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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 1 year

Text

GUINEA PIG ───

jonathan crane ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion

pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader

summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.

warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 6.1k

a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.

You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship.

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive.

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function.

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but.

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead.

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright.

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane.

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease.

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525.

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it.

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god.

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything.

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive.

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago.

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear.

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with.

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee.

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting.

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh.

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together.

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody.

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane.

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out?

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves.

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago.

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart?

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch.

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all.

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face.

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain.

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked.

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated.

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway.

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now.

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office.

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly.

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not.

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces.

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated.

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home.

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park.

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials.

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze.

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off.

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation.

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects.

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab.

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes.

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark.

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant.

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting.

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair.

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly.

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid.

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.”

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?”

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years.

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew.

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment.

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one.

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him.

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek.

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed?

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before.

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever.

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily.

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes.

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time.

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair.

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you.

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment.

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him.

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all.

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white.

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly.

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him.

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back.

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him.

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts.

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were.

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch.

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions.

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed.

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs.

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body.

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously.

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling.

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth.

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand.

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it.

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands.

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,”

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly.

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass.

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling.

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before.

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt.

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins.

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him.

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open.

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth.

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds.

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in.

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out.

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.”

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach.

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him.

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him.

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm.

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you.

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments.

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you.

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come.

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs.

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior.

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair.

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it.

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid.

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you.

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch.

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe.

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily.

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #batman #sub!jonathan crane #sub!jonathan crane x reader

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pathologicalreid · 7 months

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sense memory | S.R.

After eight months, you and Spencer reunite after he was in prison and you were in WITSEC.

who? spencer reid x hotchner!reader category: flangst content warnings: general cm violence, peter lewis, prison reid, cat adams word count: 2.64k a/n: i have no idea if i like this or not. it might be too cheesy. but i like cheese.

Second floor, apartment 23.

You leaned against the wall and slid down until you were sat on the ground. You left your bag draped over your shoulder, holding the strap tightly.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while, sweetie,” someone said, causing your head to snap up. “Here to see him?” Spencer’s elderly neighbor asked as she passed, carrying a grocery bag in her hand from the market down the street.

Nodding, you smiled softly at her, “I was on a trip. I’m just waiting for him to come home.”

She hummed and kept walking to her door, apartment 24. “He went on a trip too, huh.”

Waving halfheartedly as she disappeared into her apartment, you leaned your head against the wall. Yeah, you went on a trip – a trip to witness protection, and Spencer went to prison.

Spencer went to prison. The words still felt foreign to you, you hadn’t heard them until two weeks ago after Peter Lewis died. Since he didn’t know where you were, he sent letters to your old address, and they were forwarded to the marshal assigned to protect you. When you left the program, you got the letters. 178 letters.

Some of them were several pages long, some of them were as simple as an I love you or an I miss you, and some of them had doodles, usually equations.

You wondered if he’d gotten your mail yet. The letters and pictures you’d collected for your marshal to send to him once you were out of WITSEC. You weren’t even sure if he’d want to see you, but your dad encouraged you to try anyway.

You had left in October, just after his birthday, and now it was May.

After being separated from your dad and Jack for so long, you went to stay with them for a week, but you knew you wanted to return to the district. You wanted to see Spencer, for closure if for nothing else. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, JJ,” you heard him say from the first floor, and panic washed over you. The nerves of seeing him again had you wondering whether or not you could survive a jump out of the second-story window.

But the hallway windows didn’t open, you were left panicking, and then there he was.

You shouldn’t be here; you didn’t know what to say to him. The first person from your past should’ve been someone else. You could’ve called JJ or Penelope.

You saw him before he saw you, he was too busy digging in his bag for his keys. Pulling yourself up to your feet, you stood up and wiped your clammy hands on your jeans.

When he looked up and saw you, his expression went from confusion to disbelief to shock. Not once did he look happy, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he, like you, had been finding it hard to be happy lately.

Your chest ached as he walked past you and put his key in the lock. Spencer opened the door, and you held your breath as he held the door open, and you stepped inside of the apartment.

For months, you had imagined this moment in your mind, wondering what you would say when you finally got to see him again. He set his keys down on the entryway table before he turned around and faced you.

Familiar honey-colored irises studied you as if he was comparing the last time he had seen you to now.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you whispered, suddenly feeling like you were imposing on him.

Slowly, you walked backward out of the still-open door, resorting to the idea of never seeing him again. Until he spoke, “Please don’t leave me again.” His voice was soft, timid in a way you had never heard before.

You spun around and your lips parted in surprise. Tentatively, you stepped back toward him before you were right in front of him, inches apart, “I won’t.” It was a promise.

You weren’t sure who reached for who first, but the next moment your arms were slung around his neck and Spencer’s were around your torso, holding you so tightly that your feet lifted off the ground.

He’d bowed his head so that he could bury his face in the crook of your neck, whispering your name like a prayer that had been answered.

Propping your chin up on his shoulder, you took a deep breath, “I’m right here, Spence. I’m right here.” He was the same, and yet entirely different. Maybe more muscular, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. You opened your mouth to speak again, to tell him that you would never leave him again, not as long as he didn’t want you to.

Everything had changed in the past eight months; you knew you couldn’t make him that promise. That I’ll never leave you promise. It wasn’t real.

But Spencer was real. He was real and he was clutching you the way you were clutching you, his fingers digging into your skin so hard that you might bruise. “I got your letters,” you whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

You felt tears seep through your clothes as you took a deep breath and gently pried yourself away from him. “222 days,” he told you matter-of-factly. “I haven’t seen you in 222 days because you were in witness protection and you’re apologizing to me.”

“Of course, I’m apologizing to you. God, I left the program, and my marshal was like ‘Oh, by the way, here are hundreds of letters from your friends and your boyfriend wrote to you while you were gone. And just so you know, your boyfriend was in federal prison for the last three months.’” You took a few deep, uneven breaths. “What am I supposed to do with that, Spencer? Stop looking at me like that!”

He was smiling at you, his eyes were still watery, but he was giving you a doting smile even so, “I missed you.”

You dropped to a crouch at his words, and he followed you down. Those were the only words you had needed to hear over the last eight months. Meekly, you looked up at him, kneeling in front of you. When you left, Spencer had seemed like he was on top of the world, his mom had been accepted in that clinical trial, and the two of you had been talking more and more about your future. Now he seemed… heavier. A more burdened person. “I missed you so much,” you cried.

Reaching over to you, Spencer gently wiped the tears from your face before pulling you close to him, “You look as beautiful as you did the day I lost you.”

The two of you toppled over as a result of focusing on holding each other instead of balancing. He laid back on the floor, holding you close to him. You looked up, resting your chin on his shoulder, “You never lost me. You could never lose me. I always knew I’d come back; I always knew you’d get Scratch.”

“I didn’t, though,” he whispered, his voice tight with emotion.

You hummed, reaching up and cupping his cheek with your palm. “We’re here now, doesn’t that count for anything?”

Spencer pushed up so that he was being supported by his elbows, “That counts for everything.” He studied your face, “Where did that scar come from? It’s new,” he said, his voice still quiet, like you were an animal, and he was trying not to scare you away.

“Oh,” you murmured, “bashed my head on a door. Only me, right?” You brushed him off before clambering to your feet. What were you supposed to do now? Ask him if he wanted to talk? You used the sleeve of your jacket to wipe your nose. God, he had called you beautiful with snot running down your face. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, staring at the floor. “I know, I know you’re going to say that I don’t have anything to apologize for, but I’m apologizing anyway. I’m sorry for leaving, I’m sorry that Morgan, my dad, and I all left within the same few months.”

He shook his head, “If you hadn’t gone, you’d most likely be dead now. I’d rather miss you for eight months than grieve you for a lifetime.”

You stepped away from him until you backed into the couch, “I thought about calling you. I had no idea that I wouldn’t have been able to. I just thought that-“

And just like that, he was kissing you. It was inevitable, just a question of who would make the first move. A small, shocked noise bubbled in your throat before you leaned into the kiss. It was gentle, tentative even. You gripped the lapels of his jacket as if he’d fade away, but you kissed him gently until he pulled away. “You showing up is the best thing to happen to me all year,” he murmured, sweeping your hair behind your ears. “You remain the most important person in my life.”

“Second most important,” you corrected. “How’s your mom?” Some of the information in his letters didn’t seem overly optimistic, mentioning him bringing her home to stay with him and a medication that he was getting in Mexico.

Spencer gave you a tight-lipped smile, “She’s good, I just went to see her with JJ, actually. She’s staying at a home in the district now.”

You smiled, “That’s good, keeping her close will be good for the both of you, I think.” Spencer reached around your body and pulled at your jacket, “What are you doing?”

“Taking your coat off in an attempt to coax you into staying,” he answered candidly.

Humming, you allowed him to pull the coat off of you, watching intently as he hung it on the coat rack. “Spence?” His name still felt foreign in your mouth as you moved to sit down on the couch.

He looked at you once he finished hanging his own coat, “Yeah?” Sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. A calculated decision, giving you space, but not sitting in a different chair.

“We should talk about it,” you responded, swallowing thickly. “All of it. Everything,” you continued. Millburn. Cat. Mr. Scratch.

Spencer went first, talking to you intently about what happened in that hotel room in Mexico. When he told you what Lindsay had done, you had to swallow your anger. Every once in a while, he’d trip over his words, and you encouraged him to take a break. You laid down on the couch and Spencer nestled in right next to you, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck and enabling you to play with his hair.

Eventually, he told you about Scratch’s takedown. How Luke had watched him dangle from the ledge of that building before he fell to his death.

You sniffled at the end of his story, “I’ll have to thank Luke next time I see him.” You said, closing your eyes and reveling in your sense memory. The smell of his shampoo – tea tree – and the smell of his apartment – stale coffee and old books.

“Where were you?” He whispered, reaching up and skimming the scar on your forehead with his fingertips.

Slowly, you opened your eyes to find his brown ones watching you. “Minnesota,” You whispered, “St. Paul.” Taking a deep breath, you continued, “Then Sacramento, for a while.”

His brows furrowed, “Why did you leave St. Paul?”

You hesitated, afraid to speak about the event. One of the worst things to have ever happened to you, right on up there with the death of your mother. “My uh…” you cleared your throat, “my location was compromised.”

“Does it have anything to do with the scar?” The one you had lied to him about hours ago.

Shutting your eyes, you nodded almost imperceptibly, “It has everything to do with the scar.”

You could see him starting to put a story together on his own, there was a scar on your face that hadn’t been there last year. A scratch. “What happened?”

The memory was there, you wanted to bury it, but it would stick with you forever. The scar on your forehead would fade, but the scar on your soul was permanent. “I did it, I put the scar there,” you admitted. “I don’t know how he found me,” you whispered, that same feeling of defeat rising in your chest.

You were lucky that there was no one else in the house for you to hurt because if Peter Lewis had turned you into a murderer, it might’ve pushed you over the metaphorical edge. As you spoke to Spencer, you told him as much. You were in a bad place while you were in WITSEC.

The two of you remained curled up together in a mess of tears and limbs and fistfuls of shirts and the overwhelming fear of being separated. Looking at him simultaneously broke your heart and put it back together again. “Sacramento was nice, but I missed the East Coast,” you whispered.

“What about your dad?” Spencer asked softly. Part of you wondered if he wanted to go to sleep, it was dark outside now, but you couldn’t be bothered to check the time.

Nodding, you sniffled, “he’s in Philadelphia with Jack, has been the whole time. That’s where I’ve been, with them.”

Spencer lifted his head to look at you, “Where are you staying tonight?”

Sighing, you shifted on the couch, “In a hotel, I’m apartment hunting tomorrow.”

“No,” he said simply, a frown forming on his face.

You laughed lightly, “What do you mean ‘no’?”

He shook his head, “I mean don’t go apartment hunting tomorrow, stay here with me. Stay here tonight, too.” He said, voice bordering on pleading.

“Spencer, we were together for almost six years and never moved in together,” you told him, arching one brow in suspicion. You had talked about it, it just never seemed to happen.

He sat up fully, “I’m tired of making excuses about breaking leases and travel times, Y/N. There’s not enough time in life to keep avoiding it,” he gestured wildly with his hands as his voice slowly rose.

You tried to wrap your head around the idea, “I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through before making a decision this big.” Folding your hands in your lap, you noticed the first real change in him. This was impulsive.

“I spent three months in prison thinking about you!” He said loudly, “Sometimes that was the only thing that kept me going.” That was quieter like he realized how loud he was actually being. “I knew there was my mom, I knew there was the team, but seeing you again… that kept me going.” He studied your face and based on the emotions you were feeling you could only imagine what your expression was, “Is it me? Is it everything I told you that I did? The poison? Cat? Do you not love me anymore?”

Your breath hitched, “I love you. Of course, I still love you.” Finally, you saw it. He was different, but at the same time, he was still the boy who hid his feelings from you – afraid of upsetting your father. The two of you had a long way to go before you could be together in way you used to be, and maybe things would never be the same.

His shoulders slouched forward in relief, “then move in with me.”

Nodding, you leaned your head on his shoulder, “okay.” You took his hand in yours, expertly intertwining your fingers as if no time had passed. “Okay,” you whispered. It certainly didn’t hurt to try.

“And for the record,” he murmured, “I love you too.”

please remember to reblog, like, and/or commend if you enjoyed!

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #written by margot #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds hurt/comfort #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid oneshot

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bambisnc · 7 months

Text

you got mail~!

➵ from : xu minghao~ ♥︎ (b4 reading look here for cw/tw)

"remember that bet we made a couple weeks ago? ..yes i’m aware we’ve made several if one were to count but i’m specifically talking about the one where you said that you are, and i quote, “cute as fuck” and charming enough to be able to win over anyone you’d want, myself included. we never really reached a proper conclusion on it; you’d gotten distracted and fled the library on receiving a call from who i’d assumed was your distressed best friend, leaving me there drowning in an oasis of overthinking - i’ve always found your empathy rather.. charming. another incident i’d like to bring up took place during the school camping trip a couple months back,.. i was going through some hard stuff then. obviously there was no reason for me to, and i know that you must have thought of me as more of an asshole than usual, but i was particularly relentless with you - i definitely did say some harsh things which i didn’t mean. you fought back - which, on another note, is also something i admire about you - how you never back down from a challenge - but right before you stormed off in the dark of the night, i saw the faintest shimmer in your eyes.. you were crying. the sharp stab of pain that raced through me, the sound of blood rushing to my head made me unable to choke out the words out of comfort i so strongly wanted to. you missed the presentation that was scheduled for soon after, and i can’t tell you how sick i was with worry. i saw you soon after with the person i believe you were romantically interested in then, whispering something softly to each other. and that, sweetheart, was my italicized ‘oh’ moment. i admit it was obviously not the best time to realize it; i didn’t want to a home wrecker?? there was also the fact that you probably hated me with all of your existence.. so i did everything i could, i put in all the effort to be able to gain back your favor. i’m sure you would have been wondering where the sudden niceties where coming from. to be very honest, i think a part of me always knew, subconsciously, how much your presence meant to me - our rivalry in a way encouraging me to do my best - and how much i wanted to treasure you. i called you 'sweetheart', defending it to myself as it being a petty insult but maybe i just liked affixing an endearment to you..

not much else to say now, except, well, you’ve won. you’ve got me hopelessly falling for you. you make me feel emotions i’ve never felt before and i can’t help but feel terrified. you have me losing sleep daily thinking of you, your unfaltering confidence in goodness, your dedication to whatever you put your mind to, your witty remarks, and that infuriatingly gorgeous smile of yours that i seem to be rather incapable of resisting, because how can i not let that infectious joy and optimism of yours settle into my veins, my skin, my heart. i’ve let you run away from me twice. i refuse to let that happen again. i'm willing to fight, to beg, to wait. to do whatever you ask of me. I’m aware a relation like ours cannot just be redone completely in a day, but i promise if you give me the chance, i’m more than willing to make it all up to you and make you happy, so please, let me now make sure that i can treat you with all the love you deserve, sweetheart."

~ yours (if you so choose to accept me ♡︎)

[check out my masterlist for more >.<]

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reiderwriter · 4 months

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Here Isn't Where I Wanna Be

Chapter Four of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: With Spencer gone, you find yourself spiralling into anger again until a new friend - and a silver lining to your entire situation - appears.

Warnings: Unplanned pregnancy, mentions of the smut in the last chapter in detail, no explicit smut.

A/N: And so we get to it - the plot!! If you're enjoying the series, let me know in the replies or in my inbox, and feedback is greatly appreciated~♡

Masterlist || Add yourself to the taglist

With Mondays back to normal, you were surprised to find yourself still under the weather the day after Spencer had left you.

Walking into your office, your body anticipated the fight, muscles tensing, heart beating, blood pumping as you opened the door to your office. Logically, you knew he wouldn't be there. He'd practically shouted it at you the Saturday before. But seeing the vacant desk left you angry once again.

Tense for a fight, you couldn't stop pacing back and forth in your office as the hours ticked on. A small part of you had hoped that the activities you'd indulged in during the weekend - and indulged was the word for whatever it was you'd done - had simply been your over active imagination once again.

But even though Spencer has cleaned you up to the best of his ability, had left you in your bed in fresh clothes and tucked under the covers, he couldn't erase the traces of himself on your skin or in your apartment.

The files you'd both thrown around on the tables were still strewn haphazardly around, the tangle of last night's clothes still discarded suggestively in a line to your couch. He'd washed you up, sure enough, and you'd found a towel and wash cloth in your laundry basket the next morning, but he'd not done a thorough job and you found yourself washing all traces of your activities away from your inner thighs still.

So, yes. You paced in your office, and you waged a silent war against the empty desk.

The first week, you were sure they'd come to collect it, to move it elsewhere.

After all, his time with you - with the university - was done.

After two weeks, you started spreading yourself out across both desks, twisting them around into an inverted L space so you could roll your chair between the two of them. You stacked books on the stupid reminder of him, you used it as a dining table on late nights and short lunch breaks, you kicked your feet up on it as you read and acted as though it were yours and had never been anyone else's.

And then you got angry enough that you unblocked Spencer Reid's number.

You were raging and suffering this torment alone, and why should you be? You'd made a mistake with the case files, sure, but you'd been driven to it by his cockiness, his actions. You deserved the chance to make his life hell one last time as well.

You took yourself home that night, wrapped yourself in a blanket and pulled your laptop in front of you, and unblocked his number.

Immediately, you put the phone down and opened your emails.

You'd take responsibility for the messages, sure, but you had not blocked his email. Searching through the files, you looked through your department database for his work email, searched your inbox for his messages, and came up blank.

It took you two hours of traipsing through each email - admittedly, you'd probably signed up to one to many mailing list - just to be sure. You finally turned to your spam folder, and there it was.

“Son of a bitch,” you muttered under your breath as you looked through ten emails. Ten emails from his FBI email account. No wonder they hadn't gotten throug, it was an unauthorised email on a company server.

You only grew angrier as you read through the messages.

“Y/N, I have reason to believe you have a file I need as soon as possible. Please message me back as soon as you get this. Spencer.”

“Y/N. I haven't received word from you in 24 hours. If there's something wrong, please reach out. If you're being stubborn, I hope you see reason. Spencer.”

“Y/N. I have your address. If you don't reply in the next four hours, I will be paying you a visit to collect the file myself. You have blocked my number and resisted adult conversation, and I am tired of playing these games. Spencer.”

Sick of playing games?

From the man that had been playing jenga and scrabble with your bookshelves, that was absolutely rich. You may have worked out that nights frustrations with him easily, but you found yourself angry all over again.

You hadn't even checked your phone yet either, sure that he'd blown that up too until he figured out his number was blocked.

He'd found your address. He'd practically stalked you to get what he wanted, and then he'd just washed his hands of you the night after?

It had been a month, and you were still frustrated.

Your stomach flipped, bike rising in your throat as your anger burned through you.

If he could find you, you sure as hell could find him. You'd assumed he'd found your address through work, and realised it was just as easy to find his as well.

Before you could stop yourself, you were loading yourself into a car at 8 pm. and driving across the city to Spencer Reid's apartment.

The red blurring your vision didn't fade until you sounded against his door and were greeted with an entirely too feminine “I'm coming!”

The woman who opened the door was blonde and cute and sweet, and she had a wonderful smile. You were going to rip Spencer Reid's throat from his chest.

“I-I’m sorry, I was told this is Spencer Reid's apartment,” you said, trying your best to disappear into the night.

“Oh, yes. Can I help you?”

“No. No, I'm sorry, I- I don't need help.”

You must've looked uneasy in that second because before you knew it, the woman was inviting you inside for a hot drink, taking your few seconds of hesitancy to push down your guards completely.

“Spencer doesn't keep much here in terms of food, but I know there has to be some…aha! Coffee!”

“No, thank you, really I'm alright, I should leave-”

In another two minutes, she'd talked you into sitting down and had put a mug in your hands. In a miracle turn of events, you'd actually relaxed enough to take in your surroundings.

It was like you'd stepped back into your work office. Spencer's apartment, or at least the main living space, was filled with books. There were stacks everywhere, the shelves alphabetised - obviously - and looking neatly chaotic.

You wanted to examine everything, every picture, every trinket on the shelf, every weakness he had that you could exploit. You wanted to know him.

“S-So,” you started, turning back to the woman who'd sat herself down in a chair opposite you, staring at you excitedly. “How long have you and Spencer been dating?”

The woman spluttered her coffee before sending up a howl of laughter that had your cheeks heating.

Okay. Misunderstanding. You were less pissed at Spencer, but only a fraction.

“Oh, god, the idea of me and the good doctor is incredibly ridiculous. No, it feels incestuous, actually. Really, like shivers down my spine type stuff.”

“So you're his sister?” You asked, even though you knew the answer. Spencer was an only child. You had spent three months with him, you knew at least that much about him.

“I'm Penelope, I work with Spencer. He's on a case right now, and I came to find him a book.”

“A book?” You asked again, taking another sip of your drink. Mistake aside, you felt comfortable sitting with her. The couch was comfy, the entire apartment was damn cosy, and it smelt….

Your spine straightened when you realised it smelt like he did, when you realised that thought was somehow a comfort to you. Your stomach had settled for the first time in a week, and the nausea leaving your body after four weeks of anger had made you sick.

“Yeah, we've been working back to back cases, so he didn't have time to come back and pick up materials, so here I am as his little fairy godfriend to send him a care package.”

You laughed gently and pulled your feet underneath you on the couch, curling up again.

“He doesn't deserve you.”

“What makes you say that?” Her face was open. Her tone was light but you felt that you'd just walked into a trap. Even though Penelope had described her role on the team to you (not a profiler, not a big risk), you couldn't help but feel as though you were walking into a trap.

“Well, he's… he's… You know the man better than I do, right? He's infuriating.”

She raised an eyebrow and gave you a smile but didn't say a word.

“He's domineering. He thinks his way is the best way, he- he- he rearranged my bookshelves!”

And my guts, you thought to yourself, holding your tongue just quick enough to not let that slip out. You still weren't sure where you stood on the sex. It was good. It was great. It was more than great, and yet you'd hated him until the very second he put his lips on yours, and you hated him again when you'd woken the next morning. Surely that meant that you'd still hated him while fucking him, that you'd just been temporarily blinded by lust?

“Your bookshelves?”

“At the university. Sorry, I- I didn't introduce myself, did I?” You told her your name, how you'd met Spencer and regaled her with tales of your office antics.

“Penelope you, you should've seen the look on his face. It was priceless! Like a deer in headlights, his eyes were so wide, it was adorable,” you said, recounting the run-in with the student.

“And then, infuriating man, he said he'd spent all day looking at me, but like, with the books-”

You realised after five minutes of talking that Penelope had gone completely quiet, just grinning. Uncharacteristically quiet. You'd known her less than an hour, and you knew it was uncharacteristic for her to be so quiet.

“So you hate him?” She asked, noticing your abrupt stop.

“I- yes. Yes, I did. I do."

“It doesn't sound like you-”

“We- we parted on really bad terms. I think. I took one of your files accidentally, and he was very angry, we both said some things-” And did some other things, you thought.

“Things that I'm sure we both regret.”

“Oh my god-” the other woman said, suddenly going wide-eyed and jumping up from the couch.

“You're the- you're the reason he was late! He's never been late, never, apart from - well anyway he's never late but he was late and… oh Miss Y/N, you're not telling me everything!”

“What? N-No, I don't know what you're-”

“Luke owes me $20. This is wonderful. Look at me, I'm not even a fancy shmancy profiler or anything!”

“Penelope please-”

She heard the plea in your tone and sat down again, zipping her lips up and throwing away a non-existent key.

“While we were…arguing, he accused me of having blocked his email, ignoring him on purpose. I found out today that he emailed from his FBI account and not his university email-”

“So it was sent to your spam folder? Yeah, it happens all the time.”

You shot her a tired look, and she repeated her action. Lips zipped, key thrown.

“I came here to….” To what? Fight with him again? See him again? To one up him? To kiss him again, feel his hands on you, feel his fingers inside of you, his tongue on your clit as you rode his face again, his hands around your throat as you came on his dick, as he blew his load inside you, filling you with his cum-

“Shit.”

“Shit? What's… what is shit, Y/N? Please enlighten me, because everything seems very not shit to me right now, other than the fact that I'm due a video call from our boy wonder soon and I haven't located this book yet.

You counted in your head and then recounted again as all the blood drained from your body. You didn't even want to acknowledge the fact that you'd come here just to see him again using whatever old excuse you could find to get back into his arms (or more accurately, his bed).

You counted, and you counted again until your brain fogged, and you couldn't even hear Penelope asking you if you were alright anymore.

“Penelope, I- I think… Penelope, can you keep a secret?”

“Yes, I can absolutely keep a secret. I'm a great secret keeper. Everyone says if you want a secret keeping, Penelope is your girl-”

“Okay, that's- that's enough. I need to- shit, I need to go and get…”

For the thousandth time since Spencer left, you stood up and started pacing.

“Okay, now you're worrying me, friend I just made. Please don't freak out on me.”

“I'm sorry, I'm going to freak out, I think I'm pregnant. Very much freaking out.”

All of a sudden, Penelope was up and pacing beside you.

“Pregnant! With a baby? You think you're pregnant with a baby?”

“I don't see how I could be pregnant with anything else?”

“You're sure?”

“No! I need a test or a sign from God or something.”

The woman took a deep breath herself and then grabbed your shoulders, hauling you to her side.

“Okay, breathe. You sit here, I’ll go pick up a test. Don't go anywhere and don't spiral. Rearrange the bookshelves of you must but don't. Leave. Okay?”

You nodded, and she rushed out of the door in a whirlwind.

For at least ten minutes, you stayed completely still. It had been roughly seven weeks since your last period and 26 days since you and Spencer had sex. He hadn't pulled out. He hadn't worn a condom. He hadn't asked if you were on birth control. As much as you wanted to be angry, though, you hadn't told him to pull out. You hadn't stopped him and asked him to put on a condom, and if you were telling the truth, you enjoyed it all the more when he'd finished inside you. You'd forgotten that you'd gone off your birth control when you'd started your job, knowing that tenure came with health insurance and wanting to get the implant cheaper or included in your premium.

What a brilliant plan.

Still, you weren't expecting this, and you were in a haze.

Seven weeks. You'd missed a period, and you hadn't even noticed.

You stopped spiralling when you paced into the bookshelves and started actually looking at the things laid about on his shelves.

There were chess pieces, small rooks placed here and there, as if dropped and forgotten. Paper stuck out of the books at all different angles, and you noticed his looping scrawl on a few of them, his notes brief and indecipherable, but still bringing a faint smile to your lips.

Then there were the pictures. There were a lot with an older woman you instantly recognised as his mother, and your heart softened as how they looked very protective of one another. Others showed him with his team, with Penelope, and a stern looking middle-aged man, two women, a happy looking, well-built man. There were weddings, faces that popped up here and there. There was a very young, very vulnerable looking Spencer playing chess with an older man.

The room was filled with family, and you couldn't stop the tears from welling up in your eyes as you took in how much Spencer could love.

He cared, and he cared deeply, and there were all these people in his life that enjoyed being around him. And he hated you.

Your heart sank, and you were about to leave when Penelope appeared again, test in hand and gently pushed you into the bathroom.

You took the test and waited. Penelope waited beside you, clutching your (clean) hands in hers as she talked you through her day, distracting you in the only way she could.

But your brain resisted everything, focused only on how you were about to grow a family with a man you knew didn't enjoy your company.

“What am I going to do, Penelope?” You whispered, suddenly afraid of what your future looked like.

“I can't - I can't raise a baby with a man that doesn't love me the way-”

You ran a hand through your hair, biting your tongue quickly.

“You don't have to answer me, but is it… is there a chance it could be Spencer's?”

You nodded before you could even think of lying, too wrapped up in your mental to-do list building up and up and up.

“It could be negative? This could just be panic and stress and-”

You heard the alarm you'd set for the test go off and jumped up, sprinting into the bathroom.

Two lines. What did two lines mean? Two lines meant baby.

Baby. You were having a baby.

“Y/N, what does it say?” Penelope asked from behind you.

“It's… I'm…shit.”

She came up behind you and looked herself, cursing the same way you did as she watched you for your reaction.

There was a baby. You were going to have a baby.

Okay. You could have a baby. You could bring a baby into this world. You just had to figure out how, and write a to-do list, and avoid telling your boss until you got tenure, and tell your parents, and tell Spencer.

Spencer.

You had to Spencer. You collapsed to the ground, mumbling to yourself as Penelope fanned you with her hands, squeaking at your unresponsiveness.

“Spencer…” you mumbled. “I have to tell Spencer.”

You blinked the fog out of your eyes and stood quickly, absent mindedly making a note to check if sudden movements were good for the baby or not.

“Penelope, I need some help,” you said, moving to the living room and pulling our your phone. She trailed behind you, sending you a worrying look, and you thanked the heavens that you'd managed to run into the most forgiving angel of a woman on quite possible the best/worst day of your life. The jury waa still undecided.

You snapped a picture of the shelves, and then, throwing your phone down, you started tearing each stack apart.

Once you'd made a large enough gap in the stacks, you turned back to Penelope.

“We're going to tell Spencer. Like this.”

🔖@stillhere197 @understandingsunrise @mindfullycriminal @aliteralsemicolon @r-3dlips @alexafromamazon15 @jasf444 @subunitless @thebloomingeagle @lackingoriginalthoughts @empressgraytea @nox-sprite @alondralolll @allspicestones @chiyozai @i_heart_mgg @2hiigh2cry @tiyuel @jiuseoks @readinglatenights @placidus @dreamsarebig @pisceslovrr @waywardgoddess66 @tampon_racecar @kbaby-024 @luvdella @feyresqueen @a1dyn @pleasantwitchgarden @kolasbombaf @lovehadlovelost @kissesforspence @moonchildooh @bubbleebubz @theoraekenslover @melagem02 @calypso-read @ari-aurelia @flipsideoflife @spicyspirit @donttrustlove @chicaconfundidaycuriosa @ivet4 @nox-xie @sarakay-gvf @miss-ev @nvrlandqueen

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heich0e · 1 year

Note

STOPPP LIV THAT MADE ME FEEL SILLY BC I TEARED UP!! thank u <33 for welcoming this new name to the world <333

NO TEARING UP!! ITS BNHXWKS' BIRTHDAY!! welcome to the world new @!!

#you have to promise me NOT TO CHANGE YOUR PFP for at least 24 hours. i am a virgo there is only so much change i can cope with #liv got mail

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ghoststyles · 9 months

Text

You Should Probably Leave

This one shot is inspired by You Should Probably Leave by Chris Stapleton! Hope you enjoy.

3.4K. Smut. Fingering, oral sex, vaginal sex, degradation, the works. hehehe.

The feeling of the pair of lips gently ghosting down your collar bone sends you back in time. A simpler time. Two college students madly in love, unsure where their lives would take them.

You smile gently, drinking in the scene around you; a warm fire lit, a nearly empty bottle of red wine, and a pair of strong hands dancing around your post-baby curves. Throwing your head back, you gasp when he nips and sucks at the soft part of your neck. Pawing at his lap, his hard prick creates a noticeable tent in his pants.

You had a long day. The baby is teething, your nipples are dry and cracked, and you haven’t had an adult conversation in what feels like weeks. It’s been Miss Rachel and Cocomelon until your ears bleed. You’re not sure if it was the wine, but it’s like you’ve been brought back to life. It helps that your husband, an esteemed surgeon, is on his 3rd 24-hour call shift in a two-week span, giving you plenty of time to occupy yourself.

It started off innocent, your friendship with Harry. Your heart stopped when you realized who moved into the house across the street just 6 months ago. The other moms fawned over the new single bachelor in the neighborhood, not realizing it was Harry. Your Harry. Your college boyfriend who you thought you’d run off into the sunset with and travel the world.

In an effort to establish that you’re a married woman, you brought a fresh plate of cookies to his door, your husband in tow. Harry’s slightly perplexed and shocked look on his face when he opened the front door that day was quickly wiped away when your husband introduced yourselves to him.

It wasn’t until a few days later when you got Harry alone. Would he act like he has no idea who you are? Or would it be like a single day hasn’t passed since you left him at your college graduation, not knowing about the ring in his pocket as your parents and grandparents celebrated around you?

You were going on different paths in life, after all. Harry was a risk taker; you, on the other hand, are someone who craves routine and discipline. That’s what you repeat to yourself, trying to convince your brain that he’s not the love of your life. Even 6 years later.

You approach Harry as he is getting his mail one day. Looking around, making sure the nosy moms weren’t around, or your husband isn’t miraculously home from work.

“Hi, Sunny,” Harry says, swallowing thickly.

His words send a punch to your gut. The nickname he called you for over 4 years hits the same, even after all this time. Your husband’s terms of endearment don’t hold a candle to this.

Hesitantly, you cross the street, your arms crossing over your chest to try and slow your beating heart.

“Hi, neighbor. How’d that happen?”

“Are you the only one allowed to come back and live in their college town?”

Ice cold. You weren’t prepared for that kind of response.

“Not at all. Just unexpected, I guess.”

“I think it’s my turn to do something unexpected.”

You nod, pursing your lips in anxiety. You turn to go back in your house, feeling defeated.

“I don’t have social media. I didn’t know you lived here,” he replies gruffly. “If you want to come over for coffee tomorrow morning, you can. I work from home.”

“Okay,” you reply softly, unsure if this is a real invite. Scurrying into the house, you wipe away a small tear that formed in the corner of your eye. Fucking postpartum emotions.

Your racing thoughts are brought to an end when Harry snakes his hand over your stomach. He moans at the excess skin and fat, knowing you brought a life into this world. Weekly coffee dates between neighbors turned into wine nights when the baby goes down. All unbeknownst to your husband and neighbors.

He finally slides his hands in your panties, gently swirling your clit, sending your head back on his shoulder. The stress melts off your body when he inserts his middle finger.

“Mhm, squeeze me, Sunny. Take what you need,” Harry pants in your ear quietly. The baby monitor rests on the side table next to you.

High-pitched whines escape your mouth as he massages your g-spot gently. The angle isn’t allowing him to speed up his thrusts. You come, loudly, a few minutes later as Harry sponges more kisses on your neck and temple.

Shifting to your knees, you simultaneously pull his pants down, his boxers following suit. His prick bobs up, smacking him in the stomach. You nearly keel over, excited to have your mouth on him, as if you haven’t been doing this several nights a week when your husband is at work.

The ruddy tip is dribbling pre come, the perfect lubricant. Since he knows you’re dirty, you spit on him anyway. Harry lets out a mixture of a sigh and whine, desperate to feel your warm mouth on him. You take the plunge, trying to shove as much of him down as you can. It’s hard, but you manage to slightly swipe your nose on the hair at his base.

He’s a man now. He was back then, too. But he’s a man now. The slight belly; a contrast from his rock hard abs in college. And his face is aged, but in a good way. His stamina remains unchanged. A few more sucks and pumps of his dick and balls sends him spiraling. Ropes of his come hit the back of your throat. You absolutely keen as he grunts and thrusts one last time.

With a pop, you slide your mouth off, looking at him with hazy eyes. You roll to the side, laying your chin on his meaty thigh, just above his tiger tattoo.

Harry sighs, knowing what comes next.

I know it ain’t all that late but you should probably leave. And I recognize the look in your eyes, yeah, you should probably leave.

You cover up your bare chest with your sweater, pulling your discarded sleep shorts back on.

“He’ll be home soon, and I want to feed the baby one more time before bed. I hope you understand.”

Harry nods, his face unwilling to let on how much your words hurt. He stands, pulling up his pants and boxers, slipping his sweatshirt overhead.

Harry understood the first time. And the second. And even the third. But, here you both are, months later, entertaining this completely heinous affair. But, he just can’t fucking let you go.

‘Cause I know you, and you know me. And we both know where this is gonna lead

You excused the lingering; the extra kisses. You’ve even let Harry stay in your bed until the minute your husband pulled into the driveway. It’s gone on too long, and you need to set boundaries. But you can’t fucking let him go.

You want me to say that I want you to stay, so you should probably leave

You know it’s wrong. You’re not naive. It’s not even about hurting your husband. The unmitigated amount of guilt that comes from leading Harry on is more than enough to send you straight to hell.

It was dumb luck, Harry moving in across the street. He had to hear about your new life through mutual college friends for years as hestruggled in relationship after relationship. You went off and married a future doctor. A sure thing. At graduation, Harry scored a job in tech. Sure, the field was new at the time, but it wasn’t like he was taking a major risk. You got cold feet and fled.

Harry leans down to place one more chaste kiss on your lips before he wordlessly slips out the door toward his own house. You stare out the window after him until a shrill cry rings over the baby monitor, catapulting you into your reality.

And it’s hard to resist, just one kiss, then you should probably leave

When Harry knocks on your door around 11PM just two nights after the last encounter with an overnight bag in hand, you’re not sure what to say. The baby went down easier tonight, allowing you to feel more relaxed.

“I talked to him yesterday at the gym. He said he’d be on call at the hospital until tomorrow morning.”

You nod, confirming what he’s saying. Your husband kissed you goodbye after a failed attempt at intimacy this morning. You made up some excuse of feeling off, so he jerked himself in the shower while you laid in fetal position, the guilt eating you alive.

Harry storms past you, immediately heading to your bedroom. The bedroom you share with your husband. The bedroom just down the hall from your sleeping baby. You sigh, closing the front door gently.

Harry places his bag on the chair in the corner, taking note of the clothing strewn around the room. He’d hate to leave behind an article of his clothing that would expose their secret. Harry pulls his shirt off by the collar, baring his chest to you.

It never fails to smack the wind out of you. His toned, tattooed abdomen is illuminated by the lamp in the corner. You place your palms on his pecs, leaning in for a hungry kiss. You can tell he doesn’t want to talk tonight.

“Strip,” He demands in between kisses.

You meet his gaze, giving your best puppy dog eyes. He doesn’t buy it. You peel off your sleep shirt and shorts, leaving yourself in a pair of white panties.

“Face down, ass up, Sunny.”

A shrill whine escapes your frowning mouth. You put up little protest and situate yourself on the bed. It’s tantalizing, the hold he has on you. The history. The lore. The taboo nature of your relationship. If that’s what you can call it.

You crawl onto the bed, ignoring the framed photo from your wedding day on the bedside table. Harry stands at the foot of the bed, admiring your plump ass, a small wet patch forming in the gusset of the panties.

Harry lightly palms your ass as you jam your head further into the comforter. He squeezes and pulls at the skin, debating where to start. He starts by rubbing his middle and ring fingers over the wet patch.

Increasing the pressure, he leans over you, his lips tickling the shell of your ear, “I’m gonna eat you out, fuck you, fill you up, and we’re gonna keep these panties on. A little treat for when your husband comes home.”

Fuck.

“Harry, fuck,” you stutter.

He’s now face to face with your backside. You feel one lewd, long, lick up your folds - through your underwear. It’s so, so good. In between licks, you hear him speak again.

“You know what I can’t figure out?” He asks, almost laughing to himself.

You dare not to respond, instead focus on his assault to your pussy. His grip on your thighs is that of the jaws of life, destined to leave marks.

“I’ve been fucking tearing this pussy up for,” he trails off. “Months, now? And your dumb fuck husband still has no idea? Not a clue about our history? How you were mine first? Does he even pay a crumb of attention to you?”

You cry out after a big swipe, the tickling feeling of the damp fabric on your pussy lips driving you wild. You’re holding back big, fat crocodile tears. You’re in this situation because you want to have your cake and eat it, too.

“Tell me, Sunny. Does he fuck you with the lights off? Or a quickie in the shower? If he’s the love of your life, then why do you have to get attention from me? Hm?”

Fisting the comforter, the tears are now falling rapidly. You choke out a sob and clench your pussy around nothing.

Again, you don’t answer his questions. Instead, he picks up the pace of his licks, focusing directly on your clit. He knows the left side is more sensitive than the right, so his tongue stays swirling in that direction.

You come, quickly and loudly, smacking your hand against the bed. Harry chuckles to himself bitterly. Your head is still spinning, but you feel Harry peel back the gusset of the panties and slide the tip of his cock through the folds.

He still has his pants on, but the buttons are popped open and his cock is sticking out over the band of his underwear. The edge of the lacy fabric touching the sensitive head makes him grunt out a moan.

“Always so fucking needy. You need me, don’t you, Sunny? Tell me,” he mocks.

“I need you, Harry,” you whimper, your body ready to collapse to the bed.

“Mm-mm. Tell me who you need right now, Sunny.”

“You, Daddy. I need you,” your wobbly lip makes you sound pathetic.

He plunges in at your words, both of you gasping at the same time. You’re made for one another; You’re the lock and he’s the key. Even on the best nights with your husband, he gives you a mediocre performance at best. Your thrusts are never timed, and he refuses to talk dirty in your ear.

“That’s right, Sunny. Good girl,” he mocks you again, his thrusts sending shockwaves throughout your body. You can feel his thumb trace around the edge of your asshole, making you mewl.

Harry leans over you, enveloping his body over yours. His lips ghost your ear again. The tone of his voice is low and sultry.

“Y’know what I think, Sunny girl?” he asks, sucking your earlobe into his mouth. “I bet you wish that sweet little baby in the other room was mine. Bet you wish it was me you walked down the aisle to.”

You gasp, heart stopping at the mention of your baby. Up until this point, you’ve been able to compartmentalize this part of your life. You start to protest, but he slips his right hand around your throat, squeezing gently.

“Hm? Based on the way you’re squeezing me, I think I’m right,” the smug tone of voice is glaringly obvious. “Think of the life we could’ve had, Sunny. I think about it every day of my fucking life. Would’ve given you the world.”

Like a devil on my shoulder you keep whisperin’ in my ear. And it’s gettin’ kinda hard for me to do the right thing here. I wanna do the right thing, baby

“I know,” you finally choke out. Your conversations during your romps remain light, usually. But, tonight. Tonight feels different. His grip on your throat tightens as you feel him start to slow his thrusts. "Fuck, Harry. I know."

“Thought I’d hit the lottery when you and your husband knocked on my door that day. Thought I’d been given a second chance. Finally have you forever.”

He’s fully panting at this point, and you’re unsure how he’s even talking. You clench around him, making him moan again. He kisses your neck, sweat freely dripping all over both of you. Instead of burying deep in you, he pulls out slightly as he comes, coating the inside and outside of your pussy, and dripping into the panties.

It’s lewd, and disgusting. But, it’s everything.

Harry’s lifts his body from his place on top of you, the slight breeze his shifting caused making you shiver. Harry moves to a half standing position to grab his phone off the bedside table. He snaps a quick photo of the scene in front of him.

You look ethereal. Your perfect, plump ass is complimented by the underwear now doused in his scent and spunk. The contrast of the dry and wet parts of the panties has him wanting to jerk off again.

Reluctantly, he pulls out, and uses his thumb to snap the fabric back in place. He doubts your husband will even give you the time of day once he’s home. But, it’d be an epic way for your secret to be exposed.

It’s nearing 1AM, so Harry stands to go into your ensuite to fetch a towel. Now, you’ve fully collapsed into the bed. He gently wipes just enough cum from around your pussy and thighs. He leaves a majority of it for the treasure hunt.

You finally build up the strength and courage to pick up a discarded T-shirt on the floor. At the same time, he’s putting on a fresh pair of boxers from his bag. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eye as you start reeling over the degrading words that came out of his mouth. You have every right to be disgusted by him, but you can’t bring yourself to be. Because he’s not wrong.

You’d made a mistake. You knew about 6 months into your marriage. You loved your husband. Or maybe the idea of him. You met him when he was 2 years into his surgical residency. The perks and the bragging rights of dating a doctor got to your head. Every date, every argument and every moment of adversity had you wondering what it’d have been like with Harry.

Life with Harry was easy. You got the best of both worlds; a hot boyfriend and a fun social life. But, when your sister introduced you to a man with a full 8-year plan carved out, you chose the safe option. What a fuck-up that was.

Harry climbs into the bed next to you, still not saying a word. That’s the thing. With Harry, you don’t have to. Your energies and emotions just work. He gently pulls you down so you’re laying horizontally on your side, and he slots his legs between yours, nuzzling his face in your neck.

In this moment, everything feels right.

Harry didn’t sleep much. He tried. But, something deep inside him was gnawing at his soul. His eyes were closed the whole night, but he never quite crossed the threshold into sleep.

He still had all his five senses; the sliver of light from the lamppost outside; the slight white noise coming from the radiator; the smell of your shampoo mixed with the lewd activities of tonight; the feel of your hot skin touching his; and finally, the residual taste of your pussy on his tongue.

The sun is rising now, signaling the end of your time together.

The sliver of light on your frame has his heart bursting with adoration. It’s true, what he’d said before. He does think about what your future would’ve been like. Your long eyelashes cast shadows on your slightly cherub cheeks. You would’ve made beautiful children. Gone on memorable family trips. And at the end of the day, fucking love each other.

Sun on your skin, 6AM and I been watchin’ you sleep. And honey, I’m so afraid you’re gonna wake up and say that you should probably leave.

A year ago, Harry thought you’d leave your husband by now. But, as time goes on, his odds of getting you back are getting less and less. His heart is breaking all over again.

You feel him stir, so you turn over and smile at him. You run your hands up and down his bare chest, feeling every prickly hair. He smiles back at you, not saying a word.

You finally pipe up, a clear, sad tone, “Y’know how much I hate saying this.”

“I should probably leave.”

You nod sadly, placing a kiss on his chest. It’s honestly a miracle the baby hasn’t woken up yet. Harry kisses you, his thumb grabbing your chin. It lasts a few minutes until you pull away. Your husband is due home in less than 45 minutes.

I want you to stay, but you’ll probably say that you should probably leave.

You should probably leave.

Harry rises to sit at the side of the bed, grabbing his phone. 6:12 AM. You think he’s fiddling with his phone to prolong his stay. His bag is already packed by the door. You smile to yourself, happy to have your lover by your side. He places one last kiss on your forehead.

Before Harry stands, he sends off an email to his realtor, confirming the sale of his house. $15,000 over asking price. It was a private showing, with an agreement that Harry would be out of the house in two weeks.

He already purchased a home — Approximately 1,326 miles away from this one. Everything is set. His mind is made up.

Harry stands, grabbing his bag. He takes one last look at you as he stands in the doorframe, an unreadable look on his face.

“Bye, Sunny girl.”

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wttcsms · 5 days

Text

if you feel like falling (catch me on the way down) | ONE

ᝰ.ᐟ after getting your heart broken by professional soccer player, rin itoshi, all because he loved the game more than you, you officially swear off all men — especially athletes. your publicist doesn't get that memo, though, and you find yourself roped into a fake relationship with yoichi isagi, who isn't just a pro soccer player, but also your ex's rival. things could get messy. ( fem!reader )

pairing yoichi isagi x reader (endgame), past! rin itoshi x reader word count 2.9k chapter synopsis there are certain perks to having a relationship that operates on a "private not secret" basis. for example, you're allowed at least two weeks before the batshit crazy people online figure out that little miss it girl just got her ass dumped. chapter contains partying to cope, social drinking, diet culture, this fic is so chronically online LOL author's notes so normally, i would organize the fic's different arcs or acts by explicitly saying "act 1" or whatever. like i said, we're gonna be chronically online, so the arcs are described as different "eras" and when it's a new arc, we'll get a new era 🤭 each era has special graphics for it: what the media sees vs what's actually going on. think of the era intro as a moodboard for the chapters that'll follow <3

⋆˚࿔ CURRENT ERA: PARTY GIRL 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ from the outside, it's giving irl serena van der woodsen but even better, no one can possibly have the same 24 hours as you, someone needs to convince you to drop the skincare routine STAT, matter of fact - we just need your whole game card

— guest starred on the hottest pop culture podcast where it was basically just a glaze session for you (besides the last 10 minutes where the host started asking about rin), articles that want to help readers live your (unattainable if you're not rich!) lifestyle, and a devoted fanpage that updates your every move... every move.

on the inside, it's actually giving listening and actually relating to sad music, asking an 8 ball if you're the problem, being desperate enough to believe those tiktoks that say if you claim this sound and interact 3x he'll text you back, wondering when you should mail him back his stuff, keeping busy in the public eye so no one suspects how miserable you are right now

— even spotify clocked you and it's auto-generated, customized playlist perfectly depicts what you're going through (talk about the saddest soundtrack to your life), got desperate and consulted quora (this is how you know you're at rockbottom). not shown: your credit card statement (retail therapy works, right? right?!)

“Promise you’ll be on your best behavior?” Yukimiya peers over his sunglasses so he can give you a very pointed look. You tilt your head innocently.

“When am I ever not?”

Yukimiya lets out a very loud, very drawn out, very exasperated sigh. When have you not been on your best behavior? Well, just last month, you got drunk, stumbled out to your garage, hopped in your custom-wrapped pink Porsche, and somehow ended up falling asleep on top of the hood. (In your defense, at least even in a drunken stupor, you weren’t stupid enough to drive.) Last week, you collected the numbers of about eight different athletes and models, sufficiently led every single one of them on, and are now actively ghosting all of them because they committed the cardinal sin of not sounding like, feeling like, or being anything like Rin. And speaking of the devil, Rin’s the reason why just last night, you ended up blocking not just him from your social media, but his whole entire team, too. You felt vindicated when you did this at 2 AM. Yeah, because that’ll sure show him! He hasn’t looked at your story once since the breakup (not that you’ve been keeping track or anything), but in case he tries to play it cool and gets one of his teammates to view it on his behalf, you’ll have put a stop to that plan.

(Even when you’re spiraling, you’re still painfully aware of the fact that Rin’s most likely doing okay, if not still performing at his best. He is most certainly not doing something as childish as getting his teammates to relay info on you to him. Meanwhile, you are apparently a social liability for your closest friends. Spectacular.)

“Don’t answer that.” You tell him. “I don’t want to know what my life looks like through your eyes.” It’s bad enough that every little thing you do gets documented, photographed, and then sensationalized on the Internet, but it’s one thing for strangers to commentate on your behavior when they don’t even have the full story. It’s another thing entirely when it’s your best friend criticizing your current lifestyle.

“I’m just saying, it’s going to be a very casual lunch with my favorite people. Not a party.” Yukimiya clarifies.

“Kenyu, you do realize that inviting me to a birthday party, and then saying ‘it’s not a party’ is kind of giving mixed signals right now.” Now it’s your turn to give him a pointed look, but just like his, there’s no true venom behind it. It’s Kenyu’s birthday celebration, anyway. You’re not about to corrupt Mr. Catholic Private School and tell him to throw a fucking rager.

“If my team gets their way, there probably will be an actual party. If there is, you’ll be the first one I give the details to.” There’s a distant shout in the back; the photographer is done with his lunch, and he’s ready to wrap this shoot up. Kenyu examines his hair in the vanity mirror before getting out of his chair and giving you a quick hug. Your photos have already been taken, and there’s really no point for you to be on set still.

However, Kenyu’s on set. Your only other viable option is to just go home and hide under your covers, rewatching Someone Great on Netflix and Doordashing Ben & Jerry’s. Juliette is home in France and won’t be coming back until the end of the month, and you’re not really in the mood to see any of your other friends. It’s tiring being around people who can’t separate front-cover-of-Vogue you from the real you. If you’re going to have to fake a smile, it might as well be on set rather than grabbing brunch with people who would kill to be able to leak something as headline-inducing as your breakup.

“Pinky promise?” You look up at Yukimiya. “You promise to tell me about the party even if I’ll make a fool of myself because apparently I don’t act on my best behavior?”

He rolls his eyes at your comment. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, and you know that. Besides, you could never make a fool of yourself. Anything you do is declared iconic, anyway.”

Having a famous movie director as a father and a certified Hollywood starlet as a mother, life wasn’t just set at easy mode for you. You practically were given an unlimited money hack and started off with like, five times the XP compared to any other beginner. At thirteen, you told your parents that for your birthday, you wanted to become a model. Two phone calls and a private jet flight later, and you had signed with the best modeling agency in the country and had your first ever photoshoot booked.

Fate gave you parents with connections, and you’d be a fool to not use it to your advantage. Fate also gave you the same photoshoot as another young model, and you’d be a fool to not befriend Kenyu Yukimiya immediately. Out of all the friends you’ve ever made, fate only gives you good luck twice: first with Yuki, then with Juliette. You used to think you got lucky three times — meeting Rin for the first time was like experiencing something cosmic. Now you know better. Even rich people can have shit luck, too.

Today’s unlucky situation is the way Yukimiya’s “favorite people” all happen to be athletes. There’s not a single person here who isn’t his teammate or somehow related to Bastard Munchen, except for you. If you didn’t love Yukimiya so much, you would have hauled ass. It’s normally easy enough for you to avoid soccer players at parties because they don’t normally get invited to the same social events you do, but now you’re the odd one out.

At least the food is good. You don’t have a photoshoot scheduled until next week, and that’s exactly why you’re comfortable with choking down half a bagel sandwich rather than socialize with the guys seated by you. Yukimiya’s real big on intimacy and the power of friendship or whatever, which is probably easier to achieve when you play a team sport versus the modeling industry, where good jobs are few and far between, and the reason why some models are so skinny is because they can’t afford to eat — literally and figuratively. If they’re not booking jobs, there’s no way they can buy groceries in this economy.

He has everyone assembled at one long table in the massive backyard of his mansion. It’s honestly kind of Last Supper-core, but it fits him. Little Yuki’s finally old enough to have a seat at the big kid’s table. He’s sitting across from you, and you’re sandwiched between Kunigami and Hiori. Next to Yukimiya is Isagi. Out of everyone at this party, soccer player or not, Isagi is the person you want to avoid the most. So far, you think you’ve managed to skirt under his radar. If everything goes as planned, you’ll be able to leave this lunch with your belly full and not having to interact with anybody. It’s looking like you won’t even have to drink in order to get through this.

“Hey, out of all of us at this table, who d’ya think would have the best shot at being a model?” Hiori is clearly speaking to you. The blue-haired player is looking directly at you, for God’s sake. You wonder if it’ll be mean to blatantly ignore him, but considering how this little question seems to have captured the attention of the surrounding players, it looks like pretending you’re hard of hearing is out of the question.

Inside, you’re dying. The last thing you wanted to do was socialize, but it’d be selfish and bratty to request that Yukimiya find more time in his busy schedule to have a one-on-one celebration with you. You’re here to support your friend. You can stomach being friendly with boys who have probably seen Rin more recently than you’ve last seen him. Fuck — why are you thinking about Rin? Do not think about Rin!

You grab one of the premade mimosas from the tray in the center of the table. You down the glass in one swift gulp. On the outside, you flash Hiori a bright smile and give an airy giggle. “Why? You trying to get a foot into the industry?”

Hiori’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink. “W-well, no. Just wanted to make conversation.”

“No worries! I’ve been trying to keep up with whatever you guys are talking about, but even after all this time being friends with Kenyu, I still don’t really get soccer.” Your smile is still intact. You reach for another mimosa.

“Rin didn’t teach you anything?”

Ever since you entered the industry, you knew that you had to get comfortable with standing out. No — you needed to thrive on standing out. You needed to crave, to rely on, people’s undying attention in order to survive. In the eyes of the media, you’re the center of attention. You got what every girl your age wants. At this table, everyone’s eyes are focused on you. What you want is to be back in your room, away from their prying gazes and curious stares.

But you’re a trained professional. Your smile never slides off, never turns into a grimace. You give a casual shrug, directing your answer to the person who mentioned Rin in the first place.

“I make it a rule to not discuss work when we’re together.” You look at Isagi, asking him with your eyes if that’s a good enough explanation for him. He holds your gaze, looking at you like he sees right through you.

You drink another mimosa.

After loosening up because of the drinks, you find casual conversation with the Munchen players to be easy. The boys honestly never shut up, and you don’t know what they’re talking about half the time, but you’re cracking genuine smiles every so often, and by the time Yukimiya is going around and saying his thanks for everyone showing up, you are…

Not drunk, per se. You’ve built up quite the tolerance these past few weeks, and it’s hard to get wasted off of drinks that are basically three-fourths orange juice. (Seriously, was Yukimiya getting stingy with the champagne? Sober You might be able to acknowledge the fact that Yukimiya might have just been preparing for the Worst Case Scenario, which would be you hogging all the drinks to yourself. Which sort of happened. Fuck. Sometimes it sucks to be known so well.) You’re definitely tipsy, though. Maybe half a tier above tipsy? Whatever the case, you are definitely in no shape to drive.

“Kenny,” you whine out his nickname, trying your best to pull out your puppy-dog eyes. “Please take me home.”

“Ah, damnnit, [Name].” He runs his fingers through his dark curls. “Did you seriously get drunk off of orange juice?”

“Champagne drunk is the best drunk. I’m pretty sure People Magazine quoted me on that like, last year, so it’s basically fact.” Yukimiya doesn’t seem overly impressed. “And I’m not drunk, but my alcohol levels right now are definitely above the legal limit. Sorry, but I don’t plan on making headlines for a DUI. Hard to spin that into something iconic.”

This gets Yukimiya to crack a smile. “I thought you were leaning into the party girl look?”

“Yeah, but after Justin Timberlake got caught for intoxicated driving, he made it look totally lame. He ruined it for us!”

“I wish I could drive you back, but I have to retake some photos for this sneaker ad I’m doing, and with traffic, I’m really cutting it close already. Do you want to just come with, or hang out at my place until I get back? You should’ve said something sooner; I could’ve asked one of the guys to drop you off.”

You crinkle your nose. “No, thanks. I’m not a fan of strangers knowing where I live.” Becoming a model at such a young age thrust you into the spotlight. With media attention comes total pervs who lurk in Reddit threads and 4Chan, and stumbling upon some of the things said about you, reading the things they would do to you if they found you, all laid out in disgusting, graphic detail, left you kind of paranoid. Getting doxxed might be one of your worst fears. No Ubers. No car ride homes with strangers. “I’ll wait here. It’s been a while since I went through your things, so I’m sure there’ll be enough of your dirty secrets to uncover to keep me occupied.”

“Did you need a ride?”

Shitty luck, indeed.

The teammate who decided to stay behind to help clean up (because he’s just that outstanding of a guy) is the sole reason for why you went buckwild on the mimosas. You can see why Rin was always frustrated with him.

“Nope—” You say, at the same exact time as Yukimiya nods enthusiastically.

“Would you mind? [Name] actually lives pretty close by, so it might not be out of the way.”

You shoot Yukimiya a scathing glare. He ignores it completely, smiling at Isagi.

“I don’t mind. That is, if you don’t mind.” Isagi is looking at you expectantly. Yukimiya trusts him. And you trust Yukimiya. By some sort of logic, you should reasonably be able to trust Isagi. It’s clear that Kenyu wants you to carpool with him, anyway, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so happy to dump you onto him.

“Sure. I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

What would happen if you jumped out of a moving vehicle?

At best, you’d get your pretty skin all scraped up, meaning your photoshoots would either have to be delayed, or you would have to endure all the clear distaste for your “unprofessionalism” in the workplace from the people who actually had to work to get to where they’re at. At worst, you end up hospitalized. Somehow, it seems easier to photoshop out a few cuts and scrapes than working with someone in a full-body cast.

As you weigh the pros and cons of jumping out of Yoichi Isagi’s vehicle — a sleek, black sedan that’s top of the line, sure, but understated luxury; it’s not flashy like the sports cars you see most athletes sporting — he smoothly reverses out of Yukimiya’s driveway. Isagi does that boyish thing where he ignores his backup camera completely and opts to rest one hand on the back of the passenger headrest, the other hand on the steering wheel. Fuck. Maybe it’s not a boyish thing. Maybe it’s manly. Isagi leans a bit into your space; not enough to bother you, but enough to where you can smell the scent of his cologne. He smells clean and fresh. Maybe it’s not cologne, but laundry detergent and fabric softener. Somehow, you find this very fitting of him.

He glances out the window to check for traffic and eases you two onto the open road.

He’s not playing any music, and you’re sure as hell not about to ask for the aux. You look out the window instead, watching the world pass you by through tinted glass. It makes everything around you appear darker. Somehow, you find this to be very fitting for you.

“You live around this area, yeah?” Isagi asks you, and you’re reminded that if you want to go home, you actually have to let the driver know where home is.

“Yeah, sorry. Keep heading straight, and I’ll let you know when there’s a turn coming up.” Talking to Isagi shouldn’t feel so awkward. After all, you managed to talk (and actually enjoy talking) to all of Yukimiya’s teammates. You even got along well with Kaiser. But it just feels weird — you’ve never met him directly, but you’ve heard so much about him, that it’s hard to not see Rin’s rants every time you look at Isagi.

So you don’t — look at Isagi, that is. You look at everything else. His car is clean. There are air fresheners in the AC vents. The floor of the passenger seat is oddly clean, like no one ever sits here. If that’s the case, you hope your heels didn’t track in any grass blades or dirt.

“Um,” Isagi awkwardly clears his throat at a red light. “When I mentioned Rin earlier at the party…”

“What about it?” Fuck, this is so embarrassing. Since the car is stationary, you’re in the clear, right? If you just unlock the door, you can escape on foot. Your house is now close enough that it’ll just count as today’s exercise.

“Sorry for bringing him up. I didn’t know—”

“—didn’t know what?” You turn to face him. His jaw is surprisingly sharp, and you watch the way he swallows before he answers you.

“I didn’t know that you two broke up.”

No one knows that you two broke up. You’re still in the process of making sense of it all, and because you’re so messed up over it, naturally you had to confide in Yukimiya and Juliette. Neither of them would ever share that secret, though.

So why the hell does Yoichi Isagi know?

“The light’s green.” You tell him, shifting your body in the seat, avoiding him by positioning yourself even closer to the door.

Neither of you say anything else during the drive.

#yoichi isagi x reader #isagi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #smau #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #series: if you feel like falling #fluff

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