "what if i keep you like this? make you sit like this, unable to breathe at all, with my cock down your throat... get you all dizzy and stupid." it was so sweet the way he said such bad things.

tears well up in your eyes, mind spinning as your heartbeat picks up, yet his hips don't budge and the pinch on your nose strengthens. "Look at me." and you do, all teary eyed and fucked out. Sergei's chest heaves up as he mutters a low 'God.', his other palm coming up to wipe your tears away. "You're so pretty like this." he lets go of your nose and you finally take in a big gasp of air just as he pulls back and burries his cock deep in your throat again making you gag. "So pretty when you cry."

his moves are deliberate, large palms on both sides of your head as his hips snap. drool pools from your mouth, falling onto your exposed thighs. you try to hold onto his legs for a little stability, but it was all too disorienting, so you were left at his mercy. with a few more harsh thrusts, he comes ropes down your throat and onto your tongue with a loud groan. "Swallow. All of it." You obey, the salty liquid now all gone from your mouth.

"Bend over the counter." you swiftly comply, scrambling to your feet. obliging his orders, you bend over the counter that still had a few petals scattered here and there, bare ass and cunt on full display. "mm.." sergei licks his lips before palming the small of your back "so pretty for me."

you completely shattered under his touch, his fingertips drawing small fires that spread through you in clusters, desperate whines escaping past your swollen lips. "please..." he roughly grabs you by the back of your head, leaning in to talk directly into your ear. "did i say you can talk?" you shake your head no, shuddering as you feel Sergei's beard rub against your pebbled skin.

pushing back your hips in gripe, you manage to get your face unwaveringly pressed to the countertop. "Don't be greedy now." With that, he nimbly plunged two fingers into your mouth, making you gasp. "Suck them like you did my cock." that's all you needed to hear, fleetly wrapping your lips around his thick fingers, sucking and swirling your tongue around them like there was no tomorrow.

pushing the fingers deeper, he wins a muffled gag, your tongue pressed flush against them. "yeah, good little whore." your walls were twitching around nothing, that familiar warm wetness spreading between your thighs that were parted by Sergei's knee. "Need'a prep youㅡ"

"No! pleaseㅡ hurry.."

he laughs, almost mocking you. "fuck, I'll tear right through you, little flower." Without any warning, he flips you over, fisting his shaft, aligning it with your fluttering entrance. "Filthy girl." inhaling a sharp breath, your muscles tense up as he plunges inside of your wetness all at once, with no warning. you writhe in pain for a bit, tears already spilling from the corner of your glossy eyes.

"Look at you swallowing me in." he groans, sinking his fingernails into the plush of your skin "c'mon, tell me you're sorry for being such an attention whore. apologize so i don't kill every man who looked your way." it was all so wrong, so dirty and vile, but it was making your tummy churn in excitement and blood pulse through your veins like nothing else. you felt so insane for liking the ideas Sergei put into your head, but you loved feeling insane as long as it was for him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so s-orry, pleaseㅡ" you moan as he drills deep into you, back flush to the cold counter. "Look at me. Look me in the eyes and apologize." he was so stoic, like he wasn't even destroying your insides right that moment. more tears fall from your eyesㅡ pleasure, fear, actually apologetic tears. you didn’t know which it was. but they fell like pearls. "I'm so-rry, 'm sorry, so sorry.." you were breathless, repeating those same words over and over again, as Sergei sped up his movements, your legs now closed together over one of his shoulders as he fucked into you with no remorse. "Shitㅡ fuck, 'm gonna come. gonna come so deep inside and make you keep it there, make you go to work with my come inside of you, fuck, you'd like that?"

"P-lease...pleaseㅡ! " With a loud plead, you reach your high, walls tightening around Sergei's shaft, causing him to growl. you were left shaking, thighs uncontrollably wriggling in the mans tight hold. with a few more pumps, he paints your walls with warm, white ribbons, panting soft 'you're mine's into the crook of your neck.

you cling to him, breathing in his scent as his seed slowly drips out from within you. you hear him hum before placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head. "my little flower."

#aaron taylor johnson #atj x reader #aaron teaylor johnson smut #aaron taylor johnson x reader #aaron taylor johnson characters #aaron taylor johnson smut #kraven smut #kraven the hunter #kraven x reader #kinktober #sergei kravinoff #kraven oneshot #kraven x you #kraven the hunter x reader

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inseobts · 26 days ago

Note

Hello!!! i hope you're doing well! if you have a lot of requests in your inbox you can ignore this!! no pressure to write it!! can i request a Law fic? i know you don't write smut but can it be a little bit spicy? Nothing detailed obviously!! just Law trying to act calm and collected but is obvious he's acting more shy and like a nervous mess when kissing gets more heated with reader. it's fine if you don't want to write it don't worry!! have a nice dayy!! :)

Under the Surface

trafalgar law x gn!reader

a/n: I love a challenge (to try write smut and fail), hope you like it lmao

tags: spicy, teasing, flustered law, tension, crew banter, light NSFW, suggestive, no graphic body part descriptions

word count: 3.6k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The crew is loud tonight. Everyone’s packed around the long dining table on the Polar Tang, plates full, drinks flowing, and stories getting more ridiculous by the minute.

You’re sitting beside Law, who is trying to act like he’s above it all, sipping quietly from his cup, gaze half-lidded like he’s bored. He’s not laughing. Not even smirking.

But you are. Because you know exactly what your hand is doing under the table.

He flinched the first time your fingers brushed along his thigh. Now he’s breathing slow and controlled, jaw locked, pretending like he’s listening to Shachi’s story about how Bepo fell off a crate trying to do a handstand.

You lean closer to Law, voice light “You okay?”

“I’m fine…” he says, through gritted teeth.

Your fingers trail higher, slow circles through the fabric of his pants. His leg twitches.

“You look a little tense, Captain” you whisper, eyes still on your plate.

“Y/N…” he warns low, barely audible.

But you ignore him and laugh at Penguin’s joke like nothing’s happening, even grabbing your drink and joining in the toast. Your hand keeps working slow, barely touching now, more suggestion than pressure. Just enough to drive him insane.

Law’s back is straight as a sword, fingers digging into his knee under the table. His other hand is still on his cup, but he hasn’t taken a sip in minutes.

Then comes the first comment.

“Captain,” Bepo says with a concerned look “Are you okay? You’re, um… kind of red.”

“I’m fine” Law mutters.

“You sure?” Shachi leans in “You’re sweating. Kinda a lot.”

“I said I’m—”

“Do you have a fever?” Penguin asks, already reaching for Law’s wrist “We should check your pulse.”

“Don’t!” Law snaps, jerking back so fast his chair scrapes the floor.

Everyone freezes. The whole table goes silent.

You slowly take a bite of your food, hiding your grin behind your fork.

“Damn,” Shachi blinks “Touchy much?”

Law’s face is flushed. He stands stiff, like he’s about to either scream or teleport away with Room. He glares at you from the side, eyes narrow.

You tilt your head innocently “Something wrong, Captain?”

His fists are clenched. You can see he’s this close to snapping. But he’s trying so hard to hold it together.

He mutters something under his breath and storms out of the dining room, black coat covering his body and swishing behind him.

The crew stares.

“…What the hell was that about?” Penguin asks.

You shrug, biting back a laugh “No idea. Maybe he really is sick.”

Bepo frowns “I’ll go check on him.”

You reach out and stop him, gently “Give him a minute. He probably needs to cool down.”

You don’t miss the way your fingers are still tingling. And you definitely don’t miss the way Law looked at you before he left.

He’s going to snap.

You hope he does.

You give it two minutes. Maybe three. Long enough for the crew to stop talking about Law’s dramatic exit and start arguing about who gets the last piece of meat.

Then you grab his untouched plate, lift it like it’s the most innocent excuse in the world, and say, “I’ll take this to the Captain. If he is sick, someone should make sure he eats.”

Bepo nods “Good idea. He doesn’t take care of himself.”

You’re already out the door.

It’s quiet in the hall. The ship hums faintly under your feet. You take your time walking to his quarters, balancing the plate in one hand, other hand in your pocket, still feeling the thrill of earlier buzzing under your skin.

You knock.

No answer.

You open the door slowly. His room is dim, the desk light on, a few papers scattered. But no sign of him.

You hear the faint sound of running water.

Bathroom door: closed.

You smirk and walk up to it, knuckles tapping twice.

“Brought your dinner. Thought I’d check on your pulse myself.”

Silence.

You lean against the door casually “You okay in there, Captain?”

More silence. Then, barely audible over the sink, a frustrated growl.

You grin “Need a hand?”

That’s when it happens.

The door slams open so fast you nearly drop the plate.

Law stands there, hoodie half off, hair a mess, eyes wild. His breathing is heavy, and he looks like he’s been pacing or… well. You’re not sure. But he is definitely not calm.

“You think this is funny?” he hisses, voice low and dangerous.

You blink “A little.”

He steps forward. You step back, the plate pressed between you like a ridiculous shield.

“Don’t play cute” he says, crowding you until your back hits the wall beside the door. His hand comes up, not touching, just near your head, trapping you.

“I’ve been trying,” he grits out, “trying to stay in control.”

Your eyes flick down to his mouth “Not doing a great job, to be honest.”

His breath stutters.

You reach up, brushing your fingers lightly against the bare skin at his waist, where his hoodie’s ridden up.

“Want me to stop?” you ask softly.

His jaw clenches. His whole body is tense, like one more word will shatter him.

But he doesn’t say no.

You lean in just enough to whisper against his ear, “Or do you want me to really mess with you now that we’re alone?”

That’s when he snaps.

He shoves the plate out of your hands onto the nearest dresser (not gently), grabs your face with both hands, and crashes his lips onto yours like he’s been starved.

It’s rough, messy, needy. His fingers dig into your jaw, your hair, like he can’t decide where to hold you. He kisses like he’s furious about wanting you this much.

And you love every second of it.

When you finally pull back for air, he’s still breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

“Happy now?” he mutters.

You smile, wicked and breathless “Getting there.”

After the kiss, Law pulls away like he just remembered who he is.

Like kissing you was a lapse in judgment and now he’s got to put the walls back up again.

He takes a breath, straightens his hoodie, walks past you like nothing happened, and picks up a book from his desk. Calm. Composed. Like he didn’t just kiss you like he was going to lose his mind.

He sinks into the couch beside the bed and flips the book open, one leg crossed over the other. Eyes on the page. Completely still.

“Seriously?” you ask, staring at him.

He doesn’t look up “I have work to do.”

You blink “You kissed me like you were starving and now you’re pretending a book is more interesting?”

“I didn’t pretend anything” he mutters. Still not looking at you.

That’s when you walk over, slow.

You stand in front of him, reach down, and snap the book shut, sliding it clean out of his hands before he can react.

“Hey—”

You drop the book on the table, then climb onto his lap like you belong there. His hands lift instinctively but hover near your hips like he’s not sure where to touch.

You straddle him, close enough to feel the way his breath catches in his throat.

“Still trying to act calm?” you murmur, voice low.

His hands land on your waist finally, warm and tense “Y/N…”

You lean in and kiss him harder this time. Deep. Like you’re calling him out with every second your lips stay on his. And just like before, he starts out trying to stay in control. Soft pressure. Careful lips.

But he slips.

Again.

His hands grip tighter. He kisses you back with that same hungry tension, but there’s something different this time, he’s not quite in control of it anymore. His breath is ragged, his movements uneven, and when your tongue brushes his, he actually lets out the softest sound, almost a whimper, and freezes like he didn’t mean for it to happen.

You pull back just enough to speak.

“You always this quiet when you’re hard?”

His eyes widen slightly. You feel it… solid and pressing against you now, through the fabric between you. No hiding it.

He tries to speak, but nothing comes out right away.

You roll your hips once, slow. Deliberate.

“Ah, dammit” he exhales, barely above a whisper, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

You grin “Still fine, Captain?”

“I swear to god—” he mutters, voice cracking halfway through it.

You lean down, lips brushing his neck now, right by his ear “You’re shaking.”

His grip on your waist tightens. But his body’s betraying him as his hips are twitching like he wants more, even as he tries to stay still.

You kiss him again, slower now, but deeper. And when you grind against him just right, you feel him gasp against your mouth, tiny, quiet, desperate.

He’s trying so hard not to lose it.

You’re not going to let him win.

You slow the kiss, soften it just a little.

Less teasing now. Less push, more pull. Your hands move up his chest, under the fabric of his hoodie, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still tense, still trembling slightly under your touch, but he lets you guide him.

Your fingers trail up, and you reach for the hat.

“Wait—” he mutters, voice tight, hands twitching like he might stop you.

But you already have it in your hand.

You pull his hat off gently and set it aside, only to freeze the moment your eyes meet him.

His black hair is a mess. Fluffy in a way it should never be allowed to look. Slight curls at the ends from being under the hat too long, with a few messy strands of white near his temples that make your chest ache.

He looks younger like this. Softer. More human. But somehow, hotter too, like the sharp edges of Law are finally undone and all that’s left is a man trying too hard to keep his control.

And failing.

You blink hard “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“What?” he says, confused.

You run a hand through his hair, slow and almost dazed “You’re not allowed to look like this. Not after everything.”

His brow furrows “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I just remembered you’re too hot without the hat,” you mutter, almost annoyed “Now I’m the one losing focus.”

Law’s breath hitches. His eyes lock on yours like you just handed him a weapon.

Then he moves.

His hands come up, not rough, not rushed. Just decided. He touches the hem of your shirt and looks at you for permission.

You nod once, and he slowly pulls it up and off, letting it fall somewhere on the floor.

His eyes roam across your chest, hungry, quiet, intense.

The calm breaks again but differently this time.

He touches your waist first, then up your back, like he’s memorizing you with his hands. Then he kisses you again, softer than before, but deeper. Like he’s trying to thank you. Like he’s finally giving in, really giving in.

You feel his lips part against yours, his hands sliding up your sides, his breath ragged but quieter now with no more pretending. No more distance.

You’re not the only one losing focus anymore.

You don’t notice when the pace changes.

One moment it’s heavy breathing and hunger and heat between your bodies, and the next it’s different. Not cooler. Not less. Just… softer.

Law kisses your neck, slow and warm, like he has all the time in the world now. His fingers trail across your sides, not grabbing, not greedy anymore, just feeling you. Mapping you out gently, as if you might disappear.

His lips move up along your jaw, brushing your skin in the most delicate way, and you feel your breath catch but not because it’s hot, but because it’s him. All of him. Here.

“You always kiss like this?” you whisper, voice quieter now.

“No,” he murmurs, his lips pressing just under your ear “Only with you.”

You blink hard, your throat tightening at that. He keeps going. Your shoulders, your collarbone, your chest… each kiss slower than the last, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth.

You tilt your head back and close your eyes.

Your hands move too, soft now, touching the hem of his hoodie again. You lift it carefully, and he lets you pull it over his head without a word.

His bare skin is warm under your palms, and when your fingers trace his tattoos, he shudders slightly, leaning into your touch.

“You act like this is the first time” you whisper.

“It feels like it,” he says, eyes meeting yours “Every time it’s with you.”

You swallow hard.

You reach for his pants. He stops you, just for a second, but not to push you away, but to undo the button himself. Then he leans forward, brushing a kiss across your stomach, your ribs, your chest again. It’s so soft it almost hurts.

You slide off his lap just enough to push your own pants down, and he follows your lead, hands trailing after yours like he doesn’t want to lose contact for a second.

You laugh softly, breathless “What happened to you being in control?”

His lips twitch into a ghost of a smile “You happened.”

Then he pulls you back in, chest to chest now, nothing between you but heat and skin and the kind of quiet tension that no longer needs teasing.

You run your fingers through his hair again, tugging gently. He groans against your throat, and your lips find his shoulder, biting just enough to make him hiss.

Soft, but still testing.

Still challenging.

His hands slide down your back, fingers curling around your hips “You keep doing that and I’m not staying soft for long.”

“Good…” you whisper into his skin.

The way he kisses you suddenly has more weight. Less caution, more need.

His hand slides up your back, slow and firm, guiding you closer. His breath is shaky, but not unsure. Not anymore.

You grind against him, gently at first. Testing.

He gasps against your lips, his hands gripping your hips tighter.

You lean back just enough to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth parted, flushed in the cheeks. Hair wild, jaw tight. He looks… wrecked. And you haven’t even really started yet.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that” he mutters, voice low, rough.

You kiss him again, harder now, lips colliding with a heat that’s no longer slow or soft. Your bodies move with purpose, hips rolling together, bare skin brushing bare skin in a way that makes the air feel thick.

You can feel him hard and aching against you. There’s no hiding it, not with the way your hips press flush together, not with the way his hands keep trying to ground himself on you.

You rock forward again, and he groans into your mouth. His hands grip harder, trying to stay in control but you know he’s not. Not really.

“Y/N,” he breathes “If we… if you… are you sure?”

You nod without hesitation “I’ve never been more sure.”

He swallows, looking at you like you’re something holy. Then he kisses you again, deep and slow and full of everything he’s been holding back.

And then, finally, he moves.

Bodies shifting. Skin gliding.

The heat between you doesn’t explode, it builds. It rises like a wave, drawn out and aching. His body moves against yours with slow, careful rhythm at first, testing the pace, then faster when your moans start to slip past your lips, when your nails dig into his back, when his name leaves your mouth in a whisper that breaks him.

“Say that again.” he gasps.

“Law…” you breathe, over and over.

He buries his face in your neck, his rhythm faltering as the pleasure overwhelms him, and you both feel getting closer, faster, hotter.

There’s nothing but the sound of skin and breath, the warmth of the sheets beneath you, and the quiet gasps and soft moans you both try and fail to hold back.

When both of you reach that edge and fall over, it’s not loud or wild. It’s intimate. Raw.

It’s the kind of release that leaves your body trembling and your heart pounding, tangled together with nothing but skin, breath, and the way his forehead rests against yours after like he’s still trying to catch up to what just happened.

You stay like that for a long time.

No words. Just warmth.

Just him.

Just you.

The next morning Law is back to being Law.

Or at least, he’s trying to be. Hoodie back on. Hat in place. Expression neutral. Calm, cold, distant.

Except for the fact that he’s in the kitchen. Holding two plates of breakfast.

And everyone is staring at him.

Penguin squints “Wait. Since when do you eat two breakfasts?”

“I’m not” Law replies, turning to leave.

Shachi tilts his head “But you have two plates.”

“I know” Law snaps, not even turning around.

“So why are you—hold on. Aren’t you the one who stormed off yesterday?” Shachi says, poking his arm “You were red. And sweaty.”

“And kind of scary” Bepo adds helpfully.

“I wasn’t sick,” Law mutters through gritted teeth “I’m fine.”

Shachi eyes the second plate again “Then who’s that for?”

Law pauses. His grip on the tray tightens.

“Y/N.”

The room goes quiet.

Penguin blinks “Y/N’s not here?”

“They’re in my room.”

Another pause.

Shachi frowns “Wait, why’re they in your room?”

Law’s eye twitches “I’m taking care of it.”

Bepo tilts his head “So they’re sick now?”

“No... I mean... yes... kind of.” Law growls under his breath “I’m the doctor, okay?”

He storms out with the tray before anyone can ask anything else.

The silence lingers for half a beat.

“…Wait,” Shachi says slowly, turning to the others “Why’d he bring Y/N to his room?”

“Yeah,” Penguin nods “When I’m sick, he makes me stay in the infirmary.”

Bepo blinks “He brings me medicine and tells me to hydrate.”

There’s a beat.

Then, from across the kitchen, Ikkaku slaps a hand to her face “Oh my god.”

Shachi turns “What?”

She smacks him on the head.

“Idiot. They’re not sick-sick. They just... read the room, idiots!”

Realization hits like a brick.

Penguin gasps “Wait. Are you saying Law and—?”

Shachi’s jaw drops “That’s why he was all weird yesterday!”

Bepo covers his mouth, ears turning pink “O-Oh. I didn’t realize—should we pretend we don’t know?”

Ikkaku groans “Yes. If you value your life, yes.”

Back in Law’s room, you’re still curled up under the blanket, smug and sore in all the right ways.

The door opens.

He walks in without a word, sets down the tray, and starts fussing like you’re actually sick. Water. Tea. Pillow adjustments. Avoiding eye contact.

You raise an eyebrow “You good, Captain?”

His ears are red.

“I’m fine,” he mutters “Eat your food.”

You bite back a grin “Did they say anything?”

“No,” he says too fast “Shut up and eat.”

You stretch slowly under the blanket, smirking “Should I pretend I’m sick?”

He shoots you a warning glare.

You just laugh “You’re really bad at this whole ‘calm and collected’ thing, y’know.”

He glares harder.

But when you reach for the tea and brush your fingers against his, he doesn’t pull away.

You smile softly at him as he sits next to you to eat together.

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polarisjisung · 1 month ago

Text

ꨄ ME AND THE KITCHEN WITH DIAMOND RINGS

COOKING KISSING W/ BF!MARK

wc: 0.5k warnings: uhh they makeout ig notes: i can't believe mark released 200 a whole year ago | LIBRARY

Mark can't cook. It's a simple fact that everyone knows.

But Mark isn't stupid. Anyone can follow a few instructions and throw a few things into a pot, stirring every once in a while to make sure things don't stick, and he's no different. He's done it a thousand times before and as long as he doesn't lose focus or slip up, which unfortunately happens a little too often for his liking, it goes pretty well.

So maybe, it's not really that Mark can't cook, more that he shouldn’t.

You can though, and your cooking, if you do say so yourself, isn't too bad, pretty good in fact.

So Haechan, cannot for the life of him understand why, when you and Mark are in the kitchen together, the food always turns out a little caramelised. Burnt, if he wasn't trying to protect your feelings.

He walked into the kitchen last week to the smell of something a little charred, noticing how you and Mark were already sighing and groaning about how difficult it'd be too clean the pot.

“You burned the food again?” he couldn't even act surprised, “What even happens in here when you two cook together.”

He should've figured from the way your cheeks flushed over and the tips of Mark’s ears turned red, but Haechan was too focused on hunting for something to satisfy his hunger from your fridge.

And you couldn't have been more glad that he didn't push any further, because God knows how you'd live it down.

But Mark doesn't seem to care. Not about being caught, and definitely not about the stew bubbling away on the stove on one end of the kitchen, because he had his arms looped around your waist, placing kisses to your cheek even after you'd both agreed to actually cook this time.

“Mark.’ You warned.

Your voice wasn't exactly intimidating or anything, so with a grin, he only continued to place kisses across your face, eventually trailing down your neck, in hopes he would change your mind.

But your grip on the spoon was firm, for all of maybe five minutes.

Soon enough your back was against the counter and your lips were moving against his, a hand pressed against his chest.

“Mark, we should really–”

He cut you off, “Kiss some more?” He smiled, taking in your features for a moment, “Yeah I agree.”

“Mark the food.”

He shrugged, pulling you into for another kiss, “Just one more.”

That was a lie if you'd ever heard one.

Because soon enough, Haechan had come through the kitchen door with two fingers dramatically pinched over his nose. You didn't notice of course.

“Guys I really don't understand how you manage to—.”

You froze, barely processing his words as Mark stumbled back, his hands halfway under your shirt.

“Oh my God.”

All you could do was clear your throat and smooth your hair down, leaving Mark to deal with Haechan, who stood in the doorway, mouth agape.

“I should've known you didn’t burn the food by accident.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“Dude we were um, multitasking?”

Haechan scoffed, “What trying to start a family while making dinner?”

tags: @nebularsung @suzayaaa @nanawrlds @sinisxtea @dearlyminhyung @flaminghotyourmom @jisworlds @jenobubbles @nctdreamchaser @lotties-readings @mystverse @chenlezip @blondemrk @17ericas @ayukas

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nereidprinc3ss · 10 months ago

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please don't say you love me

in which fwb!spencer reid and fem!reader get into an argument about the nature of their relationship.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: friends with benefits arrangement, it goes bad, reader is so clearly anxious avoidant, reader is so me-coded, self-loathing, difficulties with emotional intimacy, arguing, derek and penelope make an appearance woo, a little dramatic, no happy ending (a nereidprinc3ss first!) a/n: it happened guys I stopped writing for a few days and last night randomly was inspired to finish this fwb piece and it essentially turned into a vent and went a completely different direction than i thought it would but here we are!!! i hope you enjoy, I loved writing, ilysm

“Are you reading it? Did you get to the part yet?” You ask, buzzing as you peer around Spencer’s arm to see where he’s at in the book you’d handed him. Sometimes you think it takes him longer to flip the pages than to read them.

He doesn’t answer, but you see the flickering quirk of his lip like something is amusing him. It’s been a few minutes and he’s maybe halfway through. He has to have seen it by now.

You’re clinging to his arm, eyes darting pointlessly between the text and his face, searching for a reaction. It comes in the form of a furrowed brow, a disbelieving smile, and something between a barking laugh and an exclamation of, “what?”

“You read it?”

His eyes narrow and he flips back a page, taking a bit longer to reevaluate.

“Our moans and grunts drowned out the screams of the dead and dying only a few hundred feet away.”

You giggle furiously, clapping a hand to your mouth when you snort, and you feel Spencer’s focus shifting to you, even with your eyes screwed shut.

“And you read this whole series?”

At that you sober up some, still hiding the bottom half of your face and brows drawn sorrowfully as mirthful tears well. You’re slow to admit your guilt with a nod, and his expression is somewhere between horror and fascination.

Your cheeks heat and you cover your face, laughing again and shaking your head shamefully as he ridicules you.

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself? I don’t even know if I can be seen in public with you, that’s—” he’s haphazardly tossed the book back on its display table and grabbed your wrists, pulling gently and laughing too. “No, show me your face. This is—you need to explain yourself. This is unforgivable.”

“No! I swear it was a morbid curiosity, I didn’t like it, I’m sorry! I—”

“Reid?”

You both freeze.

It’s not the most dignified position, admittedly—hidden among the shelves in a bookstore, pressed too close to be friendly, his hands around your wrists.

So you don’t mind when he drops them like hot potatoes and gives you a few inches of breathing room.

“Hey! Uh—you’re—”

Spencer is looking between you and two other people at the end of the aisle—a quirky bespectacled blonde in a flouncy polka-dot dress and her taller companion, ripped and head shaved, sporting some impressive eyebrows. Right now they’re conspicuously raised—his eyes are also pinballing between you and Spencer.

For a moment, everyone is just sort of… looking at each other.

It’s a little bit… awful?

Finally Spencer clears his throat.

“Um, what are you guys doing here? Just… looking at books?”

Something is off, and you feel like shrinking or running, but you just stay glued to your spot.

In sync, they hold up copies of the same book—and it takes you not a second to place the author’s name, in imposing red font at the bottom like it’s important. Rossi.

The pieces click into place. These must be Spencer’s co-workers—Penelope and Derek, if his descriptions of the team have served you well. Part of you is starstruck. Part of you is embarrassed. They’re clearly shocked to see Spencer with a girl in the wild, so you know he hasn’t told them about you—and why should he, you think, why should he tell his friends about the girl he’s been sleeping with for months now?

Finally, the blonder half of the duo speaks.

“You’re—this is a girl. That’s. Who is that? Hi! Who are you?”

She’s literally pointing at you, eyes drifting between you and Spencer like it just doesn’t make any sense. Derek gives her a look and gently pushes her hand down.

“Hey. That’s enough.” Then he offers you a polite smile, though you sense a bit strained, and his eyes too keep wandering back to the man next to you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no! You’re not… interrupting…” Spencer trails off and you sense he’s looking at you and gauging a reaction but you’re just smiling idly at his friends and waiting for this to be over. He finally thinks to introduce you by name, and you offer a shy wave and a smile to your new acquaintances.

Penelope points (that damn finger again) but this time it’s less accusatory, and stays below chin level.

“Cool shirt. I love that band,” she offers genially. Your brows raise and you look down, trying to remember what shirt you’d tossed on before leaving Spencer’s apartment an hour ago.

“Oh! Thanks,” you smile, and you’re relieved to mean it this time.

Another frosty silence begins to descend, but Derek doesn’t let it settle so much this time, to everyone’s satisfaction.

“Alright, well. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your date.”

There’s too much weight on the last sentence, and Derek gives Spencer a eyebrows-raised-meaningfully look you don’t understand. You’re just glad Spencer keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t immediately insist that it’s not a date, because it’s not, and that’s fine, but the vehement denial would bum you out.

The pair walk away in the kind of clenched silence that means they’ll start fervently whispering as soon as they are out of ear shot. You watch their retreating figures and chew your lip, sensing that the carefree and playful energy of five minutes ago will have evaporated by the time you turn back to face your companion.

“Strange,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, and you’re slightly jarred when Spencer replies from beside you.

“Which part?”

All of it.

Turning to face him, you smile, and it doesn’t reach your eyes but it doesn’t need to.

“Oh—nothing, sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, only stares at a point somewhere above your head and narrows his eyes like he’s thinking unpleasant thoughts.

“Was I an asshole, to you, just now?”

It’s unexpected. You don’t have an answer prepared, so you say something that feels like a lie because you can’t prove that it’s not the truth.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just… I don’t know. I get weird around them, sometimes. I don’t always know what to say, like, when my personal life and my work life intersect, because for a long time I didn’t really have a personal life. And I think they still think I don’t know how to talk to girls, so…”

“You don’t know how to talk to girls,” you remind him. “Let’s go look at the puzzles.”

Maybe you spend too much time with Spencer Reid. Maybe that’s the problem—too long in his presence and he’s eating away at your neural tissue like you’ve got cysticercosis and he’s the T. solium (a terrible thing he had explained to you a few weeks ago.)

Maybe you need a break from him, to stop breathing his air and sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothing, because you’re forgetting that he’s not the entire world and that is a very bad thing to forget in a situation like yours. The entire world cannot be the size of his apartment.

But you also just like him so much. As a friend, of course. That goes without saying. You like his strange sense of humor, and the way he lights up when you ask him an obscure question. You like your legs across his lap while you watch his old shows. You also like being kissed by him, and hugged by him. You like being taken care of like no one has ever taken care of you, and you like the way he always touches you, soft and kind and so on purpose.

You never meant to like him so much.

This affection—it has grown, insidious and parasitic, and now that it’s been pointed out to you like a lump in your side, it’s impossible to ignore.

What you and Spencer have works precisely because you’ve kept things platonic and casual. That way, there’s no worrying about emotional baggage or arguing about feelings because there are none to be found and no precedent that any such things should or need to occur. You can’t hurt each other’s feelings if your feelings aren’t on the table.

So why can’t you stop thinking about earlier?

Why can’t you help caring that he’s been keeping you a secret from the people he loves most?

“So, essentially the book is his first deep dive into meta-fiction. It was pretty revolutionary at the time, and while not his most celebrated novel, I’d argue it was his most relevant and culturally pervasive. I’d actually love to hear your interpretation of the story—it’s truly different for everyone. It’s a little like… like a literary Rorschach test. Do you wanna borrow it?”

You’re a tangle on his bed—arms, legs, sheets—it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins. All you’re sure of is his hand, tracing his fingers in chaste lines, feather-light up and down your inner thigh in the way he knows you like. Usually it’s so soothing you melt and fall asleep within minutes. Right now it’s only stoking some sparking electrical fire in your chest—the buzzes and bursts from which have you on edge. Ready to cave in at any second. You wish you could relax. You’ve been trying.

Spencer is in no hurry for you to respond, and so doesn’t seem to mind when it takes you a long while to find your answer.

“I think I need to go home.”

It comes out too scratchy, as you haven’t really spoken for several hours. Not as casual as you were going for. He angles his head down toward you and his hand stops and you realize it’s actually worse like that.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah! Everything is fine, I just… I wanna sleep in my own bed tonight, I think.”

It’s late and you shouldn’t be making him drive you across town, but he’s always amenable to what you want. This is the longest you’ve ever stayed at his place, after all—a rare long weekend—and before that a few weeks had passed with no cases to speak of, during which time you’ve been staying with him more and more. Spencer seems to be completely content letting you eat his food and use his shower if it means you don’t leave.

“I know the feeling well,” he admits, and your heart twinges with the care he takes to not bump or bend you or pull your hair as he shifts. He’s already been out of bed, and so is more dressed than you. Really, most people on the planet are more dressed than you, and you pull his nice sheet higher up your chest as he sits on the edge of the mattress, looking down at you and with a sort of worry in his eyes. He finds your knee through the fabric. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been quiet.”

Stop paying such close attention, you want to tell him. And in the same breath, please don’t ever look away.

“I’m… good.”

It is easily the least convincing performance of your life. Either you’re self sabotaging or you want him to push you further, and you don’t know which is worse.

When his brow ramps just the slightest bit, you know you’ve fumbled it.

“I don’t believe you.”

You shrug. “I don’t need you to.” And then you sit up, still holding the sheet to your chest. “Can you hand me a shirt?”

Enough clothing has accumulated around the room recently that he could pretty much reach out in any direction and find something for you to wear. He grabs a sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost and holds it out for you, and you pull it over your head, before dropping your feet onto the cool wooden floor and grabbing the first bottoms you see—a pair of floral pajama shorts. How have so many of your clothes ended up at his apartment?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

You scoop your bag up from a chair and flit around the room, haphazardly stuffing away discarded clothing to take back home. It’s true that it’ll be nice to get back to your stuff—your shower products and your closet and your silk pillow cases. You shouldn’t be spending so much time here. It’s not your space and you’ve been sacrificing your own needs to be closer to him, which is something you’d rather not do for any man.

“You can drive me home. I’ll send you gas money.”

“You don’t need to send me gas money,” he says, tacking your name on to the end of the sentence in a way that raises your hackles instantly.

“Yeah, I do. You drive me around constantly. I’ll pay you back and start taking the metro, or something.”

“I don’t want your money,” he scoffs.

“Fine. Then I’ll call a car.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’m happy to drive you.”

“Why?”

Silence hangs. Spencer has by this point stood up, and he’s watching you with a furrowed brow and slightly parted lips like he doesn’t understand where this animosity has come from. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure either. You didn’t realize you were harboring so much of it.

“Am I supposed to see you as an inconvenience?”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“No. You’re not. We have a relationship and I don’t mind doing things for you.”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but you sure as hell were thinking it.

It feels good to say, like stretching a sore muscle beyond its limits or pressing into a bruise until you get past the ache. Sometimes when things hurt, it’s best to feel the pain and move on.

He looks absolutely perplexed, the lines between his brows only ditching deeper.

“Is that what this is about?”

“Oh my god, Spencer, no, I don’t care—”

“Because earlier at the bookstore I asked you if I was being an asshole and—”

“I do not give a fuck about earlier at the fucking bookstore!”

It’s too late to be yelling, but he doesn’t scold you. He just sort of looks at you, like you’re something mildly unpleasant. It makes you feel worse.

A long moment goes by.

“Fine. I’ll take you home.”

You let him brush past you, nothing more than a breeze on your shoulders as he disappears from the darkened bedroom. For a moment, you can’t follow him. All you can do is stand there and try to contain that sour, stinging, crying feeling in your eyes and nose because there’s no reason for you to be crying right now.

From the living room, he calls, rather abrasively, “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” you huff, and it is as wavering as it is insolent, so obviously the only word holding back a full-fledged deluge of tears.

One minute. One minute to sniffle and take deep breaths and wipe abashedly under your eyes because you refuse to be dramatic about this. Refuse to get over-emotional. You will not let it matter this much to you.

When you decide you can show your face without making a scene, you march out of his bedroom and straight past where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, keys in hand, to the front door.

He doesn’t move. You burn smoking holes into the dark wood of the door with your eyes, and the two of you are apparently at an impasse.

“I’m ready,” you eventually snap, always the impatient one between the two of you, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder.

“I’m not.”

“You said you would—”

“I know what I said,” Spencer cuts you off and shuts you up, “and I changed my mind. I’d prefer to talk about it before I take you home.”

By the time he finishes the sentence you’re already wrestling your phone from the depths of your bag in search of a ride sharing app.

“Okay, well I’m done talking because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, so—”

“No, you’re done talking because this is what you do. You can never admit it when you want something because that would mean acknowledging that you’re a human being with emotions, and that’s too scary for you.”

Surely you misheard him. You turn around, a deep frown contorting your features.

“Excuse me?”

He only looks at you in that expectant, knowing way of his.

“It’s too scary so you run away. You’d rather burn your relationships to the ground and rebuild them with a new person every time than actually let someone in.”

“You don’t know me!” You yell.

“Do you actually think that’s true?” Spencer says, pushing off his perch against the counter, voice shrilling and raised slightly as he gets visibly agitated. “You think I’ve spent hours upon hours with you and I don’t know you at all?”

“You have no idea what I’m like in a relationship because this isn’t one. You have no fucking idea what I want, so do not presume to,” you seethe.

“You want a relationship. You wanted my friends to know you and you didn’t tell me that because you’re fucking terrified of the fact that I do know you. You can’t stand the idea that regardless of how many times you tell yourself it’s just sex, you have been vulnerable with me, and you’ve told me things you’ve never told anyone before, like why your last three relationships really ended, and how you constantly self-sabotage when you’re on the verge of getting what you want because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up!”

“No. I’m not just going to let you walk away from me like you did everyone else who could’ve ever cared about you because I know once you walk out that door you’ll stop responding to my calls and texts and I’ll never see you again, which is a juvenile pattern and completely unsustainable if you don’t want to keep pushing people away for the rest of your life!”

“God, Spencer, stop!” You sob, staggering back like you’ve been stabbed.

The urgency, the raw, desperate scratch of your voice, stops him in his tracks.

Every place an arrow penetrated a chink in your armor aches, and it hurts so much worse because he knew exactly where they were. You don’t know when or how it happened, but he’s right. Despite your most valiant efforts, Spencer Reid knows you. Somehow he crept in and grew over every limb like ivy. It’s crawled over your feet and up your legs and it’s keeping you there, rooted in place in his apartment, sobbing silently into the crook of your arm because you feel utterly paralyzed with fear.

Just as he’d said.

It’s silent for a long stretch of time, unquantifiable the same way the distance between the beach and the horizon is unquantifiable. It’s sprawling and infinite and desolate. The only relief from the drowning quiet is the occasional gulp of air or gasp from you which furthers your humiliation.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer finally whispers, soft and unsure like rays of weak sunlight over staggered tides, in the grey morning after a raging storm. It’s an attempt. It’s earnest and afraid.

The energy radiating off of him is so tangible that you can sense his desire to come near. To hold you. But that would be your worst nightmare come to fruition. This—this warbling and crying in front of him in silence in his dark apartment is god-awful enough. But to be comforted? For him to bear witness up close and personal to your humility and your ugly, jagged pieces—that inspires true catatonia. That is everything he said you were afraid of, and he was right.

You resent your human nature, and the fact that you care how his friends look at you and that it stung when they did so with little more than apathy. You hate that you care that he hasn’t told them about you. You hate that you feel so unimportant—because more than anything, you want to be fine with being unimportant.

You want to be fine. Constantly.

You hate that you feel. You hate that you care.

But you always have. And so fucking deeply.

Somehow, Spencer Reid is the only one who has ever noticed.

Eventually, his self-restraint snaps and he surges forward at the same time as you take a shuddering inhale and step back.

“Please don’t touch me,” you whisper. Afraid that if he did, his fingers would only sink into your flesh like decaying fruit. That you would disintegrate in his hands, and he’d finally see you’d been rotten the whole time.

He speaks softly, holding his hands up to show you he’s not a threat.

“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I need to go home.”

“I’ll—”

“No. I don’t want a ride. I’ll get a car.” You speak quietly. Efficiently. There’s no point in pretending this doesn’t feel catastrophic anymore.

His brows furrow. Like a moth to flame, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he draws nearer again.

“I’m not comfortable with you on the street at this hour.”

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” you insist, pleading, a wounded animal, because he doesn’t seem to understand how every casual notion of kindness is a violence, how he’s ripping into you and making it so you’ll never be able to put yourself back together. He can’t be kind like you’re easy to be kind to.

If you’re easy to be kind to, you are just as easy to hurt. Accepting that kindness is a sort of vulnerability you feel you can’t afford right now.

Another moment of silence, of stillness, as if you’re both bolted to the ground where you stand.

When he speaks it’s a blow to the chest because you’ve made him cry too.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quietly, and a venomous self-hatred drips down your throat. Because you’re doing it again.

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

You fail to stifle a sob and Spencer steps closer still, saying your name desperately and so quietly like it’s his last rite.

And you try. You try harder than you ever have to stay in one place, to get a hold of your vibrating and to swallow all those slithery feelings and ignore every alarm telling you to panic when he reaches out to touch your arm because it’s never safe to let people in. But when his hand finally brushes you, it’s like a cow prod. You jolt backward.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” you whisper all in one harrowed breath, and there’s so much you’d like to say—you’re right, about everything, you do know me, you know what I want, I tried, I’m ashamed—but none of it matters. None of it is enough. He’s backed you into a corner of your own making, and the only way out is by pushing him aside even if it hurts you both.

So you don’t say anything else. You leave him there, in the dark of his own apartment, and you disappear down the hall.

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

#spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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whisperedmeg · 22 days ago

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QUIET PROOF ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part v

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: a morning ambush from spencer’s friends tests a bond still forming. when doubt creeps in, love answers — not loudly, but clearly.

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort

w/c: 2.7k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, vague talk of intimacy but nothing explicit, jj and garcia being cutie nosy bffs, reader gets insecure and anxious and spirals a bit, spencer is a reassuring sweetie pie

a/n: this one goes out to all my fellow anxious girlies with a words of affirmation love language. as always, appreciate all comments/likes/reblogs more than I can even express! thank you sm to everyone who has followed this series so far 🫶🏼

series masterlist

I woke to the faint weight of sunlight brushing my face through the thin curtains, soft and gentle like a secret only the morning knew. For a moment, I laid still, feeling the steady rhythm of Spencer’s breath against my back, the warmth of his body curled close. Something had shifted between us overnight — I could feel it in the quiet spaces, in the way he hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t spoken, yet didn’t quite let himself relax, either.

Neither of us said a word. We didn’t have to. The air between us hummed with a tentative understanding — maybe hope, maybe fear — and I wasn’t sure which of us would break the silence first.

I traced lazy circles on his arm. His hand found mine, fingers curling around mine with a softness that made my chest ache in the best way. I smiled into the quiet, this small bubble of peace we’d started creating together.

Things started to lean toward something more — a brush of lips, the slow heat of skin meeting skin — when suddenly, there was a loud knock at his front door.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling away and scrambling out of bed. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m sorry.”

He padded quickly across the room in just his boxers, trying to finger-comb his hair into something less Einstein-like. From the other side of the apartment, voices drifted in.

“Hey, Spence,” a woman called through the door. “You’ve been kind of off the grid lately, so we thought we’d drop by.”

“And by ‘drop by,’ she means ambush,” another voice added, singsong. “Hi, boy genius. Don’t mind us. We just want to make sure you’re still alive.”

Spencer winced. “It’s JJ and Garcia,” he whispered, looking like he might spontaneously combust. “They’re my colleagues. I haven’t, um, told them… about you.”

I silently thanked some invisible force of the universe for convincing me I should wear shorts under his t-shirt last night instead of just my underwear.

“I figured,” I said, sitting up and clutching the sheet tighter. “Do you want me to, like, hide under the bed, or should I just pretend I sleepwalked into the wrong apartment?”

His face crumpled into a smile — nervous, but genuine. “I don’t want to hide you. Just… maybe wait a second before you come out.” He finished pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before walking out of the bedroom.

He walked to the front of his apartment and unlocked the door. “Morning,” he said, and I heard the practiced calm in his voice. “Everything okay?”

The more colorful blonde woman — Penelope Garcia, I guessed, based on photos he’d shown me — didn’t even pause. “Define okay. We’ve texted, we’ve called. You didn’t show up to our standing monthly brunch on Sunday!”

“I’ve just… been here,” Spencer said, clearly trying not to panic. “Taking time.”

The other woman, who I assumed had to be JJ, narrowed her eyes. “Time for what?”

That was when I moved. I wasn’t sure why — I could’ve stayed hidden — but something in me didn’t want to. Maybe it was the warmth still clinging to me from the way Spencer had held me all night. Maybe it was just that I liked knowing where I stood. So I stepped quietly into view, hair still a mess, heart thudding like a drumline, blanket wrapped around me like a fluffy shield. “Um. Hi,” I said, voice soft and a little shy and awkward, but steady.

Garcia froze mid-expression, her mouth hanging open before she clamped it shut. JJ blinked once, then tilted her head.

Spencer stammered out an awkward laugh. He ran a hand through his hair and introduced me, motioning for me to come stand next to him.

JJ’s eyes flicked from me to him, then back again. “Nice to meet you,” she said, visibly recalibrating. Her smile settled into something kind. “Sorry to barge in like this. We didn’t know Spencer was seeing someone.”

Garcia, clearly never one to resist a dramatic pause, took a breath and beamed. “You are a vision. Spencer Reid, I did not see this plot twist coming. When on earth did you find the time to meet someone?!”

I laughed, a little startled by how easily they both made space for me. “Sorry for the surprise. This is not how I usually meet people,” I said as I gestured towards my overall messy appearance. “And definitely not how I planned on meeting Spencer’s friends.”

“Trust me, it’s not even in the top three weirdest ways we’ve met some of Spencer’s acquaintances,” JJ teased.

Spencer groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Do you guys want coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Garcia said, already stepping inside and handing JJ her purse. “I also want answers, but I’ll wait until we all have some caffeine. I’m not a total monster.”

JJ followed her in with a smile. “This won’t be an interrogation, by the way. We’re just… protective. He’s family.”

“I get that,” I said, glancing at Spencer, who gave me a quick smile over his shoulder as he started pouring water into the coffee pot. “I’m the same way with people I care about.”

We all made our way to the kitchen, where I perched on a stool, still wrapped in a blanket like some kind of toga-clad guest on a morning show. Garcia was already scouring Spencer’s cabinets for mugs.

“So,” she began, “how did you two meet?”

“I’m a nurse,” I replied. Once her blank stare made me realize that my response didn’t actually answer her question, I cleared my throat with an awkward laugh. “At, uh, Millburn. I’m a nurse in the infirmary there.”

That made JJ glance up from where she was doctoring her coffee. “Really? That’s how you two met?”

I nodded. There was a pause — not an uncomfortable one, just a moment of absorption.

“Huh,” Garcia said. “Well, that’s a meet-cute I did not see coming.”

Spencer made a small coughing sound and handed me a mug like he needed to redirect his awkward energy somewhere.

JJ looked at me for a second longer. “That couldn’t have been easy. For either of you.”

“It wasn’t,” Spencer chimed in. “But that part is over now.”

JJ leaned back against the counter. “I’m glad you had someone looking out for you in there,” she said to Spencer.

“I did,” he said quietly. “She’s the one who got me moved out of gen pop, actually. It was her medical report that convinced the warden to put me in protective custody.”

Both women looked at me with something resembling awe and gratitude in their expressions, then we moved along to sipping our coffees.

There was another short pause, broken when Garcia pulled her phone out of her purse and wiggled it dramatically. “Okay. So. About that reinstatement news.”

Spencer groaned. “Penelope…”

“I didn’t break into anything,” she insisted, holding up her hands. “I just… peeked. And word on the encrypted street is, you’re about two weeks away from an official decision. And it’s definitely looking like it’s leaning positive.”

Spencer looked stunned for a second — hope and fear battling quietly in his eyes. He didn’t say anything right away, just nodded slowly.

JJ stepped closer, resting a hand on Spencer’s arm. “Whatever happens, we’re here. Okay? You’re not alone.”

“I know,” he said. His voice cracked a little.

We finished our coffee slowly, the conversation drifting toward lighter things — Garcia’s latest side project (something involving 3D printed dog collars?), JJ’s boys (Spencer’s godsons, I learned) and their ever-expanding collection of Nerf weapons, and the absurdity of trying to explain to anyone outside the BAU what their job actually was. They asked me more questions about myself, but it didn’t feel like an inquisition. It felt like they genuinely cared to know about this new mysterious person in their friend’s life.

Eventually, they stood to go, giving Spencer gentle hugs and me a warm goodbye.

Garcia leaned in, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Take care of our boy, okay?”

“I will,” I said, meaning it.

And when they were gone, when the door closed behind them, I looked at Spencer, finally releasing the breath I’d been holding since they first knocked.

“I think they like you,” he said.

I smiled, letting out a sigh of relief tinged with joy. “I like them, too.”

And I liked him. More than I knew how to say. But maybe, for now, this was enough.

—

It had been one week since JJ and Garcia had shown up on Spencer’s doorstep, bright-eyed and suspicious and exactly as wonderful as I’d hoped his friends would be. One week since I stood in his kitchen in a blanket toga, answering soft but pointed questions over coffee. One week since Penelope squeezed my hand and told me to take care of “their boy,” and JJ gave me a look that said she saw me.

In the days that followed, everything had both shifted and stayed the same.

Spencer had his final psych eval with the Bureau. I worked more shifts at Millburn. And each night, I came back to him — or he came back to me — and we made a quiet ritual out of not saying too much about what any of it meant. We kissed until our lungs burned, explored each other’s bodies with hands and mouths that knew how to be reverent. There were moans and whispers, and the dizzying pleasure of being skin-to-skin. But still — no sex. Not yet. Sometimes he’d stop suddenly, forehead pressed to my collarbone, murmuring that he needed a minute. I always gave him one. Sometimes two.

It wasn’t unspoken. But it also wasn’t discussed. It just… was. That boundary had become part of our rhythm. He didn’t rush, and I didn’t press. We were building something with our hearts and hands before letting our bodies finish the story.

Tonight, we laid tangled on his couch, a half-watched documentary playing quietly on the screen — something about extinct languages that I could only follow for about five minutes before getting lost; classic Spencer fare. He was behind me, his arm looped around my waist, and I was tucked back against him like a comma in the sentence of his body. He traced shapes into my hip bone like his fingers were thinking out loud.

But for some reason, my mind wouldn’t still. A silly, passing comment he made earlier about how nice of a person I am tugged at the taut wires in my brain. I stared at the blue light of the TV and tried to focus on the narrator’s voice, the familiar cadence of academia. It was useless, though — my thoughts had already started spiraling.

Spencer always called me beautiful. Kind. Wonderful. Nice. But those words were just broad strokes. They didn’t feel anchored in who I was, not really. He hadn’t said why he liked me, just that he did. And part of me — the part that had built walls and lived too long inside my own overthinking — started whispering dangerous little questions.

What if I was just… convenient? What if I was the safest thing he’d had in a long time, and he was mistaking that for something else? Sure, he looked at me like I was something precious. But that didn’t mean he knew me.

Maybe everything he thought he felt for me was just transference. Maybe I was just the person who kept him from unraveling in prison, and now he didn’t know how to let go.

I felt my body begin to tense. My breathing grew shallow. My chest ached with the weight of my own unworthiness — a feeling I thought I’d outgrown, but apparently not.

Behind me, Spencer shifted.

“Hey,” he murmured, pausing the documentary. The room fell into a soft hush. “You just disappeared. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said automatically, eyes fixed ahead. “Just thinking.”

His hand brushed my side. “You’re shaking.”

I hadn’t realized I was. My throat tightened. “I don’t want to ruin this,” I whispered.

“You won’t.”

“I just… sometimes I think maybe this isn’t what I think it is. Like maybe you only feel any sense of attachment to me because of what I was to you in there.”

Silence. My shame filled the space between us like smoke.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady. “Please look at me.”

I turned, hesitantly, until we were face to face. His eyes searched mine like they were scanning for injuries — soft, deliberate, full of that quiet panic he always tried to hide when someone he cared about was hurting.

“I know it’s stupid, I know I shouldn’t think like that, but… you’ve never actually said what you like about me. You just use words like kind and wonderful, which are very nice things to be called, obviously, but they’re not… they’re not me, not really. I’m terrified this is all just gratitude disguised as something more. Or that one day you’ll stop being grateful and realize I was part of the damage.”

By now my voice had begun to shake, and I was blinking fast. Spencer moved instantly, sitting me up and kneeling in front of me, both hands on my thighs.

“You’re not part of the damage,” he said, and his voice was low and sure. “You’re the reason I made it out of there still believing people could be good. You didn’t just help me survive. You made me want to.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t fall for you because you were kind to me in prison,” he said. “I fell for you because you notice things other people don’t. You read people like I read books — not just with interest, but with care. You’re perceptive. Sharp. You ask good questions. You make people feel seen.

“I fell for you because you see me, exactly as I am. And you don’t ever flinch. You don’t try to fix me or save me. You just… stay. Even when I pull back. Even when I don’t know how to move forward.”

His voice caught for a second, then steadied again.

“You’re funny, even when you don’t mean to be. You make these little under-your-breath observations that always make me laugh. You help people like it’s instinct, not obligation. And when I panic, you don’t panic with me. You just breathe, and wait, stay, and let me come back.”

Tears pricked hot at the backs of my eyes. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to interrupt.

“I fell for the way you carry things quietly, like your own heart has had to do the heavy lifting too many times but never hardened. I fell for the way you always ask me what I want instead of assuming. And how when you touch me, it never feels like I owe you anything — you touch me simply because you crave my closeness and want me to feel wanted. I fell for your stubbornness, and your calm, and the way being with you feels like home, no matter where we are.”

He paused, eyes locked on mine. “So yeah. I fell for you. I’m grateful for the way you helped me when I was in Millburn, sure, but it’s more than that. I like you. I want you.”

I stared at him, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. “You fell for me?” I asked, barely more than a whisper.

He nodded with that pure, honest softness only Spencer had. “I did,” he said. “I do. I'm still falling for you. Every day.”

I let out a shaky laugh that was halfway to a sob, my chest cracking wide open. “Good,” I whispered. “Because I’m definitely falling for you, too. So much so that it terrifies me — good terrified, though.”

His expression softened in a way that made my whole body ache. Like my words had knocked something loose in him — or maybe settled something that had been rattling too long.

For a long, quiet moment, we just looked at each other. Breathing. Shaking a little, together.

Then he leaned in slowly, resting his forehead to mine. “You’re not something I’m clinging to. You’re someone I’m choosing.”

And I believed him.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part vi

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