༉‧₊˚.˚Summary: your boyfriend, Spencer reid, has you sexually frustrated from all of his nerdy antics.
✧.*WC: 2k
⊹܀˙CW: Smut, Fluff, reader is so down bad for Spencer (aren’t we all), Spencer wants her just as bad. Breeding!kink (whoops how'd that get there), oral (f-receiving), P in V, drool, afab reader desc, pet names like good girl, sweetheart i think, sweet girl, pretty.
♪‧₊˚A/N: hi all im still gonna write the pain!kink Injured!spencer fic i wrote about in the poll dont think i forgot LMFAOAO heres something to hold you guys off for rn
Your sex drive was average to none before you met Spencer. Your friends would often poke fun at your prudish attitude towards the opposite sex and you’re aversion to putting yourself out there. But the day that you met Spencer Reid when bumbling through a small bookshop on mainstreet and crashing into him (Spilling you’re iced matcha all over him and his newly purchased book) you’ve been obsessed. Not because he’s just such a pretty man, but because of his mind.
You love to hear him talk. Like this one time, he was ranting about how Scott Fitzgerald plagiarized his wife’s writing and how she gets absolutely none of the praise and then you proceed to spend the next ten minutes kneeled in between his legs, giving him the sloppiest, drooliest, head ever.
Or another time when he started talking to you about how Paradise Lost should’ve been written in Latin because its noun cases would better support the structural order that Milton attempted to impose when you guys went for a walk in the park and then you guys steamed up the windows of your vintage ford mustang as he gave you the dicking of a lifetime.
Its so strange to you because in your previous relationships you were never the one to initiate sex. But with Spencer, it’s like an instinct. Yesterday he was rambling to you and usually you’re very attentive to what he has to say but all you’d heard was “blah blah blah lexicon blah blah.” and then out of nowhere he's moaning your name and you’re riding him??? So weird? Like you did you just materialize onto his lap????
This evening is no different. You guys are watching Doctor Who in bed, your head lying on his chest as it rises and falls. The light from the television screen reflects on the slope of his nose and his cheeks. His soft brown eyes are so focused on the TV screen and you need him so so so badly. You need to get your mind off of cracking him… just for a second. You could barely walk today from last night, you need to pump the brakes.
“What’d you do today?”
“We didn’t have a case so the team spent today at the office catching up on paper work,” He smiles down at you. His hand finds the flushed skin below your shirt at your waist. “I went out to get lunch for the team at that bakery you like down the street—I uh actually…—got you a danish from there today for later. It's in the kitchen.” You plant a quick kiss on his lips. Your poor, sweet boyfriend. Sometimes you’re worried that you’re going to break him in half someday because you two go at it so much. You know that he loves to be intimate, especially with you and that your need for him can’t be one sided because he initiates sex a lot too but dammit you can’t help but feel like such a pervert around him all the time.
“Thank you,” You say, exhaling. “What else did you do today?”
“On my way back I played chess in the park with three different people at the same time. It was pretty was fun”
You crawl on top of him, perching yourself in his lap before kissing him slowly as you roll your hips down onto him.
“Yeah?” You exhale, your hands softly running up and down his chest. “Did you win?”
His hands find your waist, and then grope the plush of your ass through your short shorts as he cymbals from the friction against his dick. “I always win.”
You leave a dozen of sloppy kisses trailing down his neck, leaving him whiny and helplessly running his hands over the flesh of your hips.
“Y/n” he says, breathily.
Your head perks up from his neck and you redirect your focus back to his face. “Mhm?” You begin peppering his face with kissing, starting at his cheek.
“Do you get um… aroused whenever I talk about the stuff that I like?”
“I get aroused whenever you talk, period.”
“But specifically, you initiate sex with me the most whenever I'm rambling about the latest book that I’ve re-read or whatever degree that I’m considering on getting next or— my point is.” He sighs, “Do you only initiate sex with me to get me to stop talking? I know that I can ramble on and on but-”
“Spence no, I’d never.” You reassure him, hand cradling his face as he looks up at you, expressioned vulnerable and pleading for you to convince him that you’re being honest. How dare he even think about that. “I love hearing you talk and I think that everything that you have to say is interesting. It’s just— I don't know how to explain it…it kind of just heightens my attraction to you. Its like a catalyst almost.”
“Really?” He asks, unsure.
“Yes, really.” you say, genuinely. He leans forward to meet capture your lips in a kiss. His hands move to your tits, his thumbs immediately finding your nipples and rubbing them through the thin cloth of your camisole. You whine as your back arches from the sudden stimulation goes straight to your core.
“God, Y/N you’re going to be the death of me.” he says before he flips you over onto your back.
“Can I take these off, angel?” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw as his fingers find the waistband of your shorts.
“Yes.” you breath out.
He pulls your shorts down and discards them to the side of the bed. You weren’t wearing panties. He sighed at the sight of you glistening with anticipation.
“So wet” he says to himself as he hooks your legs over his shoulders.
He presses a sloppy opened mouth kiss onto your clit before slight opening his mouth and letting a string of drool drip down your cunt, leaving you whining. He flattens his tongue against your opening and licks a fat stripe up your pussy.
“Spencer, please.” You beg, your brain already short circuiting from the stimulation.
He begins lapping at you, each purposeful stroke of his tongue slick with desperation. He groans as your hands find his hair and you buck your hips towards his face when he comes up for air. He re-buries his face in between your legs, hands now gripping and massaging your ass as you clench around nothing. Just as your orgasm is approaching, he plunges his index and middle finger into your soaked core. He sucks harshly on your clit, as his long slender finger his that perfect spot inside of you and you cry out as you come around him. He emerges from in between your legs and plants a kiss onto your lips, the heady taste of yourself still lingering on his tongue.
“Need you. Take this off.” You slur, pawing at his shirt. He obliges, removing his star trek shirt and freeing himself from his boxers. Shaft is flushed and translucent, pearly beads of precum leaked from the head. He spit on his hand and pumped his cock a few times as you took off your cami.
Spencer leans over your, slapping your clit with his tip whilst looking into your eyes. “Is this what you wanted, pretty? For me to stretch your out and fuck you into the materess?”
You whimpered and nodded, desperate for him to enter you.
“Say it.”
“I need you to fuck me.” you say, shakily.
“No, angel, say exactly what I said.”
You flush, this is so embarrassing. “I want you to stretch me out and for your to fuck me into the matress.” You say, lowly.
He pushes into you slowly as he splits you in half on his cock,
“Good.” He groans. He pulls all the way out of you and then pushes in so far the his tip kisses your cervix, your cry out in pleasure. He starts to fuck you slowly, both hands pressed into the mattress but holding yours at each sides of your head.
“Is that better, sweet girl?” he coos as you clench around him.
“Yes” You sputter, your mind only focused on how dizzyingly good his cock feels driving into you. His lips slam into yours, the lewd sound of your pussy squelching around his cock only making you wetter. You can’t even kiss him properly because you’re so busy whimpering.
“Y/n—” he moans “Legs. Give me.” He says, as you spread them further apart and position them within his grasp. He swiftly pushes your thighs to your chest, folding you in half and positioning you into the perfect mating press. You moan as his cock drives even deeper inside of you as you tighten around him. It’s like your walls are moulding to the shape of him.
“So deep,” You whine. The head of his cock pounds into that spongey part inside you that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head and your legs shake uncontrollably. You gasp his name before you clench around him.
“I know baby,” he kisses you on the lips with slow procession “Feels really good, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you hiccup as you wrap your legs around his waist. His eyes narrow at you
“Tell me what you want honey.”
“Want you to fill me up. Please Spence? Just once—it’ll feel ‘s good.” You babble. He groans.
“You want me to breed you, baby?” he can barely get the words out, moaning at the thought. “Oh fuck d’you wan’ me to make you a mommy? I’d take such good care of us. Suuuuch good care of you.” He groans, voice crackling.
His dick plunges in and out of you at a relentless place.
Your jaw drops and your brows furrow, feeling a know in your stomach that you’ve only felt once or twice before. Its hot and tense in the pit of your stomach.
“You okay, baby?” Spencer asks, grabbing your face by the cheeks with one hand to force you to look at him.
“Mhm,” you inhale sharply, “‘m so close–Oh’pence–” you’re legs tremor before your back is arched off the bed and you’re writhing in ecstasy as Spencer fucks you through your orgasm. You can’t stop it when it comes, gushes of your essence from your cunt paints both of your thighs and completely soaks his maroon sheets. A pale, creamy ring collecting at the base of his cock.
You feel weightless and blurry afterwards. “God I’m close” he whimpers. “Gonna—mm—fill you up so good just like I promised…I’m so lucky I got such a pretty slut— that begs me to…to…this is so risky.”
“Iloveyou s’much” You slurred, delirious from overstimulation. “I’d let you do anything you wanted to me.” Spencer kisses you sloppily before grabbing your face in one hand and turning it away from him to grant him access to your neck. He flattens his tongue against your hot, flushed skin, and licks a stripe from the middle of your neck to your temple.
It's so wet and warm. The feeling of his tongue against your neck. Your face. He hums contently, I guess you must’ve tasted good. He then cradles the back of your head in his hand, tilting you up so your can watch him fuck you and look at the sticky mess you’ve made all over his thighs. All over his bed. He’s only looking at you, gaze half lidded and chest heaving. When he removes his hand from the back of your head, your arms find his back.
That look in his eye paired with the sound of his heavy balls against your ass, his ragged breath, and the sweet aroma of his woodsy cologne is just way too much at the same time. Your whines turn into wanton, whorish, moans that definitely penetrate the thin walls of your apartment.
“Goood Girl get loud for me—sound so pretty.” He groaned, his voice getting higher on the last word. “Oh fuck—Let me feel you honey. I’m close.”
Your nails scratch down his back as you practically scream, coming around him again. Spencer whines as he buries his head into the crook of your neck, “Take it” he mumbles into your skin before hot ropes of his come flood your pussy.
Spencers collapses gently onto you, his weight a comforting press. He kisses your forehead, then your lips softly, murmuring, “You okay?”
You nod, slightly clenching around him at the sound of his voice which earns a hiss from him. You suppress a laugh. Literally all he did was speak and you're like putty in his hands again. Maybe you are a pervert.
“What's funny? Hm?” He says breathlessly, without seeing him, you can hear the smile in his voice.
You shake your head “Nothing.”
His hand finds your jaw and presses a kiss into your cheek. “We gotta clean you up.” He brushes a piece of hair glued to your forehead with sweat away from your face.
“Me?” You say “Look at you. I’m practically dripping down your legs.” You laugh.
He kisses you. “I guess there is one solution. We could” kiss “ take a shower–” He said.
“Together?” You rasp, unable to hide the eagerness in your voice.
Spencer Reid x fem!Reader
Summary: Needing an extra helping hand, the BAU gets a transfer from another agency that seems to push every button Spencer has, until one day, she just doesn't anymore.
Warnings: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, soft-dom!Spencer, miscommunication/ lack of communication, case details mentioned, sexual harassment of reader in one scene by an unsub, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, slight cumplay, slight angst, oral (m receiving), dry-humping, etc.
A/N: This fic was supposed to be like 2k words, and now it is basically 8k because I am a sucker for useless plot and sex scenes that are longer than necessary, so without further ado, please enjoy <3
Oh and please let me know what you think in the comments and tags!
Masterlist
The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI was used to many tense situations. Hostage situations, the first 24 hours of a kidnapping, international murders involving diplomats, and even mob-affiliated murders were easy to navigate compared to the absolute stalemate of the office.
Spencer Reid, resident genius, had been less than pleased to find himself teamed up with a second genius for the few weeks that JJ was going to be gone on leave. That wasn’t exactly true, he’d felt indifferent about the ordeal at first. But then he’d met you.
That wasn’t the stalemate though.
As Derek Morgan walked into the office that morning, he noticed something had changed. Though Reid and his partner - you, freshly on loan from the CIA - had seemingly been sitting in the office for around an hour before his arrival time, you hadn’t yet begun insulting one another.
“Did I miss something?” he asked Emily, throwing his back into his desk chair as the pair stared across the room, as if waiting for a bomb to go off any minute.
“They haven’t even looked at one another for the last half hour. Hotch is worried they’re finally at the end of the fuse and that we’re about to blow up,” she replied.
“Let’s hope they last one more case then,” Rossi said, sneaking up on the two from the bottom of the stairs. Everyone in the office was so focused on what was not happening between the two geniuses that they had so far neglected a lot of work, a trend over the past weeks.
As if queued by his senior, Hotch emerged from his office and called for his team's attention. “We have a case. Conference room, now” he said, catching the eye of Spencer and you first, holding it for a second longer there as if to say ‘Don’t pull anything stupid.’
While the rest of the members of the team took their time collecting things and getting ready to enter the office, you gathered everything you needed as quickly as possible, keeping your head down to avoid making eye contact with - well, with anyone. But specifically, with Spencer Reid.
Thankfully, as a transfer from another agency, you didn’t exactly have the freedom to acquire much desk junk. Your files were perfectly organised and alphabetised on your desk, in separate file holders based on case, location, and level of completion. You had one small notepad on your desk, along with three 2B pencils, a ball point pen, an eraser, and a ruler. Your desktop was similarly organised, and over the course of the last two months at the BAU, you’d taken it upon yourself to streamline the online file organisation system as much as the files themselves allowed.
Penelope Garcia could do with a computer things that you couldn’t even dream. She also, though, had been known on multiple occasions to name a file “FinishedFile_Real_Final_REALLYTHISTIME_3”
You mostly disagreed with the title of genius that had been placed on you by the BAU members at the beginning of your time there. You’d said a few words, and a raised eyebrow and a comparison was all that you needed to feel a burning resentment from a few paces away.
You still felt Spencer’s burning gaze now, desperately ignoring it as you climbed the stairs and quickly took your temporary seat at the table.
Once everyone gathered, Penelope began.
“This one is not pretty, but they rarely are, please view the pictures on your tablets, as I will not be showing that on the big screen when my lunch break is half an hour away-”
You listened as well as you could to the case details, looking through the files yourself as the meeting continued. You were about to ship out anyway, and you’d learn the case details again when you got to wherever it was you were going. So your mind drifted.
It would only be a week or so now before JJ returned, and you were glad though you’d never met her. Another agent had been in charge of preparing all your training and helping you find your role in the team, and Emily had filled in most of your gaps even though you were technically assigned to Doctor Spencer Reid.
Spencer.
You thought back to your first meeting with him, your first day at the FBI. You blamed a lack of sleep and a lack of understanding when it came to how you actually were meant to converse with coworkers for everything that happened that day.
“Excuse me, is this the Behavioral Analysis Unit? I was told that I would be meeting an Agent Reid here to begin my training,” you’d asked tentatively at the edge of the room, noting the large offices above your head and the crammed desks on the main floor.
You wondered which one would be yours.
“Doctor Reid?” the voice asked back, more startled than you, and you assumed that he was actually a regular worker. “Not Hotchner or Morgan? Rossi? Prentiss?”
With every shake of your head, the man grew more astounded.
“I’m surprised they’re letting him talk to people,” he mumbled under his breath, but it was something you heard nonetheless, and you grew apprehensive about this too good to be true job opportunity.
“He’s probably at his desk,” the man shrugged, gesturing vaguely near the stairs, before walking away from you completely. You couldn’t even thank him. You wouldn’t have, to be clear, but now you could blame it on his own rudeness instead of yours.
Luckily, the next person you asked for help was Emily Prentiss.
“Oh yes, hi. Spencer just stepped out of the office for a minute, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
She showed you your desk, logged you into their system, paged Reid, and then let you have time to unpack your few belongings before Reid arrived.
“You’re late,” was the first thing he’d said to you. “You were supposed to be here at 10:45. It’s 11:30.”
He was panting slightly, as quietly as he could, hands on his hips as he looked down at you, towering as he was.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the agent from the CIA? And you’re late.”
A few people stood by to watch, suddenly needing to photocopy something urgently at the nearest printer, or to ask a colleague at a nearby desk a question. Or just a quick stretch.
“No. No, I'm not,” you replied coolly. You realized quickly that wasn’t the best response, but before you could open your mouth to reply, you locked eyes with the man above you.
It was like lightning. You saw the instant dislike in his eyes, and recognized it as a look you were probably making at the same time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. It was just the overwhelming sense of superiority that stunk on him at that second.
He thought he was right, and though he wasn’t, you disliked the overconfidence.
“Doctor Reid, presumably?” you asked, and he nodded, and you stood, trying to squash the distance and superiority that height gave him.
“Agent Prentiss tells me that you just got back from a case last night. You were in Puerto Rico for an assignment, correct?”
The man grimaced, and you returned it, noticing that even after standing up he had a handful of inches on you. Irksome.
“You are still almost an hour late.”
“No, I’m 15 minutes early,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling it so you could see his watch. You smiled, and took a breath to relax. “Your clock is still set to Atlantic Standard Time. You’re running an hour ahead, Doctor.”
A deep red spread across the tips of his ears, made only more notable by the way he ran his hands through his hair. You wondered if he’d recently had a large trim, but quickly shook the thought from your mind. You had a weakness for a man with long hair, and you didn’t even want to entertain the idea of this man being your ideal type for even a second longer.
He composed himself, handed you some documents, and pointed you towards Hotchner’s office all before the blush could dissipate, but it was enough for the rumours.
You had challenged the pet genius of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and come out on top (give or take a few inches). A rivalry had begun.
Spencer had watched you walk up the steps while holding his breath. He wondered how still he would have to stand for his coworkers to forget he was there. You took five steps, and then turned around, satisfied that you were now finally above Spencer Reid.
“Doctor Reid?” you called out, knowing that once you dropped the gauntlet there was no way to pick it back up again. You may as well have fun with it.
“I look forward to helping you out for the next few weeks. It seems as though you need it.”
You mentally scolded yourself remembering that moment.
It seems as though you need it, you thought. Really?
It had been satisfying at that moment, of course, but it had come back to haunt you weeks in. You’d found yourself in the midst of a challenge with the good doctor, of who could solve a case first. Mostly who could be the most helpful to the other.
You’d reorganised all the files in the BAU’s folder (with permission), and he’d found crucial undigitalized documents that had helped solve a string of copy-cat murders in Chicago.
You had connected the dots between a local kidnapping and a human-trafficking ring, and he had ever so graciously tracked down three cases in the FBI system that were unsolved but could now be definitively connected.
You interviewed a possible suspect in a sexual sadism murder case leading to an admission of guilt and an arrest, he shot the guy when he’d pulled a knife on you as you were getting your handcuffs.
You still weren’t entirely sure if he was aiming for you or not.
For nearly two months, the BAU was reporting productivity hereto unknown. And you still made sure to talk to him primarily from higher ground.
The problem with hating a coworker, though, was that he was always there. A further problem with your situation, too, was so was everyone else.
“Are you listening?” a voice to your right asked, as you felt a nudge against your leg from the left.
“Wheel’s up in 30,” Hotch said, keeping his eyes on you for a minute before flickering to Spencer. Your eyes were fixed forward, though, to where Reid was sitting, the direction of your nudge from earlier.
He was ever so helpful.
You realized that you’d done what you’d promised you wouldn’t do that day, which was look at him. You’d wondered if you could even go as far as to not acknowledge him, but realized that was likely too obvious.
So now the eye-contact that you’d promised to prohibit was ruined, and you were stuck leveling a look across the table at his soft brown eyes.
‘Soft?’ you scolded yourself, eyes twitching but not looking away, somewhat entranced.
You felt other eyes on you as you kept your eyes locked with his, your coworkers trickling out of the room as you sat frozen.
Slowly, eventually, Spencer pushed his chair back and slowly rose to a standing position. He was far enough away that you didn’t have to crane your neck, but close enough that you felt small just comparatively.
“Don’t be late,” he whispered quickly as he walked past you and out of the door.
Most of the cases you’d worked together followed the same pattern.
Aaron Hotchner wasn’t stupid, and he knew exactly how to push his team members to get the best results. Luckily, you and Spencer did most of the pushing for him.
You’d been partnered up to explore crime scenes from that first day, where you’d taken a local arson case.
“You don’t do field work with the CIA, correct?” Spencer had asked you as soon as the two of you were alone. It was like he was grilling a suspect instead of a coworker.
“Not usually, though it was a part of my training.”
He nodded and pulled on a pair of gloves, his shoes already covered to prevent crime scene contamination. You followed suit.
“So what do you see?” He asked, wondering if you’d miss anything that he already knew.
“I think we’re dealing with someone that knows fire department procedure, but not someone in the service themself.”
He frowned at that, but asked you to elaborate.
“The fire was started with an accelerant and a lighter found on the scene. But not a quick spreading or high burning one like gas. Nothing that could cause an explosion, or even a death.”
“There was a death at the last fire, though,” he said, probing you again.
“Which would suggest that our unsub was progressing. If he meant to kill that victim, we could expect to have another body here, even more. Instead, we have a smaller fire than last time.”
“Why don’t you think that this one just didn’t work? That he meant for this to be bigger but the fire department reacted quicker than he thought.”
“Why do you keep referring to the unsub with male pronouns?” you asked.
Smugly, he replied. “Statistically, men account for over 90% of known arson cases, that figure increasing when we take into account-”
“But the fire marshal for this building is a woman. The same woman who is a fire marshal for the last two fire locations.”
With a jolt, Spencer took a step back, stared at you for a second, and immediately pulled his phone out to call Hotch.
Your consultations on that case ended quickly, but you’d been equally combative on cases across the country.
You didn’t bother trying to get along with him in front of local PDs or even suspects. It was almost a new interrogation technique. Putting the two of you in a room with an unsub, and seeing who had the most problems.
Spencer had grown used to a certain level of comfort in the FBI, especially having been on the same team in the same role for so long. Of course he was challenged on his ideas regularly, but somehow when you did it, it was different.
It wasn’t exactly combative. You weren’t throwing around insults or threatening each other. It was more deeply heated debates, opinions thrown back and forth and a solid refusal to admit that either of you were wrong that caught you up. In conclusion you were both stubborn.
You somehow managed an entire flight without speaking to anyone, listening quietly while everyone else threw theories around. Everybody but Spencer.
He had similarly holed himself up in a corner, almost as if the two of you had agreed to ignore each other, which was impossible because the two of you would agree on nothing.
Quietly, your teammates placed bets on which of you would come out of this one triumphant. When it came to case wins, you were a week away from the end of the job and everything was tied up. 5-5.
You knew about the bets because the jet wasn’t exactly big, and Morgan wasn’t exactly quiet about winning. You wondered if some of that natural arrogance had rubbed off on Spencer somewhere. He certainly looked up to the man. If it was arrogance he’d gotten from Morgan, it was his communication skills he’d gotten from Hotch. His cards were always close to his chest. You had no doubt that this team had raised him. This was his family, and you were the side character for a week or two; his problem to overcome.
He’d certainly overcome you in the last case or two, though you’d done your best to forget as much of it as you could.
Landing in Nevada, you ignored again that he was now on home turf. You ignored his coworkers asking after his mother, you ignored the prickling feeling of his eyes on you, you ignored the curiosity you had about his younger years, about discovering more about him, and climbed into the car, letting yourself be carried to your new precinct.
Reaching the car before the others, you shut the door, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself a few minutes peace on the tarmac before the blurring voices got closer, became more distinct. The driver door opened first, and someone climbed in, but to your surprise, your door opened, too.
You looked up at Spencer again, his head ducking down as he made to sit where you were. He looked surprised too for a minute. The seats in the car filled up, but you silently stared up at Spencer, wondering if this would start another argument, even if you were both past that now. Even if no one was paying attention to you anymore.
Instead, he quietly reached over you, and clicked your seatbelt into place.
You could’ve sworn you felt a breath in your ear, the phantom of his lips against your skin. You could almost convince yourself that he had muttered an apology.
You knew that he had nothing to apologize for in the end. The mistake was all yours to own.
After 7 cases with the BAU, you thought you had settled in nicely. You were instrumental in solving cases, and had delivered a number of scathing set downs to Spencer Reid. They seemed like polite corrections to others, but to him, every time you talked was like you poking a knife in his side.
He scowled at you and was sharp with his words. He enjoyed nothing more than poking back at you with his own taunts.
You were on assignment at a prison, stuck together mid-week while you processed information and interviewed inmates that had finally agreed to be a part of BAU’s research files in return for leniency and better treatment inside.
Due to your nagging and biting at each other, however, no other team member had wanted to go with the two of you.
“I’m not a babysitter, Hotch,” Morgan had shook his head when asked, crying off with the blessed excuse of a court date.
Rossi’s birthday was coming up, so he had his own inmates to prepare for.
Emily was suddenly busy getting information from an Interpol contact she knew about an old case, and Hotch couldn’t leave the team behind in case an important case came in.
Really, there was no one else to go with the two of you, and so the problem solved itself.
If there was no one to accompany you, then no one would.
It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t get the job done. Your constant squabbling on cases had increased productivity by around 150%. Not one member of the team had worked overtime since you’d begun your rivalry, the both of you willing to pick up extra slack in the team to prove yourselves more useful than the other.
You were each given the file, a company card, specially prepared credentials, and a car key, and you were told to drive yourself to a prison one state over to get to work.
“I’ll drive,” Spencer had said, grabbing your bag from your hand and packing it into the back with his own as you seethed quietly. It was fine. You didn’t like driving anyway, and you knew he didn’t either.
You’d made your way practically silently along the highway, stopping off now and then to use amenities. You both took turns driving, reading the case files in the meantime until you finally arrived.
It was when you finally arrived that you realised that you had overestimated yourself.
You’d mainly worked behind the scenes during your cases up to that point, not interacting a lot with the unsubs apart from the one time one had almost made you a victim. You’d been somewhat more safe in the larger numbers of your team, not the only woman around, and almost protected by the experience of the other men.
This prison was different.
Even as you were greeting the prison staff, you noticed the looks they were giving you, almost concerned and unsure. You wanted to prove yourself, but they looked at you as if you were the sacrificial virgin about to be given up to an angry god. You knew who you were about to talk to. You had read the file more than once, and, though it irked you, you were mainly just there to take notes and assist Spencer with his interview.
You had instead found yourself the centre of attention for the prisoner.
He had murdered and killed a number of women, violating them both before and after. It was a miscalculation to send you into that, and Hotch had later regretted the decision.
“Who is this? What a beautiful girl,” he had started, hands on the table, relaxed even though you noticed they were cuffed together by a somewhat relaxed set of chains. You had watched him walk in, noting the chains were wrapped around his ankles as well.
The chains were attached to the table, the table was fastened to the floor, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Still, bile rose in your throat.
“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, this is my colleague, we’re here today from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct an interview-”
“What’s her name?” the prisoner asked, addressing Spencer but staring at you, his body still relaxed.
“We’re here from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct a research interview. Please state your name for the record.”
He did so, irked slightly, but continued. “She’s pretty.”
Spencer brushed the man off, but he sat up a little straighter in his chair. The guards behind the prisoner moved toward the door and took their spot opposite the prisoner once again. You tried to relax as best you could, looking down at files and organizing your materials so you could avoid eye contact. You didn’t want to avoid eye contact, but there was no way you could look at the monster in front of you without flinching.
Spencer began asking questions, and though you had agreed to ask some yourself, Spencer quickly took charge of the situation, and you found yourself thankful that he wasn’t making you interact any more than you had to.
“Why isn’t she talking to me?” the prisoner asked again, pricking your ears with the desperation in his voice.
“My colleague is just here to observe, she is not an interviewer and she isn’t qualified to ask questions.”
“I want her to ask me questions,” the man pouted, almost childlike, as he slipped his hands off the desk, leaning back.
“No-”
“It’s okay,” you said quietly, cursing your voice for the rasp that came out. “I can take over a few questions from here.”
You continued the interview for a few more questions, and part of you felt your confidence growing by the minute. He was responding well to you, you were doing well, you hadn’t stuttered once since your first line.
But just as you were about to ask for your final question, you felt a hand grip your wrist tightly, another wrapping around your eyes as you were quickly pulled from your seat and from the room entirely, Spencer leading you out as the guards began shouting orders at the prisoner inside the room.
“Spencer!” you gasped as he pulled you into a free space, not private but not anywhere near guards or prisoners. He released his hand from your eyes, but kept ahold on your wrist.
“Are you okay?” he gasped, chest heaving with urgency, scanning your face for any signs of hurt or injury.
“Yes? What happened, I was about to finish the last question. One more minute and I would’ve been done,” you groaned. You couldn’t help the annoyance in your voice. Even if you didn’t want to be in that room one more second, and that Spencer likely had a damn good reason for dragging you away.
“He was… under the table, he had revealed himself, and he was about to-” he struggled to find the words as the situation dawned on you. “He was taking pleasure in talking about the past, and I just wanted to get you out of there. It doesn’t bode well to let them revel in their crimes.”
“Oh,” you muttered, suddenly defeated. “Oh. Thank you?”
You didn’t say much else, letting him lead you back to the guards areas, collecting your things to drive once more.
You sat quiet and still in the passenger seat on the way back. It shouldn’t have been any different than the drive on the way there, still silent, but it was.
Arriving back in Virginia, Spencer took mercy on you and drove you straight to your own house instead of making you drop the vehicle back at Quantico. You were a little blurry, even though you hadn’t slept, and didn’t even realize as he opened your car door and led you out.
He carried your back, clutching your hand in his as he guided you to your door.
You vaguely heard him asking you for your key, and you pressed it into his hand.
The next time you truly became conscious was when he was about to leave.
“Can you… Could you just stay for a minute?” you said, taking a seat on your couch and looking up at him with pleading eyes.
You didn’t want to beg him to stay. You didn’t want him looking down on you, pitying you again. But he sank down to his knees and rubbed a quiet thumb over your knuckles as you closed your eyes and let yourself relax on the couch, until you fell asleep.
When you reached your final crime scene as a member of the BAU, you were happy to find that this was as straightforward a case as you could get for your last.
You’d heard stories about big cases, emotional ones, that had inspired members of the team in previous years to finally let go of the team, and you were thankful that you didn’t have to go out with a bang.
You’d simply finish, and that would be that. You would wash your hands of Spencer Reid, and the team that was watching the both of you, confused.
You worked on the case for the later hours of the day, going through old crime scene footage, Hotch and Prentiss heading out to a current one. You’d been stuck on file duty, working closely with Garcia on conference calls to get your job done.
When you finally retired to your motel room, Spencer was waiting outside for you.
Quietly, you let him in.
You showered, you washed your hair and your body. You let the steam and heat from the shower wash away all the stress of the day. You left the shower, and he was still there even though his room was down the hall.
He had already showered, having spent some time in the field earlier, returning before you.
You finished and, wordlessly, tucked yourself into his side, already spread out on the bed. Without saying a word, you shut your eyes, feeling him wrap himself around you, and slept.
You weren’t sure why you let it happen. It wasn’t exactly the first time either. You just knew that, without talking, Spencer was comfortable and warm, and he made you feel safer.
He’d found you in your room for the last three cases, sat by you for every case since that interview. Sometimes you just held hands, other times he held you against him. He hadn’t gone further than that, though you desperately wished he would. But you couldn’t say that to him, because that was the one unspoken rule.
You didn’t communicate.
When you did, it became a competition, and that wasn’t what these moments were for.
You were quite impressed though, that none of your teammates had noticed so far. Spencer was always gone by 4am, and you’d had your own rooms on the last two cases, so there was no one monitoring his presence in his hotel rooms. Everyone thought you hated each other, though you awoke each day to him tearing himself away from you, a hard presence pushing subconsciously between your thighs as he dreamt of you before he came back to his senses.
You woke up aching for him, not platonically at all.
You were using him like an emotional support toy, a child’s stuffed animal that you refused to part from, even if it was hideously past retirement, and you were old enough to comfort yourself.
This was your last case with the BAU, and even though you hated Spencer Reid, you wanted him badly.
The case continued in the morning, the way most cases had, and you found yourself more lethargic than usual. Your mood had taken a turn, just like your attitude to Reid had in the last few weeks, and you tried your best not to mourn the time you’d wasted being angry at him, for what could have been.
Meanwhile, the other members of the BAU grew frustrated as well. There had been no leads on the case, no breakthroughs where there usually were. When working, you and Spencer had gravitated to opposite sides of any building or job. You were both working, both trying your best, but not challenging each other anymore.
You spent two weeks in that tiny precinct, avoiding one another in the day and gripping each other as close as you could at night until the case was finally finished.
A slip up by the unsub had led your other teammates to an arrest. The both of you were left with a tied up score, your shared indifference to competition resolving itself.
To say that you and Spencer had never conversed about your situation was technically false.
The day after your interview, you’d woken up in bed, where Spencer had led you half asleep about an hour after you’d requested his continued presence. He was there beside you, still holding your hand, but softer in sleep.
Not that he’d been harsh on you at all the day before.
As if he could feel his eyes on you, Spencer had woken. You thought about pretending to be asleep for a minute longer, to see what he would do. But exhaustion and curiosity kept your eyes open.
“Good morning,” you whispered, letting your head rest comfortably next to his on the pillows, legs only just not touching. His hand squeezed yours once in greeting, still not detangling as he came to.
“Good morning,” he answered. “What time is it?”
“6am. We have some time before we have to go to work.”
He nodded and closed his eyes again for a moment, laying flat on his back and raising his other arm to cover his eyes, avoiding the light streaming through your windows.
You looked at him, almost overcome, and climbed over him, letting his hand fall as you laid your head on his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck.
He moved slightly to accommodate you, hands startled for the moment, unsure of what to do before he rested them innocently on your back.
“We should get up and go,” he whispered quietly, even as you shook your head and buried it in his neck now, his hands slipping lower as he petted your lower back.
“I don’t want to,” you said, moaning slightly. You didn’t know how true those words were until your words continued as your brain stopped. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want to stay like this. This is nice, and it’s comfortable.”
Lifting your head, you searched his face to see how he reacted to your words.
It was like he was troubled.
“We still have to work,” he said, pushing a hair behind your ear as you pouted.
“I know,” you said.
“And you’re… you’re really not that comfortable with me at all. This is just-”
“I know,” you said. Before he said anything else, you leaned down and claimed his mouth. It was soft, a slight pressure. He could have missed it if you weren’t the only thing taking up space in his mind at that time. He was a genius, but at that moment he was a fool.
You pulled away, a little ashamed, as he broke eye contact and looked away. Understanding, you made to climb off of him, but he gripped your hips and made you stay.
Still he said nothing, and so you waited, growing angry. Sitting up himself after a few minutes, Spencer pressed his lips to your cheek, as if placating a child, and then gently slid you off of his lap, and went on with his day.
That was the end of your communication on the subject. But you’d felt him.
You’d felt the way his hands had gripped your skin as if he didn’t want to let go. You’d felt his cock hard between his legs, desperate for release. You’d felt him stroke his hand across your arms as he had left your bed, denying himself of the pleasure you were begging him to take.
You raged against him for the next two cases, growing angrier after he climbed back into your bed at night, especially when he refused to touch you as you wanted to be touched. He had told you no, out of some chivalric misunderstanding of your emotions.
You knew about transference, and this may be that, but you made the decision to involve yourself with Spencer Reid the moment you’d begun hating him. You wanted him to comfort you, because you were so, so tired, and so was he, but he wouldn’t even do that.
And so for your last case, you avoided him, defeated.
The entire team congratulated you as soon as you touched down from your final mission. It was almost as if you were retiring, leaving this place behind.
You supposed they were just happy to be losing a member without a gunshot wound or a mental breakdown, or a forced transfer.
Spencer stood off to the side, but when it came time to gather your things, he helped you pack up.
He handed you your pencils as you carefully packed them into your box, he wiped the nonexistent dust from your monitor as you climbed under the desk to unplug your laptop. When everyone else left ahead of you, promising to meet you the following night for a goodbye meal, he carried your box out to your car, took your car keys and drove you home.
You weren’t sure what to say when you pulled up, so you climbed out of the car first, and moved to his side of the car, closing his door shut when he started to open it. Confused, he rolled down the window, as you leaned down over him and kissed him a second time.
This kiss was significantly heavier than your first. You gripped the back of his head to keep him from pulling away, though it seemed clear that he wouldn’t do that as he kissed back just as fiercely. You thought you would be locked there forever, desperately trying to take control of that second kiss, trying to communicate the months of shared frustration like it was another argument.
You finally pulled away, but he grabbed and held your hand again as you both caught your breath, both neither in or out of the car.
“I just wanted… I think…” you gasped, brain muddled by the intensity of his stare, the sad look in his eyes.
“Let me come in,” he asked, cutting you off. “Please.”
You nodded and opened the door for him, silently closing it as you stared at one another. Feeling slightly ashamed, you looked down at the ground as you carried yourself to your door and then inside, the sound of his footsteps behind you enough to know that he was following.
You opened the door, throwing your keys into the dish near your door, leaving it open so he could follow, all without looking back.
You unlaced your shoes, taking them carefully off before making your way to the kitchen. You poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it carefully, as you heard the door shut carefully behind you.
In another second, there were hands on your hips, encouraging you to turn, then encouraging you up onto the countertop of your kitchen.
Spencer stood between your legs, and the few inches afforded you by the counters was enough to level your gazes.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, hands on either side of your legs, refusing to touch you first.
Stubbornly, as if you couldn’t help it, you kept your mouth shut, just staring into his eyes defiantly.
“Tell me what you want,” he said again, a little more forcefully, his brows slightly furrowing. “We don’t work together anymore, and enough time has passed since- since this started that I think we can finally have a clear conversation about this, but you need to tell me what you want before I take what I want.”
“I was pretty clear about what I wanted. Before,” you said, raising a hand to his chest, unsure if you wanted to push him away or take a fishful of his shirt and pull him closer.
“You weren’t clear, you haven’t ever been clear,” he said, a hand raking through his hair in frustration.
“You weren’t exactly an open book either, Spencer.”
“It’s- I couldn’t back then, it wouldn’t have been fair,” he said, a pang of regret straining his voice.
“You can now,” you whispered, stroking a hand up and around his neck as he leaned closer.
“For how long?” he asked, lips so close to yours they brushed your cheek with every murmur.
You surged forward, unable to answer, pressing your legs around him and your lips against him as you pushed further and further into him.
Every frustration with him came to the surface and you channeled it into your movements, matching his frustrated raking of your skin. His hands pushed eagerly into your soft flesh, pushing your shirt as far up as it could go before being hindered by your buttons.
His teeth bit into your lip as you bickered in your touches, small whines and groans echoing through the tiny kitchen.
He pulled you away, craning down over you as you both stumbled to the bedroom, neither willing to give up the ground you had conquered.
His hands lifted up again, this time to rip your godforsaken shirt apart, the buttons too taxing now for him to focus on. Pushing you down against the bed, his hands found your breasts, cupping them entirely as he kissed down your naval, only coming away to rid himself of his own shirt.
When his mouth found you again, it was lower, claiming a nipple in his mouth as you gripped your own bedsheets, each moan a plea to move faster.
He instead took his time, a hand slid down from your chest to your underwear, leaving you clothed though wet from the anticipation. He stroked a single digit against your wet and aching clit, as if cooing at an apprehensive cat, slowly winding you up, up, up until you shuddered your pleasure. Only then did he kiss your lips again and slide his hands away.
You made to push your bottoms off, sure that now he would wish to enter you, but he grabbed and held your hands in place above your head. A small nudge had you falling to the floor, landing unceremoniously on your knees, as your hands stayed loosely pinned above you, held by a single hand.
His cock bobbed in his pants, and slowly, working with one hand, he released it from its place. You needed no further instruction, licking up the underside of his shaft as it hit your face, before wrapping your lips around the tip and pushing it down your throat.
You got three inches deep, slowly taking more so as not to gag, before coming back up for air. You alternated deeper and shallower strokes, making sure to watch his face as you pleasured him, looking up at his eyes as he came apart above you. He pushed one leg between your thighs as you continued to suck him, and you took the opportunity he gave freely, rubbing your clothed cunt against him like a bitch in heat.
Before he could cum, he quickly pulled out, wrapping two hands warmly about you and pressing you into the bed again.
He finally undressed you both, and, resting his forehead against your own, pushed into you.
He surrounded you, keeping eye contact as he pushed himself all the way into your body, not stopping even as you moaned and clawed at his skin, desperate for the deep contact he was providing.
“How long?” he asked again, holding himself still inside of you, teasing one nipple as he demanded an answer once more. “How long can I hold you like this? Just today? Until you find someone else? Until you move on and forget all about how comfortable this feels, how nice it is to have me next to you, inside you?”
It was all you could do to moan in answer, let alone give him the answer he wanted.
He began with shallow pumps, eyes still locked with yours, even as yours squinted shut in pleasure, your body pulsing with the charge of electricity between you.
“Don’t-” you cried, trying to answer as he pushed into you harder, deeper.
“Don’t stop-” you gasped out as he began stroking a thumb against your clit, spitting on it as he did so, loosening you up as you began to shake again through another orgasm.
Dropping your pinned hands, he gripped your knees and pressed them back, letting his cock sit shallowly in your cunt as he changed your angle. You didn’t argue, you couldn't as your arms stayed obediently above your head, exactly where you’d left them.
He pushed in again, the new angle urging a string of curses to drop from your lips as he pressed in harder. He sped up, and you lost your breath so fast that all you could hear was the sounds of your bodies meeting, not even your heartbeat distracting you from listening to the sounds of your pleasure.
You tightened around him, aroused by the simple sight of him as you tipped over the edge, and he fell with you. Gripping your knees tight and pushing his chest forward again so that the two of you were face to face again, he forced his cock as far inside you as it could go, and emptied himself.
“How long do I have you?” Spencer asked again, his voice tight as he climbed towards his pleasure. “How long?”
“For as long as you want,” you gasped, watching his face fall apart above you, sweat trickling down his forehead, running down his chest and meeting the flash of hair where his body joined to yours.
His forehead rested against yours as your legs stiffened, twitching with the aftershocks of your fucking.
He peeled himself away, pulling slowly out, so as not to dirty your sheets with his semen, before dropping a kiss to your lips.
“You’re mine,” he said, standing above you, organizing the pillows at the head of your bed as he propped you up.
Instead of following his silent commands to lay and rest, you propped yourself up on your knees on the bed, wrapped your arms around his neck in a surprise attack, and dragged him back down with you.
If you were to replace your work arguments with more stimulating activities, it only seemed right that you should come out on top once in a while, and on top is where you meant to be now.
A day later, when the weekend finally came and you had managed to stay off one another long enough to get ready and leave for your final meal with the BAU, you figured that by now, the team must have some clue of what was going on between the two of you.
Quietly, you made a bet outside the restaurant, settled in the car you’d shared to the venue.
“I think Hotch knew. He had to, to have sent us off together so many times,” Reid bargained
“I’ll take that bet. I think they all see you as a kid still though, or at least as someone a little… inexperienced.”
“And was I?” he asked, grabbing your hand in his and kissing it.
“Hmm?”
“Inexperienced?”
You thought for a second, trying not to flush with heat.
“Are you asking me if I think you have been with other women before, Reid?” you asked, irked by just the suggestion, already possessive and territorial, even if this had only really started the day before.
“Jealous?” he smirked, and you scoffed, leaning into his ear and whispering something so that only he could hear it.
“Let’s talk about that later at my place,” you said, gently leaning in to kiss his lips quickly, leaving him wanting. “Let’s see what you remember of those experiences after that.”
When you entered the door together, you got a number of awkward looks from your teammates, all of whom thought it best that you didn’t sit together.
But Spencer quietly took a chair out for you, and you thanked him with a smile, before he sat directly next to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh.
With a curse, everyone on the team began taking out cast from their wallets, and handing it over to Rossi.
“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, even though it was pretty clear.
“Three months, $400 worth of bets, and the only one I took part in was this: you two were definitely going to end up doing the Devil’s Tango.”
You both looked at each other and laughed, even as the sounds of a lot of money changing hands soundtracked the moment.
“When did you even make that wager? We knew about the other bets, but those were all on cases,” you asked, suddenly curious about when you’d started getting obvious about your affection for one another.
“Did you see Spencer heading to my room at the motel?” you asked, which led to a raised eyebrow.
“No, but you can regale us with that tale later. We made this bet on your first day. When you told Spencer you looked forward to helping him out, I knew it was a little friendlier than it needed to be, if you catch my drift.”
With every shocked gaze on you, you had only a moment to feel shame before the table - or more realistically, Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia - erupted with questions.
summary: after a stressful day at work, you run into an ex at a bar. he looks different, older, or suits him. how quickly do you fall back into old (but very pleasurable) habits?
warnings: mdni, unprotected PIV! (they talk about it), ex! spencer, oral (f rec), munch! spencer, lots of reminiscence on the past. don’t read if you miss your ex lmaoo.
wc: 3.6k!! please reblog!!
DC was fairly new to you. Well not living there, you’d been there three years, but you’d had your head so buried in legal cases you don’t think you’d seen anything outside of the office and your house.
The promotion you’d been grinding for had finally been handed to you in the past month, finally meaning you had weekends off. And weekends off means actually going outside in the city you lived in.
Someone from the office had mentioned the bar, it was fancier than the bars you’d frequented in LA. You could tell by the yellow lamps on the wall, lighting up the bar just enough to see but not enough to make it feel like a hospital. Plush velvet red seats cover the place, it was cohesive. A place meant to make you feel rich.
Sitting at the bar you wait patiently for the bartender to get you, placing your order, a dirty martini. Extra dirty. Handing your card over for the tab, you swirl the stick around in your drink, eating the olive off the end.
It wasn’t busy. A couple on a date sitting in a booth in the corner giggling to themselves, noses almost touching. People like you, just gotten off work and drinking their sorrows away, heads between their arms sinking drink after drink. You could hear a group laughing behind you, all off them bursting out as soon as a joke was told.
You don’t turn around. Staying engrossed on your phone, scrolling through your emails. It was a bad habit, mind never truly off work.
Out of the corner of your eye someone appears next to you at the bar. You’re on your second martini, sipping on it regularly and savouring the taste in your mouth.
His cologne is what makes you look up from your phone. It’s a rich smell, slightly musky and earthy. Like when you open the door to a specialist coffee shop, first the coffee smell. Then the notes - woody, spicy, fruity. It’s familiar, and smells like the past. You cannot figure out where on earth you have smelt it before. Wracking your brain you actually look up from your phone, it feels like the air gets knocked out of your lungs.
“Spencer?” It tumbles from your lips before you can even register it. He looks different, not bad but different. Older.
“Oh my god.” He says as he turns towards you, the realisation dawning on his face and also drinking you in. Then, pulling you into a hug and the smell hits you all over again.
“Is Spencer hugging?” Emily says, staring at the two across the bar, the whole team doing the exact same unabashedly.
“The guy won’t even shake hands.” Penelope gasps, grabbing onto Derek’s arm.
“A woman?” Dereks brain almost short circuits at the sight. “I didn’t know he could do that.”
“Past lover?” Rossi questions, “We all have a past.”
They’re all still staring, watching your hand grip onto his forearm and the huge smile on Spencer’s face.
Penelope taps on Derek’s arm, “Go over!”
“Alright, alright.” He holds his hand up, shuffling out of the corner booth and striding over to the two of you at the bar. “So, Pretty boy, you going to introduce me?”
“Pretty boy?” The shit eating grin on your face is apparent as you stare at Spencer and he turns a lovely shade of pink.
“This is Agent Derek Morgan.” He introduces and you hold a hand out to shake. He does, it’s firm. “And over there gawking is the rest of my team.” He points over your shoulder to the people who you had heard doubling over in laughter earlier. They all dart their eyes away, pretending to be engrossed in another conversation.
“So how do you guys know each other?”
“Straight to the point, I like you.” You laugh at Derek shaking your head. “We went to college together, well second college.”
“Are you another super genius?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Ha! No I’m.” You start but Spencer cuts you off.
“Yes she is, she’s smarter than me.”
God, you’d missed those brown eyes.
“Umm, do you want to meet the team? I don’t think i’ll ever hear the end of it, if you don’t.” He rocks back on his heels nervously.
“Sure!” You agree, Derek walks in front of the two of you and you feel his hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the booth.
They all scoot up so you and Spencer sit on the end. “Sorry in advance.” He whispers into your ear and almost immediately you are met with a colourful hand.
“Hi I’m Penelope!” She’s all smiles and brightness as you reach out and grab her hand back. “Ooo! I love your nails, you’ve got to tell me where you get them done!”
“Derek Morgan, Penelope Garcia, Jennifer Jareau, Emily Prentiss, David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner.” Spencer lists, pointing around the table.
“Call me JJ.” The blonde says and locks eyes with the dark haired woman next to her, Emily.
“What do you do? As a job I mean.” Emily asks, sipping from her drink.
“It’s no where near as interesting as yours.” You chuckle, “I’m just a lawyer.” You shrug and also sip from your drink.
You can feel all of their eyes on you and you don’t even want to know how it feels to be interrogated as a suspect.
“What branch?” The man next to Spencer says, Aaron. “Also call me Hotch, everyone does. I used to be a prosecutor.”
“Property. Mainly closing on houses and making sure let agreements are fair.” You explain.
“She’s being humble, she’s about to own half of the lawfirm she’s working for.” Spencer interjects.
It was as if they were passing a ping pong ball between them with their eyes. All unable to go a second looking you in the eye before darting to another persons.
“You know for a bunch of people who read people for a living.” You start and you’re sure all of their head whip to you at once. “You’re really terrible at hiding what you’re thinking on your face.” You almost laugh. Spencer does.
“How do you guys know each other?” It spills from Penelope’s lips the second after you stop talking.
“We went to college together. Both did a chemistry PHD.” You explain, crossing one leg over the other.
“Another doctor!” She exclaims happily.
It continues that way for a while, bouncing questions around the group and buying rounds of cocktails and shots. They told you stories of their cases and that time Spencer got shot in the knee. You tell them stories from college and how you were there when he did his first ever shot of vodka, and how he threw it up right after. Hotch and Rossi go home then, leaving the “Young ones” to their fun.
“Soo.” JJ starts and you can tell Spencer shoots her a look but she’s too buzzed to care. But so was everyone. “Did you guys date in college?” There’s a smirk on her face, you choke on your drink and Spencer turns pink again.
“No!” The both of you exclaim at the same time. “Just friends.” It was a rehearsed play at this point, hearing it almost everyday as you both got your doctorates. Everyone asking when the two of you were going to get married and have super genius babies.
Another round of eye contact goes around them. “We’ve never seen him hug someone before.” Derek smirks, “He tells people it’s safer to kiss than shake hands.”
“Hey I’m sitting right here!” He complains, running his hands through his hair. It wasn’t slicked like it used to be, you liked the curls.
“I know that, was the first thing he said when he met me.” You smirk at Spencer, your shoulders bound as you chuckle and you can feel the alcohol hit your feet.
The team sends eachother a pointed look, but it’s Emily who opens her mouth, after taking the shots that Hotch and Dave had left behind. “So just fucking in college then.”
Now, you both turn the shade of red you had giggled at Spencer for earlier. You advert your eyes and bury your face into your shoulder. Spencer chokes on his beer, bringing his hand up to clear his throat.
“See the two of you can’t even deny it!” Penelope laughs, pointing at the two of you. “Even when he had that slicked hair and looked like a little sad puppy?” She gasps, now enquiring. Her green framed glasses slide down her nose and she pushes them up, both elbows on the table and leaning in.
You look at Spencer, he looks as if he wants to crawl out of his skin rather than talk about his past sex life with his coworkers.
“I didn’t always look like this.” You shrug, not wanting to make Spence any redder than he already was. “I was also a nerd.”
Then, JJ’s phone rings. She pulls out her phone, you can’t hear what she’s saying but you can tell that something isn’t right from the scrunch in her brow.
“Sorry guys, I’ve gotta run. Henry’s thrown up and is apparently coming down with a fever and he’s asking for me.” Her shoulders dip and she goes to shuffle out of the booth and everyone goes with her.
“Wait!” Emily calls before she can leave, “I’ll get an uber with you, those extra shots did me in.” She holds a hand up to her head for extra sympathy.
You almost roll your eyes.
They disappear out of the door, pulling you up for a hug before they left, promising to invite you to a girls night at some point in between cases.
Penelope and Derek wander off to the bar and jumping up to the bar seats, getting cozy under the yellow lights.
“Are they?” You ask Spencer, nudging his shoulder and hinting their way.
“None of us know.” He smiles. “They’re always flirting at work, Babygirl this, Chocolate thunder that.”
“Chocolate Thunder?” You widen your eyes.
“Once he got big black twelve pack.”
You can’t help but burst out laughing at that, tears pooling in the corner of your eyes and he laughs along. It was like how it used to be when you were in college and you’d tell him some horrific chemistry pun and he’d double over, holding his sides.
“I mean, they call you pretty boy.” You smile, eyes scanning over his face. The age looked good on him, so did the light facial hair and curls. You thought about how it would feel in between your-
He clicks his fingers in front of your face and you snap out of your daydream. The smirk on his face tells it all, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. “Do you remember,” His eyes flick over your shoulder to see Derek and Penelope gone, leaning in closer. “When we had that one chem final, by that horrible professor.”
“God that was gruelling, we both studied for like 30 hours straight before it. He hated us I swear.” You chuckle lightly, however it catches in your throat as one of his hands brushes the inside of your knee.
He’s closer now, and you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear. “And after the exam.” He kisses the crook of your jaw. “We went into that supply closet, and I ate you out for so long you couldn’t stand, and I had to hold you up as we fucked right there.”
You’re sure you were wetter than the river nile, panties 100% soaked through and you wouldn’t be surprised if there was a mark on the seat.
“Oh, I remember.”
The next thing you know his lips crash onto yours, big hands grasping the sides of your face and pulling you into him. He tasted exactly as you remembered, but with the beer he’d been drinking added. He was a man now, not the boy you used to know.
His tongue slips into your mouth and the moan you let out is far too loud for the public setting you’re in. Luckily, it’s drowned out by the soft jazz music playing through room.
“Do you want to get out of here? My place is free, I’ll get an uber.” You scramble up, grabbing your purse.
“My place is closer, like walking distance.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the bar and down the road.
“Ok.” You feel the excitement coursing through your veins, making your fingers tingle and a skip in your step as you do the five minute walk to his apartment. You feel his hand snake down and to your ass and give it a hearty squeeze. “Hey!” You laugh and swat his hand away.
“I couldn’t help myself.” He kisses the top of your head and guides you up the stairs of his apartment, hand firmly planted on your ass again.
His apartment was exactly what you’d imagined. Book filled, all browns and greens and warm lights. Autumn personified. “Do you want a tour?” He’s behind you kissing down your neck.
“Mmm” You hum leaning onto his kisses. “Give me one in the morning.”
“Then I’ll show you the way to the bedroom.” He mumbles, guiding you forward into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. The new facial hair covering his cheeks rubbing at your neck.
His room was the exact same as the rest of the apartment. Warm and cozy but it smelt of his cologne. It was suffocating.
His hands shake around your front, popping each button open. Fingers grazing the swell of your tits, then down nine soft skin of your torso. “Get on the bed.”
You almost squeal with excitement and crawl onto the bed, throwing your shirt onto the floor beside you. The way he crawls up you is almost predatory and you were sure you’re going to be eaten alive, not that you minded.
Fingers fiddle with the zip at the back of your pencil skirt, then yanking the whole thing down your legs and joining your shirt in the pile on the floor. “You wear these for me?” The lace of them is soft under the pads of his fingers.
“I didn’t even know you were in DC!” You laugh, bare calf resting on his shoulder exposed by his own shirt slipping off his shoulders.
“You wore these for someone else?” Spencer almost growls, roughly pulling them off you and throwing them behind him somewhere, the flash off black flying through your vision.
Opening your mouth to fend off his misplaced jealousy, his tongue licks a full stripe up you. Sucking your clit into his mouth and replacing your defence with a loud moan.
“You were saying?” He smirks and dives back into your pussy, eating you like he was a starved man.
“Spence, fuck!” You cry out, hand jutting to the sides, gripping his sheets and pulling them up with the arch of your back. His hand slides under your back and yanks you closer to his mouth, making you gasp and your toes curl desperately.
The fleeting thought crosses your mind, how did you ever let this go?
You felt like you were floating as his tongue circles your clit softly, and a constant string of whimpers pull from your chest then turn into a high pitched moan as you feel two fingers slip into you. You feel him smile against you.
Tongue lapping at you and fingers pumping in you make you feel transported to the edge of heaven, the pearly gates filtering in at the edge of your vision. You know he can tell you’re close by the way you’re squeezing his fingers like a vice and how your wetness is covering the entire bottom half of his face.
You can feel the scruff of his beard on your inner thighs, you felt like you were floating.
“Spencer!” You cry. A particularly harsh suck on your clit pushes you over the edge, hands darting down to his hair and yanking on his curls as he licks you through your orgasm.
The grin on his face says everything as he pulls up from you, popping his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean. “Better than I remember.”
“Shut up.” You glow red, chest heaving and staring at the ceiling as you recover. “Take your pants off.” You order.
He laughs as he pulls them off, and his boxers all in one go. His legs have more hair than they used to, he pulls his shirt off too. He’s toned, and God you just wanted to lick him.
“Another day.” He knows exactly what you’re thinking, clambering on top of you, the heat radiating off of him is intoxicating. “Are you clean?”
“Yeah and on the pill.”
There was one thing that hadn’t changed at all. He pushes into you and you feel transported back 15 years. He stretches you as he slides in, his head coming down to rest on your shoulder, groaning and placing a kiss on the top of your tit.
He stays there for a moment, the two of you adjusting to each other again.
“Please fuck me.” You whimper into his ear, teeth scraping at his ear.
Spencer starts to pump in and out of your pussy. Cock coming out all the way to the tip and then slamming into you roughly. A hand pulls one of your legs up, pushing it to your chest, making his cock plunge into you deeper. The squelch that echo’s around the room makes you bite your lip and cheeks turn pink. Each of his rough thrusts knock air out of you, a squeak coming with each one.
“I love this pussy.” He whispers into your ear, between groans and thrusts.
“Jesus.” You whisper out, feeling your brain melt out of your head.
The tip of his cock brushes against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back into your head. His hands pull into your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp gently, it sends a cold shiver down your spine.
His lips press to yours, sealing them together and you feel his tongue swipe at your bottom lip. You give him respite, letting him in. His tongue slips onto your mouth and yours into his, it’s a light teasing fight between you. The pair of you are moaning into each others mouths, his thrusts never faltering.
Wrapping your legs up and around his waist and pulling him closer and deeper into you. “You’re so deep.” You whisper, then nipping at his bottom lip.
The pleasure you were in was indescribable, back arching up, pressing your chest against his. Hands grasping at his shoulders, they were bigger and more muscular than they used to be. Your nails dig in, scratching up his back leaving red scratch marks all over his back.
He was invading every single one of your senses, the smell of his cologne, skin and shampoo. The taste of him, in your mouth. All of his moans and whimpers close to your ears. However what you feel most is his cock pounding in and out of you, his pelvis nudging your clit and the weight of his body pressing on top of you.
You clench around him, eyebrows pulling together. “So-close.” You pant.
“Me.” Thrust. “Too.” You can tell by then way the rhythm falters and his hand comes down to rub your clit furiously.
“Oh fuck!” You scream, eyes rolling back and you tighten your hold around his back. A hot rush pulls through your body as you cum, thrusting yourself up on him.
He fucks you through it, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your legs tremble. With one last clench you feel him let out a groan and release inside of you.
Resting his forehead against yours, you both burst out into laughter.
“I have a feeling I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” He shakes his head, pulling out of you and thumping down on the bed next to you. Neither make an effort to get dressed.
“Well we aren’t 23 anymore.” You snort, resting on his shoulder.
His tone is softer now, “How long have you been in DC?” He asks, a finger fiddling with your hair.
“Like three years.”
“Three years!” He exclaims, “Why did I not know you were here?”
“I didn’t want to get in the way of your life.” You shrug, “It looked like you had everything going good.”
“Let’s try it. For real this time.” He grabs your chin and turns your face to his. “We’re in the same city, at the same time. I’m about to go part time at the BAU, and start lecturing at GWU. And well I think we just proved the sex is still great. It’s fate.” You could melt into those eyes for the rest of your life.
“You don’t believe in fate.” You shake your head but you can’t hide the huge, beaming smile on your face.
“Let’s give it a go.”
a/n: sorry this is completely self indulgent lol, i miss my ex xxxx and he’s a munch (KILL ME). hope you enjoyed! i also don’t usually write for spencer so.. i hope it’s good! PLEASE REBLOG!!!!!
summary: a rare week off of work leads you to a small bookshop. where the nerdiest meet cute of all time takes place, meeting a guy through a timed crossword you’d done on a whim. then you keep coming back for more.
warnings: MDNI, smut, PIV (protected), very very very light dom! spencer, imagine reader is like olivia pope, f!reader. Holy nerds in love.
wc: 7.6k (holy yap)
an: this is fully based on that one anthony bridgerton moment where he holds up his fingers. my first proper spencer smut eeek! pls enjoy, reblog and like and all that jazz! also dm if you’re interested in a tag list!
A day off was very, very rare in your line of work. Running around after the United States’ high profile politicians, setting up publicity meetings, news appearances, drafting speeches and even covering up the odd sex scandal. But you’d managed to snag a whole week off, a whole week! A week of doing nothing, sitting in your small DC apartment binging all the movies you’d not had time to watch yet, or the newest episodes of doctor who, or even that book you’d been gasping to read.
That’s how you found yourself in a small, hole in the wall bookstore. Marcel’s the sign said in red lettering. It smelt of decade old pages and relaxation. The book spines were soft underneath your touch, as your fingers bobbled against them, eyes narrowing on the foiled titles. You take a sharp gasp in when you finally found it, a special edition of Pride and Prejudice. It was a soft pink cover, a cherry blossom tree on the cover with pink foil in the middle of the flowers.
Picking up a few more classics you come to the counter, glancing at the newspaper stand next to it. Your curiosity got the better of you, a picture of the President on the front “The President makes an announcement!”, you put it on to the counter. “Hi, just these thanks.”
Giving the cashier a friendly smile, you point to the table in the centre of the shop, “Am I allowed to sit there?”
She nods, holding the straps on her apron. The table was a long rectangle, a deep chestnut wood. Matching the floor to ceiling bookshelves that surrounded it. Pulling open the paper, you flip to page six. Scanning the wall of text you bite your lip nervously, chewing on it.
‘We make an incredible effort to emphasise our commitment to our democracy. We care deeply about the American people and their rights, quality of life and freedom.’
You couldn’t help the sigh of the relief, everything you had approved, and what you’d approved only had made it into the paper. You had instructed the President to not make any important announcements while you were away, and thankfully he had listened.
Flipping through the paper, the crossword section catches your eye. You hadn’t done one of these in a while. Scouring through your bag you pull out a pen, clicking the end in your mouth.
You started with the down boxes, scribbling in the answers. 2, down. A legislator (8). You wrack your brain quickly, scrambling through words. Lawmaker, you scribble. It fits and you move to the next one. 3, down. Western or Atlantic (5). The answer comes to you immediately, Ocean. You knew it was risky to do this in pen rather than pencil, writing tiny letters, leaving room to scribble out mistakes.
The crossword sucks you in, the concentration blurring everyone around you, the faint ding of the bell on the door ringing as people came in and out. On to the last one across, your eyebrows furrow and your lip comes into your teeth again. 18, across. Attractive (8). Your mind filters through words, beautiful, cute, pretty. Glancing up, you see a man who hadn’t been there when you sat down. He’s also doing a crossword, quickly moving through it. A stripy scarf around his neck, and the floppy end of his hair hanging in front of his face. Even though some of it was covered, you could still see his defined jawline, the adam’s apple in his neck and the rosy colour of his lips. You could tell he was handsome.
It was like the last jigsaw piece had clicked into place. Quickly filling in each box, H-A-N-D-S-O-M-E. You slam your pen down onto the table, albeit a little too loudly and you grimace, but still a small smile on your face as you scan over the completed crossword. Leaning back in your chair, you sigh and your eyes come up to the guy a couple seats away from you.
“It took you ten minutes and thirty five seconds to finish the entire crossword.” He says, not even looking up from his own crossword, still writing.
“Oh.” You reply, “Is that good?” You ask.
He looks up at you then, his eyes are a light brown, they catch the soft glowing lights of the lamps on the walls. “Statistically, it takes the average person fifteen minutes to finish an entire crossword.” He states, flicking his hair out of his face.
“How long does it take you?” You question, tilting your head to the side, he puts his own pen down and clasps his hands together.
“Five minutes.”
“That’s impressive.” You smile at him, “How do you do it so fast?” You look at him again, but like really look at him, he was handsome, extremely so. No wonder the answer came to you as you had laid your eyes on him.
“It helps if you move left to right.” He starts. “It mimics the brains preconceived way of reading, making your process the words faster. You start with the downwards movement, it adds to your time.” He’s flipped his newspaper around, dragging his finger across the puzzle. “And I have an eidetic memory, helps with memorising words.” He shrugs, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
“Alright, Sherlock.” You snort, shaking your head at him. His eyes light up at your mention of the character. “So you’re a genius.” You can’t help the eye roll comes with it.
“The IQ of 187 helps.” He smirks, running a hand through his already wild, tousled hair. “You come here often? I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Oh, it’s my first time, I got a week off work.” You answer but then his previous statement actually hits you. “Wait! 187?” You scoff, “That is insane.”
“I also have a reading speed of 20,000 words per minute.” His eyes haven’t left yours and you feel your jaw go slack.
“So you’re basically a human super computer.”
“Somewhat.”
You felt the heat flush up your body from under your jacket, you’d rarely find yourself impressed, especially by a man. “Do you come here often?” You fire his own question back to him.
“It’s better than the public library. They have too many school trips there.” He explains and his hands fly wildly when he does, his long arms flailing.
“I agree, too hard to concentrate.”
You couldn’t recall the last time you had a conversation with a ‘normal person’. Well this guy was far from normal, he was a super genius. But he wasn’t surrounded by political scandal, planning each of his words and actions, he didn’t rely of you to fix his mess. It was nice.
Then his phone rings, he gives you a small nod as he excuses himself, walking to corner of the store and taking a hushed call. He’s taller than you thought he’d be, he was slim and lean. His trousers were a brown corduroy, dressed like a little grandad.
Coming back over to the table, he looks dejected. “I forgot, I promised a friend I’d meet them, I have to go.” He smiles, bundling up his stuff and shoving them into his leather shoulder bag.
“It’s ok, I should get going too.” You smile at him, slight disappointment clawing at your ribs. Carefully, you put your books into your own bag, wanting to preserve the pristine beauty of the covers.
The bell dings above the two of you as you step into the DC streets. The cold was biting at your tighted legs, not providing any protection from the cold. Rocking back on your shoes, you look up at him, but he’s already looking down at you. His eyes are pretty, you think.
“Uh.. I’ll see you around.” You give him a tight lined smile, holding up for hand in a pathetic wave and pointing behind you.
“Yeah see you around.” The guy points the other way, behind his own shoulder.
Turning you walk away, eyes staring down at the squares on the pavement. Each of them wizzing past you in your stride. The wind slaps you in the face, bringing pink to your cheeks.
“Hey!” You hear him shout. “My names Spencer!” You can’t help the smile that climbs to your face as you spin around. You shout your own name back, burying your face in your scarf, you wave again before he turns around, leaving for real.
You also turn, walking away. But you can’t help it, you glance over your shoulder, he’s also looking back at you.
Feeling your heart start pounding in your chest you turn the corner and stop, breathing heavily. You shake it off, walking your way back home.
-
The next day, curled up in the chair in your living room near your tv. You read about Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, as your eyes pass over the words your mind runs back to Spencer.
First, you think of the 20,000 words per minute. How fast he would be able to read this cover to cover? Shaking your head, you go back to reading.
You totter over to your kitchen, boiling a kettle, and making a warming cup of chamomile tea. It goes well with the book, warming you from the inside and protecting you from the cold outside. You wondered how Spencer took his tea.
Next, you turned on the tv, the eleventh doctor on the screen. Running around the universe in the Tardis with Amy and Rory. You thought about whether Spencer liked doctor who, and if so, who his favourite doctor was.
Rolling your eyes at yourself, you stand up, shaking the thoughts of Spencer out of your system. He was just a guy you met once, told you he could do a crossword stupidly fast, dressed like a grandad in the most cute and endearing way, and those insanely captivating brown eyes.
Groaning and dragging your hands down your face, you pull your green coat off the rack, sliding it on and stomping out into the streets. You attempted to distract yourself, grabbing a warm latte and walking through the parks, looking at the leaves on the trees that had just began to fall. Green long gone, brown, now crunching under your feet.
You adored the parks in DC, they were cozy in the time where winter creeps in, and the wind picks up and the rain pounds down on your apartment window at night. Leaving the park, you wander into the city, people watching the regular people of DC.
Watching people wander around the streets, bags of shopping in hand, laughing with their friends, children, lovers. It was a far cry from the people you were around all day, rich, snobby and upper class. Without even realising, you’d come through a halt outside of the same bookstore from yesterday.
Hesitating, you push open the door. The first thing that hits you is the smell, it’s the pages of the books and the sweet aroma of the wooden shelves. The bell dings as you step in, unwrapping your scarf from your neck and hanging it over your forearm.
Turning the corner around the bookshelf, you see him. Spencer. He is sat in the same seat he had been sat in when you had met him yesterday. He turns at the sound of your footsteps, “Hey.” He says at the sight of you.
“Hey!” You reply, giving him a little wave. “I’m gunna-” You point towards the counter, draping your scarf over the wooden chair opposite his.
He cuts you off, “Yeah, yeah.” He nods as you walk to the counter, buying that day’s newspaper. Looking over your shoulder at him, he’s already got one of his own.
The butterfly’s in your stomach felt like they were going to fly up your throat and explode out of your mouth. Pulling out the chair, you sit. Getting your pen out of your bag, flipping straight to the crosswords.
“I assume you’re going to time me.” You smile up at him, “I’m not going to be much faster.”
“Well, I’m going to time myself and I’ll just add however long you take to my time.” He smiles back at you.
“How do you know I won’t be faster than you?” You joke, tapping your pen against your lips, he glances down.
“Yeah right.”
“Alright, Sherlock.” You roll your eyes and start reading the clues across, starting with those, like he had instructed.
1, across. Its sides aren’t equal. (8). Rhomboid. You scribble into the boxes. 2, across. Roe of a sturgeon. (6). Caviar. You feel like you are on a roll, filling in each box, he was right going across first did make it easier. Then, you get stuck on one. 11, across. Magician. (8). You sigh, moving onto the downwards words. 6, down. Put the blame on. (6). A couple words filter through your mind, blame was in the hint. Indict, charge didn’t fit.
“Oh!” You whisper to yourself as the word comes to you, annoyed that it didn’t come to you sooner. Accuse. You write into the boxes.
You glance up to Spencer, he was already done and watching you pull that pink bottom lip into your mouth again.
Now just filling in the missing word from earlier, Magician. You fill it in with a frustrated sigh.
“Done!” You exclaim with a smile, putting your pen down.
Spencer is sat across from you with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face. “Eight minutes and fourth five seconds. So a significant improvement from yesterday.”
You can’t help the warmth that spreads in your chest, “I don’t think I want to ask how long it took you.” You joke.
He tells you anyway. “Five minutes and thirty seconds on the dot.”
“You’re a very arrogant man, I hope you know that.” You give him a mock glare, narrowing your eyes and poking him in the shoulder.
“I’m not arrogant!” He exclaims and mock glares at you back, “I’m just good at crosswords.”
“Oh I have an IQ of 187, I can read 20,000 words per minute and can do an entire crossword in five minutes.” You imitate him, a high pitched voice and wave your hands around, just like he does.
“I don’t sound like that!” He scoffs, furrowing his brow and crossing his arms.
“Sure you don’t Sherlock.” There’s a shit eating grin on your face as you start to laugh at the pout on his face. Running fingers through your hair and settling in your lap.
“Does that make you Watson?” He asks.
“No,” You smile. “I’m more of an Adler.”
You rummage through your bag again, finding a receipt. The coffee from earlier, flipping it over you write down your number. Sliding it over the table, you give him a smile. “Call me.”
Throwing your scarf back on, you leave the coffee shop, throwing a flirty smile over your shoulder as you pull the door open.
Spencer felt as if the air had been knocked out of him, seeing you walk anyway and out of the bookstore. Your smile is imprinted on his brain, dwindling is IQ down to nothing.
It felt as if his computer of a brain was going through a software update, all of the processes slowing down and seeing you stride past the large window of the store in slow motion. He clutched the paper in his hand, pulling out his phone and putting the number into his contacts.
Flipping the paper over, he reads the back. Your coffee order, a latte, a single pump of hazelnut syrup. It suited you, he thought, warm and slightly sweet. Finally, snapping out of it, he puts his own things back into his satchel, a toothy smile painted across his face.
-
All night, you kept checking your phone, flipping over your phone and scanning all of the notifications. A news notification, some crap about a celebrity you’d never heard of. Another one about the water lines in DC, you’d have to address that once you got back to work. But nothing from an unknown number.
Spending the evening cleaning your apartment top to bottom, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, dishwashing, disinfecting. Standing up straight and swiping your hair away with the bright yellow rubber glove. The phone dings. Dropping the pan and scrubbing brush into the sink, the water splashing back at you.
Rushing over to the couch, you turn over the phone.
‘Is this Adler?’
Before you can help it you giggle, a bright smile on your face. Just staring at the screen lighting up your eyes, not wanting to respond too quickly you finish your dishes. Ripping off the gloves, you speed a bit too quickly to your phone.
‘Yes, is this Sherlock?
You type back, the nerves making you vibrate all the way down to your toes. He reads it immediately.
‘Yes. Will you be at Marcel’s tomorrow?’
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut nervously, peeking to see if you had seen his question.
‘Yeah! I’m going to crush you in the crossword. Are you?’
He smiles at your response.
‘I’ll be there at 11.’
‘See you there.’
Beaming at your phone, you end up stood in front of your closet. Scanning through your clothes you groan, not knowing what Spencer liked. It wasn’t a date, it was a crossword meet up. But it felt an awful lot like a date.
You could play it safe, blue jeans and a nice top. Maybe he would find that boring, he’d see thousands of girls in jeans and a nice top. Finding something put together but not overdressed for a bookstore. Throwing clothes over your head and onto the bed behind you, groaning.
Pulling out a mini dress, it wasn’t a little black dress for a dinner date. But a deep purple, close to black, flowing out at the hip. You’d have to wear tights, as the brutal DC winter wind whistled past your windows.
-
Spencer wrapped his purple scarf around his neck as he pushed open the door to his apartment building. Striding quickly to the metro, it shields him from the biting chill.
The coffee shop comes into view, the logo on the front on the door.
“Hi,” He starts. “Could I have a latte, with a pump of hazelnut syrup and a black coffee.” Giving the barista a tight smile he hands over the cash and stands to the side waiting for the order to be called.
The paper cups warmed his hands as he caught the metro back the way he came, and then Marcel’s came into view and his eyes flit to the inside of his wrist. 10:50.
That golden bell, he’d come to love, the ding rang through the shop. Turning the corner he found her already sat at the table, ten minutes early.
“Oh! You’re early.” She beams up at him.
He felt his fingers begin to buzz as he shuffled to the table, two newspapers sat in front of her.
“I got you a coffee.” He smiles, he holds it out.
“Oh, thank you so much.” You reach out to grab it, the warmth enveloping your hand and your fingers brush his. The heat climbs to your cheeks and you take a sip. “How?” You look up at him with furrowed brows.
“I deduced it.” He quips and you glare at him. “It was on the back of your number.” He watches your shoulders slump.
“I thought you were stalking me there for a second.” Giggling, you nurse the cup in your hands, methodically sipping from it. “So, what do you do for work?” You ask.
“Oh, um. I work in admin, just putting information into docs.” He smiles. “You?”
“Similar, I sort of coordinate meetings. Basically a secretary.” You shrug, eyes flitting down to the newspaper in front of you. ‘War in the White House.’ was the title and you had to resist the eye roll, you couldn’t believe people thought everything they read in the news was true. “You’re wasted in admin, you could do anything with that brain.” You compliment.
“Thank you, I’m looking into being a part time college professor.” It’s his turn to go red.
“Where, Harvard?” You joke.
“No, but George Washington.”
You made a mental note to see if you could pull some strings to see if there were any openings at the university.
“What’s your doctorate in?” You question, your eyes scanning the paper.
“I have three.”
The way he says it like the most casual thing in the world makes your sip of coffee get caught in the back of your throat, spluttering and covering your mouth. Staring at him with wide eyes, you exclaim, "Three!"
"Chemistry, mathematics and engineering." He listed, a smug smile on his face.
You were considering asking him to come work for you, instead of letting him chase being a professor. "Unfortunately, my singular one is a lot less impressive. Law." You sigh.
"That's still impressive." He pops off the top of his coffee, and ripping at least five sugar packets and pouring them in, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Thank you." You smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Opening the newspaper, you flip through and find the crosswords. "Ready to get beaten?" You smirk and find your pen.
The next minutes are spent in a tense silence. Pens scribbling and frustrated when the words didn't spring to your mind immediately. Spencer's advice helped, going left to right made you faster. You wouldn't dare tell him that you'd been spending your evenings doing online crosswords, googling endless words and finding the meanings. So much for a week off doing nothing.
He’d stopped writing, putting his pen down and scanning his answers, checking the time on his watch. You only had a few words left. Moments later, you sigh and look up at him then, pull your lip into your mouth. “Time?”
-
Spencer felt his brain short circuit as you bit your lip, the pinkness going into your mouth then popping back out, with less tint, swiped off with your tongue. The light in the store made the high points on your face light up, you looked like you were glowing, he thought. Your eyebrows raising impatiently brought him back from his daydream.
“Six minutes and fourteen seconds.” He states, watching your disappointed reaction. “Mine was five minutes and twenty three seconds.”
“Less than a minute off you Sherlock.”
Your smile was captivating, throwing him off the regular earth axis and bathing him in a vat of warm water. Your satisfied giggle flows through his ears, a delightful tune.
“Do you want to go on a date?” The words came out of his mouth before he had even thought about them. “Like a proper one, I mean, dinner.” The words flying out quickly.
“Sure. I’d love too.”
The light in your eyes was contagious and his shoulders slumped in relief, fingers fiddling with each other. “Do you have a preference?”
“Not particularly, it’s up to you.” You say, your head coming to rest on your hand.
David Rossi pops into his head, he’d know a good restaurant to go to, the man obsessed with food had been to every single italian restaurant in DC, some of them having his photo on their wall. “Italian?” He asks.
“That sounds perfect.” Your face was tinged pink.
“Friday?” He asks, smoothing his hair out of his face. He didn’t care that it was only two days away.
“Yeah.” Your mind races with what to wear, your wardrobe all popping up in your head at once. Nothing that was good enough for the man sat in front of you. Checking the time on your phone you gasp, “I’m so sorry! I have to go, I told a friend I would meet her at one.”
“It’s fine,” Spencer reassures you, reaching over the table and putting a soft hand on your forearm. “I’ll see you on Friday.”
Grabbing your things you rush out, thanking him for the coffee.
-
The next day felt like a perpetual ad break, just waiting until the next part of the plot happened. You had already gone out to buy a dress for your and Spencer’s date.
The giddiness was unreal, a newfound spring in your step as you bounced around your apartment. The fantasy of the night kept rolling around in your head.
He’d come to your apartment and knock on your door. When you opened the door he’d be in a suit, you loved men in suits. He’d drive you to the restaurant, it would be expensive and the food would be sublime, you’d go for something simple like a bolognaise. And maybe a couple glasses of house red to loosen your muscles. Then after dinner, we’d get back into his car and he’d drive me back, coming in for a night cap. You thought about what kind of kisser he was, was he soft or did he eat your whole face off, grabbing your head and holding you to him.
Before your fantasy could go any further, you hear your laptop ding.
‘IMPORTANT’
You sighed as you saw that pop through, some things you couldn’t avoid even on your week off. Scanning through the words a deep pit in your stomach opened up.
‘Sorry to disturb your week off, but Kelley the girl standing in for you this week has fallen ill. Would you be able to come to the annual representation gala? I wouldn’t ask unless we really needed. News, FBI, and opposition will be there.’
You sighed, running a stressed hand through your hair. The news being there meant everyone would have to be briefed before we went in, you didn’t know if you could trust anyone else with that. Pulling out your phone you call Spencer.
“Hi Spencer.” You sigh glumly.
“Hi, are you ok?” He asks, concern evident in his voice.
“Would we be able to rain check Friday, something came up at work and I really can’t miss it?”
“Yeah that’s ok, I was also about to call and ask the same thing. I have a meeting that I’m required to attend.” He sighs, sounding just as disappointed as you.
“Next week?” You can’t help the smile on your face as you think about the pair of you on a date again.
“Next week.” He confirms.
-
You’d decided to put the dress you’d bought to good use, test its wear and become acquainted to it so when Spencer saw you in it, you and the dress would be one.
Your golden heels clacked against the floor of the venue, stalking through the halls of the fancy hotel you swing open the door where the team you managed were huddled. The President, the VP and the rest of the cabinet sat waiting for you and your clipboard.
“I don’t want to be here on my day off.” You glare at them. “We all know the drill, no talking to ANY news agents about anything personal or political, no excessive drinking, no drugs, do not even mutter the phrase operation 56 in that room.” You were firmer than usual, incredibly peeved off. Spinning on your heel you turn to leave. “Oh and if any of you get caught fucking your mistresses, I will not make a single effort to pull the picture from the papers.” You throw a fake smile over your shoulder, stalking out of the room.
You’d spent the evening watching your team like a hawk. Cataloguing every single person they talked to in your mind, just incase, god forbid something leaked within the next week.
Catching the head of the department of education speaking for too long to a socialite it was rumoured he was fucking, you stood in his eye line, giving him a stern look. He quickly came up with an excuse to scurry off for a drink.
A flute of champagne stayed firm in your hand, small sips as you circled the floor. Then, somebody calls your name and your neck shoots to the right. It was The President, and an older man stood to his left.
“I want you to meet David Rossi, founder of the BAU, well half of it.” You give him a smile and a handshake.
“Nice to meet you sir, what’s it like working for the FBI?” You give him a polite smile and another sip of your champagne, not strong enough for your liking.
“Fulfilling, stressful, great for book sales.” He jokes, rocking backwards slightly. The President wanders off, called over by somebody else. “What’s it like working for the President?” He echos your question back.
“Stressful, stressful and um stressful.” The two of you begin to walk, stopping off at the bar. “So what’s the science behind profiling.” You lean on the bar and call over the bartender, finally getting a stronger drink.
“It’s about body language, micro expressions and the persons personal life, what makes them tick.” He explains grabbing a glass of scotch for himself.
“What’s my profile?” You turn to him, curious.
“Stressed, displeased at being here, a new romance in your life blooming.” He lists, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“I am stressed, do you know what it’s like to manage a cabinet of politicians that can’t stop having affairs. I don’t want to be here, it was supposed to be my day off. And how on earth could you tell the last one.” Taken aback you scrunch your face.
“That’s a date dress.” He winks cheekily, then strides off to go and socialise with high profiles.
You follow his walk, going and sitting down at the table for his team. The BAU, everyone had heard of them, the stars of the FBI. You scan the table, David, Aaron Hotchner, you’d had correspondence with him in the past, a dark haired woman, two blonde women, one with a pink streak in her hair, a bald man and Spencer.
You’d recognise his eyes anywhere, spending the whole week staring into them over a table in a bookstore. You tilt your head as he smiles at you.
Then, he holds up his hand, five fingers. You caught on to what he was trying to communicate from across the room. It took him five minutes to solve today’s crossword. You hold up five fingers yourself and you see another smug smile start to creep on his face. Before it can come to fruition, you flip your hand over. Four fingers.
He looked defeated as you spin around, flicking your hair over your shoulder and then scooping it around your shoulder, revealing the back of your dress or lack there of.
You knew it was bold in a room full of profilers, but in that moment you couldn’t care less.
-
“Now pretty boy, who. is. that?” Derek asks, watching your interaction, a low whistle leaving his lips.
“She’s a friend.” He states, watching you stop at the other side of the bar.
“Doing a lot of staring for just a friend.” He laughs, and Spencer stands, telling Morgan to shut up, before striding towards you.
“Hello.” You smirk at him, sipping from your straw.
“You said you were a secretary.” He accuses as soon as he is in earshot.
“I am, just for The President of the United States.” You shrug. “And you said you worked in admin.”
“Whoops.” He shrugs, a wide smile on his face, he climbs onto the bar stool next to you.
“I think we are being stared at.” Your eyes are fully planted on his team, all of their previous conversations stopped and eyes focused on you.
Spencer sends them a cool glare. “They’re just nosy. So four minutes?”
His musing makes your attention focus back on him, eyes pulled to is bow tie. “I beat you, Sherlock. Fair and square.” You smirk, over the moon.
“You had a great mentor.” He replies cheekily.
“Ego much?”
“I don’t mind losing, especially to you.” He smiles, and his eyes drag from your feet and up your body, making their way back to your face. “Especially in that dress.” His fingers drag up your spine and you take a light gasp, making you shiver.
“I was going to wear it to our date.” You reply, cheeks burning and eyes stuck to the bar. You hear him holding back a groan. Grabbing the bottom of your barstool, he drags it towards him with you on it.
“So it’s not just for my eyes then?” He mock pouts at you, his pupils dilated, a raised brow.
“I’m working.” You whisper, hoping and praying your self control would stay intact. Refusing to look up at him, eyes focused directly on your drink and sipping from the straw and starting to feel the buzz in the tips of your fingers and feet.
“I’m aware, but it looks as if your night is going smoothly.” His eyes run around the room. “Everyone on good behaviour.”
“For now.” You scoff, “Someone will run off with their mistress into a hotel room they shouldn’t have booked and I’m going to go and bang on the door.”
“That happen a lot?” He asks, his eyes widening.
“It’s politics.” You roll your eyes, now giving the room a look by yourself, waving the bartender over you ask if they have a pen and paper. Scribbling down your address and folding up the slip, you slide it into Spencer’s breast pocket, behind his blue pocket square. “Everyone fucks everyone.”
With that you give him a seductive smile, sliding off the stool. “Come and see me later, I have a hotel room door to knock on.”
-
You hadn’t seen Spencer leave, the rest of his team too. It was far too late, only having to chastise one of your cabinet, pointing your finger into his chest and ever so politely telling his mistress to “Fuck off.”
Calling cabs for the stragglers, too drunk to realise that they should probably get going. The silence of the space was unsettling, the noise of your shoes really bouncing off the walls.
Giving a thanks to all of the bar staff and waiters, you finally head off yourself. A cab waiting outside to whisk you home. Unstrapping your heels, you massage your feet, sighing.
“Thank you.” You flick through your purse, giving the man far too much money for the not too expensive cab driver. “Keep the change.”
You wanted your bed, the warmth calling you. Heels in your hand as you climb the stairs to your apartment, legs tired. As you get to your floor, you push open the door and it makes a loud bang, echoing throughout the complex.
You see him then, a stupid smile plastered on his face. Leaning against your door, still in his suit, seldom the bowtie. His beard had started to grow in, and he was holding a bouquet of roses in one hand and a box of pizza in the other.
“How did you know I wouldn’t bring someone else home?” You come to a stop in front of him.
He just raises a brow at you, and you shake your head. “Move so I can unlock my door,” You giggle, pulling your key out of your clutch. “Why did you get pizza?”
“I assumed you haven’t hadn’t had time to eat.” He tips his head down, pushing himself off of your door and moving out of path. “And we were supposed to get Italian food, just cheese.”
Turning the key in the door, you open the door to your apartment and stalk in before him. “Coming?” He scurries in after you, kicking the door shut behind you. Throwing your shoes down to the floor, wander into your kitchen and pull a cheap bottle of wine out of your fridge.
You can tell he’s profiling your apartment, looking around at the lack of decoration. A vase in the window, your deep blue couch in the centre of the living room with a prime spot in front of the tv. He’d placed the pizza on your dining room table, just standing right where you’d left him.
“Cheap wine?” You ask, popping open the bottle and taking a sip straight from it, placing it next to the pizza.
“Thank you,” He pulls it from your hand and taking a swig himself. “Why don’t you indulge in the perfection that is the five star pizza that I so graciously provided.” You pull out a dining chair then shake your head, grabbing the box of pizza and skipping over to the couch.
“Come sit!” You call, patting the seat next to you. He follows and perches next to you. Opening the box you eat a slice. You can’t help the moan that leaves your mouth. “Sorry.” You talk through your full mouth, and hide your face behind your hair. “I was hungrier than I thought.”
“It’s ok,” He laughs, reaching over and grabbing a slice for himself, passing you the bottle of wine. Swapping, you take a drink.
“You could have gotten me in a lot of trouble earlier.” You smile, your hair falling over the back of the couch. He’s biting through the crust with a loud crunch. “Flirting with me like that, gives people ammo.” Scolding lightly, you shove his shoulder with your fingertips.
“What exactly is your job?” He asks with a scoff.
“The world’s most powerful secretary. Basically everything that comes out of the Presidents mouth goes through me first.” Shaking your head, his eyes widen slightly.
“Very important then.”
“Yes. Very stressful.” You confirm.
You hadn’t stopped looking into his soft brown eyes, even as you pass the wine bottle back and fourth. Exchanging stories of battle from work. Albeit, his being chasing down serial killers with a gun in his hand, getting shot at and saving the lives of countless people. Yours being shouting at news reporters, carefully examining speeches and hiding affairs from wives. “I think I’d take the serial killers over the american media.”
“You know what, me too.” He agrees, shifting ever so closer to you on the couch. The half empty pizza box gets thrown to the side, not even crossing your mind. “My team was curious about you.” He states.
“Oh?” You ask, tilting your head.
“Asked how I knew someone as beautiful as you.” He says, and his forwardness almost knocks you back a foot.
“You think I’m beautiful?” You smile, biting your lip again.
“Stop doing that.” He groans, the intense, soul burning eye contact coming to an end, focusing in on your mouth or well what wasn’t pulled in by your teeth.
“Or what?” You taunt, doing it again. He takes a prolonged blink, his neck dipping backward, you make note of his strong adam’s apple.
His eyes open again. That soft, kind, gentle brown that had taught you how up your time on a crossword. The eyes that had brought you a coffee just because he’d read the back of a receipt. That was gone. It was a hunger, an animalistic one. He looked like he wanted to eat you alive. And he did. His hands grab onto both sides of your face, crashing his into yours.
His lips were softer than you’d thought, his tongue already prying your mouth open and invading it. His hands snake around your back, yanking you up and over his lap, leaving you straddling him. Your dress rides up your legs, pooling just under your ass. Large hands were everywhere, sliding around your back and the tops of your thighs.
“Wanted to do this since I saw you,” He grunts between kisses, it takes you back and your lips pull from his with a distinct pop.
“Me too.” You smile, a deep giddy feeling settling in your chest. “Bedroom?” You question, kissing him again.
“Lead the way!” His fingers graze the bottom of the low back, tickling your lower back and making you jolt forward into your room.
Before you can say anything about your room, he’s spun you around and his kissing you with the same intensity as a few moments ago, this time guiding you to your bed. It’s like the two of you were glued together, as he lays you down gently.
Fingers prying at the strap on your shoulder, he pulls it down. Repeating the same with the other side, leaving your tits exposed. The cool air making your nipples peak up, pulling away his eyes lock onto them.
“Jesus.” He whispers, his tongue flicking down and circling your right nipple, teasing the edge. Sucking it in, his teeth scraping lightly on the sensitive nub, making you gasp out.
Moving his attention to the other one, your lip finds its way in between your teeth again. He moves off of you, shucking off his jacket and shirt, throwing them into a messy pile on your bedroom floor.
“Hurry up.” You whine, shimmying the bottom half of your dress off, leaving you bare to his eyes. “I want you.” Your voice is breathy and light, eyes hungrily eating up the sight before you, Spencer pulling off his dress trousers.
Your voice catches in your throat, marvelling in the sight of him, knelt above you, naked. Propping yourself up onto your elbows you reach back to your dresser, pulling open the drawer and rummaging around for a condom. You don’t take your eyes off of him, travelling south gradually.
His shoulders were broader than you thought they’d be, always hidden under thick jumpers and cardigans. There were small wisps of hair on his chest, enough to be present but not a thick coating. His stomach was toned, faint lines of abs under the surface made your mouth water, wanting to lick up it. For another day. When you got to the V-line, you think your heart stopped beating.
He was long and relatively thick. Enough that you knew that tomorrow you’d have a light limp and probably have some problem sitting on your wooden dining chairs. Without word, you hand him the condom and he rips it open, sliding it down his cock.
“Oh my god.” You hum, as he crawls on top of you, lining himself up with you. Dragging himself along your slit and thumping the head on your clit, making your hips jump. “Please.”
He smiles and kisses you, pushing in slowly. Causing your eyes to roll into the back of your head and fingers digging into his shoulder blades.
“You’re so tight.” He grunts into your ear, teeth grazing at the side of your jaw. He stills inside of you, letting you get used to the stretch.
“You’re so deep.” You moan as he pulls out of you slightly and pushing back in, filling you all the way. You were sure if you looked down, you’d see the outline of him bulging out of you. “Please move.” You’d felt like you’d been doing an awful lot of begging and not getting much back.
“So needy.” He teases, kissing the exposed column of your throat. Your hips flutter and his hands come to push them into the mattress. “I swear to god if you don-.” He cuts you off by pulling out and filling you to the hilt again, your complaint falling out of your mind.
“Ah fuck!” You exclaim, hands fisting in the nape of his neck, the strands soft in your fingers. His thrusts are deep, dragging in and out of you.
His breaths are laboured, as he pumps in and out of you. The head of his dick hitting that sweet spot inside of you that makes you clench around him like a vice.
“Keep gripping me like that, and I won’t last long.” He says through gritted teeth, and a deep, guttural groan comes from him as you do it again, this time on purpose, a smirk on your face.
This makes him pound into you, every thrust shoving you upwards towards the headboard. Your tits bouncing with every thrust, almost hypnotising him into fucking you with all he had.
Eyes flying into the back of your skull, the coil in your stomach starts to tighten. Fizzing in your fingers and toes as you creep closer to the edge. You start to whimper, toes curled and back arched you zero in on him panting above you.
“Spencer!” You cry out, nails digging into his back and dragging them upwards leaving behind some scratch marks.
It was like lightning had electrocuted you from head down, a deep breathy gasp filling your lungs as you cum around him. Tightening, you feel him begin to falter and his breath gets rougher. With a rough kiss to his jaw, that does it. He presses his damp forehead against yours, both of your hairs stuck to each other.
You stay like that for a while before he pulls out, flopping on the bed beside you. Pulling off the condom and knotting the end.
“Jesus christ.” You whisper, not to him particularly, but just into the air of your room.
“So do you want to go on an actual date?” He asks, “We’ve done this the wrong way around.”
“I’d like that, at least we still have pizza left.” You turn to him and smile, throwing your leg across his torso and nestling into his chest.
“You know you should go pee.” He starts. “Statistically-.”
Cutting him off with a kiss, and a shake of your head. “I know, I know. Mr I know everything.”
note: this is just me reidsplaining neuro i fear. and being horny. sorry? inspired by my real life final that i so bravely studied for without spencer's help </3
summary: in which spencer gets creative on helping you study for your exam
cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fem!reader, fingering, p in v sex, heavy praise kink, neuroscience jargon
wc: 2.3k
apologies in advance if it sounds too sciencey it is unfortunately the side effect of a woman in stem. bunsen burner! (divider by @firefly-graphics)
The dry erase marker crumbs stick to your hand as you angrily erase the whiteboard again, internally groaning as you restart drawing your diagram hopefully correctly this time. It’s not. After another few failed attempts you slump back in your chair and huff out in frustration, too deep in your sulk to hear the front door open.
“Hey I’m home!” Spencer calls out, bending down to remove his shoes.
“In the study.” you grumble out, a surprise he even heard you when he walks in a minute later. His gaze softens as he takes in the scene. Your notes strewn across the table, your whiteboard dark with marker smudges that match the side of your hand in which you used to erase it. The exhaustion clear as day on your face and the hint of defeat in your eyes is enough to draw him closer to you.
“Oh baby, what’s wrong?” he says softly.
You sniffle, not exactly crying but the stress was bringing you to the brink, “S’nothing, just trying to study and it’s not working. Feel dumb.”
He sighs and rounds the desk, sitting on the edge and reaching for your hands as he looks down at you, “What did I tell you about saying things like that?”
“To not to.” you mumble.
He laughs softly, “Well, yes. But it’s because you’re too hard on yourself. You were just explaining all of this to me yesterday.”
You whine, “I know and it feels like I forgot it already!”
“Maybe you just need to approach it differently,” he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, “Your whiteboard isn’t helping?”
“No,” you sigh, “I keep drawing it wrong and it’s frustrating me.”
The despair in your voice makes his heart ache, and all he wishes is to be able to take it away. Spencer remains deep in thought before something clicks in his mind, you see the shift in him but you’re unable to discern what epiphany he’s reached. His eyes sparkle with mischief as his entire demeanor changes, “I think you might need a different type of visual.”
Your eyes squint in confusion before you realize what he’s getting at, and you can’t help but laugh. “You’re not serious? This is a joke, right?”
He doesn’t break eye contact, “Humor me.”
The laughter dies down on your tongue as you take in and consider the very intentional nature of his words. “How so?”
“You’re studying brain structures right?” you nod, “Okay well, what better way to study than with some active learning?”
You couldn’t look less convinced. Spencer chuckles, reaching for your hand to switch places with him so he’s seated on the chair. You move forward hesitantly, he holds a hand out to gently pull you closer while using the other hand on your hip guides you onto his lap. You part your knees on either side of him and situate comfortably on him, arms slinking around his neck.
“Hi, pretty girl.”
You soften, “Hi. Are you sure this isn’t a ruse to get me in bed?”
“Oh come on, we’ll kill two birds with one stone. A lot of the hypothalamic functions are very important during intercourse,” he trails his fingers up and down your side, “You’ll get to study with a real life application and relieve some of your stress.”
You move your hips slightly, smiling when you feel him harden beneath you at the simple movement, “Alright, I’m game.”
He matches your grin and presses a kiss to the base of your jaw, “Need you to help me with my pants for this to work, baby.”
The soft kiss already sends you into a dizzy fit, nodding mindlessly as you scoot back to allow yourself space to work on undoing his belt and zipper. You aren’t even sure what his plan is, but if it keeps him talking to you like that you’re afraid there might be nothing you won’t do for him. Spencer’s eyes are focused on you while yours are focused at your handiwork, unable to resist slipping a hand in and palming him through his boxers.
“Ah—h baby, not yet.” he hisses at the contact, reluctantly removing your hand, “S’about you remember? We’re studying. So, tell me something about the thalamus.”
“Okay, the thalamus functions as a relay center for both sensory and m—oh—tor functions.” you moan feeling his lips attach to your neck, slowly marking a path down the slope of your nape with chaste kisses.
He looks up at you briefly, smiling smugly, “Why’d you stop? Keep going.”
You clear your throat as he continues his descent towards your shoulder, motioning for you to lift your arms so he can take off the shirt you’re wearing. His lips immediately reattach before he stops in place once more, brown eyes peering up at you knowingly amid your silence.
“R—Right, so there’s a structure called the lateral geniculate nucleus, fuck.” you curse feeling him suckle a hickey into the crease of your neck.
“Yeah?” he mumbles, “And what does it do?”
His lips descend further down, teasing the lace edges on your bra. You yelp as he nips playfully, “It um, it helps send um…visual stimuli to the brain, right?”
A wicked grin spreads on his face, “That is right, smart girl.” His fingers trace the outline of your bra to the back where he expertly unclasps it, letting it fall to the floor. “You keep getting it right, and I’ll reward you each time, yeah?”
You nod hypnotically, eager to please him and seek his rewards. A soft gasp leaves you as you feel him latch onto your breast, letting his tongue swirl around the peak of your nipple and feeling it harden under his touch. You tighten your arms around him as he latches onto the other breast, moaning softly as he makes sure to give it the same special attention.
You grind your hips down and he lets out a low groan, arm tightening around your waist, suspending your movement. “Can’t do that, sweetheart” he strains, “You gotta earn it.”
Another whine leaves your throat, dropping your head to his neck. He really wasn’t making this easy. “Okay, so ask me something else then.”
His nose brushes up the length of your neck before his hands reach for the notes behind you, “Anterior nuclei of the thalamus.”
Before you get a chance to think about the answer, you’re distracted by his wandering hands again. Only this time, they’re going down towards where you really need him.
“Spence,” you say breathlessly, letting yourself get lost in the pleasure for a moment.
“Nuh uh,” he pauses his ministrations, “Answer first, reward second. I told you the rules, don’t make me repeat it.”
You whimper and Spencer almost folds—almost. But for the sake of your education, and definitely not the way you look perched on his lap, he treks on.
He does feel a little pity and decides to show you a bit of mercy when he motions for you to lift up slightly so he can pull your pajama shorts all the way off.
“That feel better?” he whispers, hot breath fanning your face. You nod hastily. “Okay then. Anterior nuclei of the thalamus.”
“Um…the anterior nuclei is responsible for—“ your breath hitches as his finger traces the edge of your panties. “Memory, right? Hippocampus.” you rush out.
You feel him smile and nod, “Correct,” his finger hooks onto the fabric and pulls it to the side, the cold air not even hitting you before he swipes through your folds.
Your head drops to his shoulder as you let out a shuddering sigh, peppering kisses up his neck as his fingers provide the much needed attentiveness you needed. He chuckles softly, “Just relax. You’re doing good, pretty girl.”
He helps you remove your underwear, maneuvering you so he can smoothly slide them off your legs. His fingers collect the slick and glides up to circle your clit, grinning when he hears you whine loudly. He continues to move across your pussy before retracting his finger while you let out a soft whimper. You’re about to protest when you see the intention of his removal, watching his hand slip below his boxers to gently pull himself out. He gives himself a few pumps before laying flat against his body, guiding your hips so your cunt is flush with the topside of his dick.
He holds your hips down preventing you from moving, “Hypothalamus?”
The cock drunk state is getting to you and he’s not even inside you yet, “It’s a um…it regulates…stuff.” you trail off, his lips returning to your neck.
He sucks another hickey onto your neck, licking over it and pulling back to gently blow on it. “Not good enough,” he whispers, “Try again.”
You whimper, “Okay—Okay, it sends signals for…sympathetic response—fight or flight” the end of your voice lilting up as he begins to move your hips.
“Keep going.”
The sensation of your cunt sliding up and down his length is enough to send you into delirium, and you’re honestly impressed you’re still able to speak. “It also does,” you take a deep breath for regulation, “It signals appetite and eating…and…”
He slides you forward enough so the tip of his cock is barely breaching your entrance, “One more, pretty girl.”
You rack your brain as you try to force yourself to focus, and not think about the way his tip is stretching your opening, teasing you relentlessly. The answer comes to you in a lightbulb moment, “Intercourse,” you moan, “releases hormones for sex.”
Spencer grins again, “Good girl.”
He lifts your hips a little, and the shift in angle is enough to fully slide himself inside you, the feeling causing you both to moan in tandem. The stretch of his cock inside you splits you apart beautifully, making you feel so full.
You whine his name again as you try to move, getting louder when you realize his hands are still clamped to your side, holding you square in place, “Wanna move, please.”
“Oh baby, you know I love it when you use your manners,” he touts, pressing kisses up your chest, “One more question and I’ll give you what you need, okay?”
You nod quickly, waiting impatiently for his last question.
“Tell me the two hormones made in the hypothalamus.” he whispers against your skin.
“I know one is antidiuretic hormone…” you breathe out shakily, “But, there’s one more I can’t remember.”
“I’ll give you a hint.” his hands slowly begin to guide you up and down on him, a languished moan leaving your throat. The feeling of him pushing against your cervix is so detrimentally distracting, like all you’re focused on is the pure euphoria your body is chasing. It’s clouding your judgement, your senses. It’s all consuming as the pleasure spreads throughout you.
Wait.
Oh.
Spencer seems to sense that you’ve reached an answer and thrusts up into you, “Ah—Knew you’d get there. What is it, baby?”
You let out a sharp gasp before answering, “Oxytocin.”
He doesn’t give a verbal praise but his face splits into a wide grin, finally loosening the grip on your hips and allowing you full reign to chase your peak. You brace yourself on his shoulders and increase your pace, his hands returning to your sides facilitating your movements.
“Such a smart girl you are, baby,” he coos, “Taking me so well and getting all the answers right?”
“Spence…”
“You’re just so good, angel. My beautiful, intelligent girl,” he continues to praise, feeling you clench around him, “My good girl, isn’t that right?”
Any and every neuronal connection in your brain is fried at this point, melded down to nothing but atoms at the hands of Spencer Reid, clearly reveling in your fucked out state as evidenced by your incoherent babbling. His hands grip your sides tighter and pulls you harder when you sink down, the sound echoing throughout the study.
“ ‘m close,” you mumble as you slump into his shoulder letting him fully takeover. He stills his movements for a second before standing up with his hands under your legs to sit you on the desk in front of you. Your hands detach from his shoulders and hold you up from behind as you lean back and let Spencer pull your body towards him.
He continues to fuck into you, the new position allowing him better control for calculated thrusts and a faster pace. Words don’t exist in your lexicon anymore and you hope he can understand your babbles as you attempt to communicate with him that your orgasm is about to overtake you entirely.
He knows, obviously, because it’s you. He slides a finger down to your clit to further drive you to the edge, leaning down to whisper, “Come for me, baby. You’ve earned it.”
With a high pitched whine you crash into your peak with the full force of your body, vision temporarily going white before returning in splotchy spots. Spencer comes not too far behind you, fucking the last of his come into you before stilling completely.
You both pant heavily as you try to catch your breaths, and Spencer leans forward to rest his forehead on yours. “You alright?”
“I think you fucked me dumb.”
He laughs breathlessly, “Actually, I think I fucked you smart.”
You swat his shoulder lightly and laugh, “That was so bad.”
He smoothes your hair back before gently pulling out, using your discarded shirt to clean you up a bit. His lips press a kiss to forehead, then your nose, both cheeks, before landing on your lips kissing you deeply.
You pull back suddenly, “Wait, I still have like, five more sections to review.”
Spencer’s wicked grin returns. “Well, we better get to work.” He effortlessly picks you up from the desk as you giggle and wrap your legs around him. He reaches the bedroom and delicately tosses you on the bed, looking down as he stands over you at the edge.
A/N: I’m obsessed with the big useless dick trope from @esote-rika, so here’s my take—featuring a big, useless dick and a loving, overthinking, but oh-so-giving doctor. (not proof read)
Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.
You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.
And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.
"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.
"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.
His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"
His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.
But not tonight.
You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."
His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.
He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."
You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."
"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."
"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."
His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.
"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."
You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.
“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.
Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.
The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”
A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”
You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”
A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.
“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.
That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.
“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.
“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”
His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.
“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.
“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.
Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.
“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”
It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.
Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.
“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.
The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.
Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."
You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."
Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."
He grinned against your skin, pressing another indulgent kiss to your jaw. "What can I say? The data was conclusive."
Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.
pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader
tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!!, drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!
notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.
If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa.
You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.
Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.
You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends.
You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)
“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees.
“Hi.”
“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.
Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.
“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.
“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.
He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.
“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand.
“Why is your casefile in there?”
“Where do you keep yours?”
“I never put it away.”
“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”
“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects.
“You think she did?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later.
You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list.
“He’s gonna focus on me,” you say once he reaches a lull in speech.
“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”
You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out.
“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”
“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”
“There’s not much out there.”
“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”
“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door.
The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.
It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.
–
Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.
The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent.
The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way.
If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.
The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin.
The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach.
You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants.
There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.
“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”
You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed.
“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes.
“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.
“My answer remains.”
“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.
“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.
“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”
“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.
“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.
“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”
“Right.”
It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.
The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven.
The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground.
You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.
Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”
“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”
You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”
“You sound like Hotch.”
You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”
“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.
“You fluster easily.”
“Do I?”
“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”
He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”
“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”
You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived.
“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer.
He smiles, shakes his head no.
Good, you mouth.
You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too.
—
Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.
“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”
“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”
“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”
You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born?
“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat.
“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”
“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”
Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist.
—
“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs.
Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot.
The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down.
“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”
“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”
“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.
“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.
“Not a fan of Iowa?”
“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”
“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.”
“Ridiculous.”
—
You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.
Spencer.
You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa.
You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure.
“Hi?”
“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”
“Much nicer than yours.”
“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”
He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.
“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”
“It’s interesting.”
“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”
“You were asleep?”
You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”
He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you.
He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”
You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”
“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”
“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”
“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”
You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”
He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”
You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”
He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”
You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.
He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”
“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”
You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”
That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.
There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.
“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.
“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”
“Smart,” you say.
He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”
You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”
He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.
You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable.
You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”
Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”
You squint. “It doesn’t?”
“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”
You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”
“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”
“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips.
“God, no.”
You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”
He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”
“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”
“I sensed you were captivated.”
You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”
He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”
You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”
“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”
“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.
You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”
“What?”
“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”
“I’m not really flirting with you.”
You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”
“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”
You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”
It lands like a match.
“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.
“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”
He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question.
He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.
Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.
You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.
But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.
“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.
He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”
He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.
There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.
You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again.
Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you.
“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.
“Fuck?”
“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.
“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.
“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”
“My fucking pleasure.”
“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles.
He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.
His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.
“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him.
“I’m going to. Just stay like that.”
You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.
The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command.
When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug.
“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”
You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.
He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air.
“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.
“No?”
“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”
You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.
He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them.
Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”
He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good.
You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.
His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.
His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs.
When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.
He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm.
“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water.
“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.
“Spencer.”
“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”
“Mhm.”
“What did we say about using our words?”
“To… use them?”
“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.
There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you.
"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."
The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself.
When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.
“Do that again,” you whisper.
“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”
“Needed you.”
“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder.
He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might.
"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.
You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in.
Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.
Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner.
Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
“‘m okay. Are you okay?”
He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Hmm what?’
“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.
“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”
“Pee schmee.”
“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.
“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.
“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.
“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.
“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”
“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”
It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog.
in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs
18+ (smut)
warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex!
a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!
You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there.
How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that.
So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for.
He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”
You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips.
“Fuck—I said slow.”
You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.
Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”
“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”
“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”
“It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more.
Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it.
“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling.
It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching.
“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”
“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”
By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”
You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air.
“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”
Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.
“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”
Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact.
“Please can I go faster?”
Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out.
“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”
You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for.
Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—
“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”
“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”
“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon.
“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion.
Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it.
“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”
“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm.
“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”
And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him.
“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline.
So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”
“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits.
“According to who?”
“According to… I was on top…”
“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”
You whine softly. “No they’re not.”
His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles.
“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”
You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”
“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”
“Hm.”
“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”
And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time.
Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest.
“I’m sleepy.”
“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment.
“I can’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”
“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”
“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”
“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”
“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble.
“Tender?”
“Mhm.”
“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”
“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Lie down.”
Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling.
“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees.
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind.
The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him.
Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway.
“Was that on purpose?”
“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact.
Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair.
“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs.
He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”
The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.
And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.
Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long.
The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind.
In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving.
You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved.
“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed.
You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles.
“Shaky?”
“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”
“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”
“No.”
He sighs good-naturedly.
“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”
“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”
When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”
In which Spencer is not letting his injury stop him from putting you in your place
genre smut (18+)
cw dom!jesus!reid, bratty!reader, teasing from both sides, fight for control, bdsm relations, established relationship, spanking, caning, rough fingering, deep throating, p in v, praise, dirty talk, brat taming, dacryphilia, pet names, talking you through it, mentions of masturbation
wc 4,7k
a/n jesus reid + that mf cane have such a hold on me, i knew i had to write about it. this is also the last kinkfest fic, thank you so much for being here and reading. your support truly is the biggest motivation to write, so if you enjoyed this, please let me know! <3
“I’m bored,” Spencer announces.
You’ve lost count of the number of times he has repeated this sentence in the last couple of hours. Days, even.
Ever since your boyfriend got shot in the leg out on the field — an event that still makes your heart race when you think back on it for too long — he’s been bored. Bored. You’d imagine someone feeling any other way than bored when getting shot, but no, Spencer Reid was bored. Tired of being on bedrest. So tired that he had begged Hotch to join today’s case, which ended up with the both of you stuck in a hotel room.
You had just stepped out of the car, not even close to the destination of the crime scene, when Spencer's limping and whining got the both of you being assigned to the nearest hotel.
Most of the time, you wouldn’t be one to complain about spending the day with Spencer in a luxurious hotel bedroom. But that’s when you’re not taking into consideration that you’re now on research duty and don’t have the time for a boyfriend-shaped distraction.
Turning your head, you find Spencer in the same position you’d left him in when you had entered the room an hour ago. Looking like an ill Victorian child with his upper body propped against a wall of pillows, his injured leg resting on a bundled-up mess of blankets, and a large pout displayed across his face.
You give a small shrug of your shoulders and murmur a “Well, I’m not,’’ before turning back to the tower of case files stacked on top of the narrow desk in front of you. With a flick of your finger, you uncap your yellow highlighter and scan the text to see where you were left off.
“I finished my book.”
Your hand halts in its motion. For a second you close your eyes, composing yourself as you take a steady breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. “You’ve reread it?”
“Thrice.”
“Front to back and back to front?” You question him, like you’re a mother wanting confirmation that her son indeed did his homework.
“Yup,” Spencer answers, popping the p. “Why won’t you let me take a look? You know I can go through those files much faster than you can.’’
Spencer tries sitting up, stifling a groan when a sharp pain courses through his leg.
“That’s why,” you say, pointing your highlighter at him. “Hotch gave me specific instructions to not let you do anything work-related.”
He huffs. “Hotch isn’t a doctor.”
“Neither are you.”
The defense is ready to fly out of his mouth. “I am a–”
“Nuh uh,” you shush him. “Not a medical one. And Dr. Carter — a medical doctor — has also reminded me, just this morning actually, that you need to take two weeks off from doing anything strenuous.”
“Strenuous meaning activities that will increase my heartrate,” he corrects as he slowly lifts himself up on the bed. “Reading reports will not have that effect on me. Actually, complete rest after an injury like this can delay recovery.”
“So, if you don’t mind, I’ll…” His hand reaches out beside him, patting the air in search of his cane. You catch the moment his eyes flicker from the bedside table to the wall next to you, the item he’s looking for right in your possession. “You took my cane?”
You unapologetically hum, giving him a single nod. “That’s what happens when you’re too stubborn for your own good.”
Spencer’s mouth falls open, eyebrows raised in indignation. “I get shot in the leg and you’re being this mean to me? You should be taking care of me.”
A scoff escapes your throat, not being able to help the lines of your mouth from curving into a smile. “I’m your girlfriend, not your nurse.”
He seems to ignore your correction altogether, fingers tapping against each other, and you see the wheels turning in his mind. “I think I know what this is.”
Here we go. With a small sigh you click the cap back on the highlighter and let it drop on the table. “Enlighten me, Reid.”
He pulls a long lock behind his ear, his eyes finding yours across the six feet of distance.
“I think you’re frustrated that I’m the one being taken care of and not you. You miss me taking care of you, and now you’re punishing me for it.” He’s deadpan as he says the words, as confident as he’d be while delivering a profile.
It takes a second for his words to catch up to you, then you let out a loud cackle. “What?”
“I’m not joking,” he continues, sure of his own theory. “When was the last time we had sex?”
Embarrassingly, it took you a while to come up with an answer. It must’ve been longer than two weeks by now. Despite living together, the cases lately had been so energy consuming that neither of you had it in you to make even the slightest bit of movement when you’d lie in bed at the end of the day. And then the leg thing got in your way, of course.
“Some time ago,” you silently mutter.
Spencer nods, having made the mental calculations way before you did. “Considering the case will keep everyone busy for some more hours, we might as well not let this time go to waste.” Spencer says, almost purrs, as his voice drops a notch.
His eyes scan over your figure, unapologetically ogling you. “Do you know how distracting you look when you’re working?”
“Do you know how distracting you are when I’m working?”
The words leave your mouth harsher than they were meant. You open your mouth to soften the blow, but before you could even apologize, Spencer’s expression had shifted. An eyebrow is cocked in surprise, his brown eyes have narrowed shut, and there’s a clear ticking of his jaw.
“Come here.”
Two simple words rolled off his tongue, and you’re already burning up. The heat crawls over your skin, warming your body as it moves up and up until it finds a place to settle on your cheeks. “Spence, I didn’t mean—”
He pats the blankets next to him. The gesture in itself is inviting, gentle, but you’ve known him for long enough to predict what will follow.
“Take the cane and come over.”
The choice is yours. To obey or disobey? That is the question.
“Oh, so you think that’s funny?”
You’re not even aware that the stupid inner thought has caused a small smile to form on your lips until Spencer mentions it. A flicker of anxiety passes through you. You don’t feel as confident in the decision now.
Spencer’s eyes rake over yours, reading your hesitant expression and seeming rather pleased by it.
“Take the cane,” he repeats. “And come over.”
You grab the cane.
Certain objects carry memories: every time you touch your apartment key, you think back on the day Spencer had handed it to you. Every time you feel the soft fur of your childhood plushie, it takes you back to your hometown. Spencer’s cane carries its own memories. Filthier ones.
Just a slight trail of your finger against the smooth wooden handle is enough to remember past events. It almost slips out of your grip by the light layer of sweat that has gathered with your nerves. You know exactly what the cold, curved wooden handle feels like when it brushes against your nipples, can vividly remember the stir of goosebumps it causes when it moves down your spine, and you’ll never forget about the sharp stings it leaves on the insides of your thighs or the plump skin of your ass after a couple of spanks.
Something tells you it’s the latter that you’ll be receiving today.
The creaking of the floorboard goes unnoticed by you, as your heart seems to beat louder with every step that you take toward him. Spencer is seated on the edge of the bed, his legs spread wide in a way that would bother you with anyone that isn’t him. With a sense of shame, you hand him the cane. He accepts it by the other end and then pulls it to him so that you come to stand in between his legs.
Your breath stutters at the eye contact he’s making, hazel eyes taking you in and darkening with every second. You’re holding onto the handle of the cane for dear life when Spencer’s hand slides up your outer thigh, making you feel like you’d fall right through your shaky knees if you didn’t.
His hand slowly travels higher until it pauses at the swell of your ass. He doesn’t take a moment of consideration as he roughly cups the flesh, eliciting a gasp from you.
“You missed this?” He asks in a low groan. “Missed being manhandled like the dirty little brat you are?”
Your throat grows dry. You meet his gaze with wide eyes, watching him like a deer, curious to know what his next move will be. If he’ll take a slow, cautious step forward, or if the attack is already near.
His palm continuously rubs over your ass in slow circles, warming the skin through your pants. You can feel yourself growing wet, embarrassingly so. You want to rub your thighs together to find relief for the throbbing ache between your folds and the slick that’s uncomfortably gathering behind the thin fabric of your underwear.
Spencer’s gaze flicks from the undeniable wet spot that’s starting to form on your pants to your eyes.
“Did you enjoy your time spent alone?”
He catches on to your confusion and elaborates. “I heard you in the shower. It sounded like you had fun on your own.”
The heat in your face rises. You never realized that he had heard. It’s been ages since you’ve reached for one of your sex toys or were desperate enough to make use of the other functions of a showerhead. Spencer was enough to satisfy you — more than enough — but the last few weeks your boyfriend wasn’t able to help you out like he usually would. And him looking that good with his long hair and light scruff and that damn cane had gotten you needy to find release elsewhere.
“Don’t be shy now,” Spencer hummed. “I know you liked getting that sweet pussy stimulated, but we both know it doesn’t come close to the way I can make you feel. I could’ve still helped, you know? Still have a mouth you could ride... Still have my fingers to make you feel good.”
The rasp of his voice leaves a ripple of sparks to your core, which Spencer seems to take notice of, obviously. A cocky smile curves on the edge of his lip, and he tilts his chin up.
“Lay over my lap.”
His voice is certain, a demand — one he knows you can’t reject.
“Spence-“
He tsks. “Come on now, angel. You can’t stand on those shaky legs for much longer.”
It was the truth. There was a magnetic force (or maybe it was just his hand making a “come here” motion that drove you crazy) that pulled you to him, one that you could only fight for so long.
You did as he ordered — your fingers moved to your zipper on instinct. You didn’t make a show out of it, didn’t turn around and slightly bend through your knees to slowly reveal the thin, lacy underwear peeking between your cheeks. Today you didn’t have the patience. With a sharp tug you pull your pants down your legs and find them sticking to your thighs.
It’s not like you didn’t know that you were incredibly turned on, but it always keeps amazing you to find out how wet Spencer can make you just by his words and some slight touches.
“Good girl, that’s it,” Spencer praises. “Now come sit.”
The position comes naturally to you. You pass him the cane and lay yourself on his lap: you place your arms on the mattress, hovering over it with your chest as your stomach and legs lay over his thighs, ass on display.
Spencer hums. “I’ll never grow tired of this sight.”
Butterflies flutter through your stomach as he whispers the words. They only swarm wilder when you feel heat coming from underneath your lower stomach — not from your own body, but from the growing bulge in your boyfriend’s pants that’s pressing up against you.
He traces slow circles over your skin, playing with you in awe. His hand leaves you momentarily, and then it falls back with a sharp sting.
You jolt forward, gasping out a “fuck”.
He gently caresses the stricken spot as a form of apology before giving another slap.
“So sensitive,” he observes. “It’s really been a while if just my hand already has this effect on you.”
You whimper in his grasp, grinding your ass in the air, shamelessly begging him for more.
“What is it that you want?”
The faux cluelessness in his voice makes you want to roll your eyes back and cry out in frustration. He knew exactly what you wanted. You dare say he knows your body even better than you. Still, he always asked you. Not only to confirm your consent, but because he revelled in hearing you speak your filthy wishes out loud. There were few things he liked more than you admitting how badly you wanted him. How you needed him to take you. To claim you.
“Cat got your tongue?”
You glance over your shoulder and catch Spencer smirking down at you. But no matter this cocky exterior, Spencer stays Spencer — the man who still gets flustered when you kiss him in public.
A teasing, wicked smile forms on your lips as you find his eyes. “I want you to grab your cane and spank me until I can count every mark.”
His eyes widen comically, and a few coughs follow that he swallows down.
“I- I can do that.”
His fingers flex around the cane, and he adjusts his grip on it, quickly composing himself. He brings the handle back over your ass and mimics the vexing slow circles of his hand. “Until you see marks,” he mutters to himself.
“Yes, please,” you breathe out in a soft moan.
He lets out a low groan, released from deep in his throat. Then the heavy wood falls sharply onto your skin.
Then again.
And again.
Until a galaxy of stars blurs your vision.
The blows burn deliciously; each spank sends tingles to your core. Your juices are leaking onto his pants at this point, mixing in with Spencer’s arousal where your bodies connect. Proof that this is turning him on just as much, if not more.
“Fuck, angel. You’ll look so perfect with your ass all painted in blacks and blues,” Spencer praises, using his free hand to trace over the marks he’s created on your ass.
“Please, Spencer,” you whisper. “I need more.”
He takes your beg as a command, the cane falling to the ground with a thud, and his now-free fingers immediately find you. He trails them over your thighs and grazes downwards until he cups your heat.
“So soaked already,” he says, satisfaction lacing his voice.
He slips his finger into your underwear, pulling the string. “These don’t have that much use anymore, do they?” He answers himself by pulling it to the side, replacing the fabric with two of his long and slender fingers.
“Oh god, Spence,” you whine, bucking your hips to grind against his fingers.
“How many can you take?” he asks, his breath heavy as two of his digits press against your entrance. “Two?”
To test his theory, he enters you and curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot so easily.
“Three’s more like it,” he corrects himself as he pushes another one in.
Your mind is blurred in white, hot fog. You can’t think nor respond back, just gratefully nod and moan, as those three fingers were exactly what you needed.
Spencer switches between curving his fingertips up — repeatedly hitting your g-spot and making you want to roll your eyes to the back of your skull — and moving them swiftly in and out of your heat, as filthy squelches fill the room.
“You feel so good around my fingers, angel,” Spencer whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Stretching you out for my cock, hm? Want me to fill you up? You want to be full of my cock, sweetheart?”
Spencer shifts underneath you as he says the words, his arousal twitching against your stomach.
“God, yes, Spence. Want it so bad, but—“
The words escape you as he leans forward and places a kiss on top of the curve of your ass. “But what?” He mutters against your skin.
“But— fuck, but…”
He smirks. “Come on, you can say it.”
“But the doctor says—“
“I only care about what my girl says,” he cuts you off with a shush. “Do you want my cock?”
Strenuous activities. Rest. Don’t get his heart rate up…
“Yes, please.”
Before you know it, you have found yourself in a new position. Still stretched out on your stomach, but now between Spencer’s bare legs. He’s propped against the headrest like before and holding out his stiffened cock for you as he lazily gives the length some tugs.
The image was downright obscene but mouthwatering nonetheless. It was similar to vanilla ice cream on a sunny day, his precum melting down from his reddened tip to his thick shaft.
“I think you need to clean me up before I enter you, angel. Don’t want to make a mess on these fresh sheets, do we?”
He tangles his fingers into your hair, holding your scalp as he guides you closer. Your lips part in anticipation, glossed from the sweep of your tongue.
A moan leaves your mouth as Spencer taps the head of his cock gently across your bottom lip, smearing a sticky layer over it.
“Come on, angel. Open up for me...”
You do, opening your mouth further and letting him rest his heavy cock on top of it. You drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft as you take him in. Looking up through your lashes as your eyes slowly start to water. The muscles in his jaw tighten, but the clear relief in his face is undeniable.
“That’s it,” he whimpers in a high-pitched breath as his tip grazes along the roof of your throat.
“Oh, that’s it.” He repeats when you start working a rhythm, bobbing your head along his length. “Just like that.”
He isn’t able to drive his hips into your mouth like he usually would, so instead he presses your head down each time you’re close to taking him all the way in — helping you until your nose is nuzzled against his happy trail, holding you down for a second before easing you up by your hair to let you catch a breath.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” Spencer hisses when you pull off, your swollen lips glistening with saliva from your ministrations.
You giggle, catching your lip teasingly in between your teeth. You run your nails along his thigh, feeling the hairs stand straight in goosebumps, while using your other hand to take hold of his shaft.
Spencer’s legs flinch up when your tongue goes up and down his slit. A grunt of pain leaves his chest from the sudden movement of his injured leg. You hold him down to prevent him from more pain while continuing to work your tongue in quick, steady licks.
He’s trying to hold it together, batting away the small moans and groans that force their way out of his throat. But his composure is swiftly slipping with every hollow of your cheeks as you suck harder and faster — taking away his sense of control.
He hisses through his teeth and tightens his grip on your hair. “That’s enough.”
You hum around him, letting him know you’ve heard loud and clear, but choose to ignore the warning as you keep bobbing your head.
A guttural moan sounds, one that has your chest filling with lust and pride.
“I said that’s enough,” Spencer repeats as he tugs you up.
He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath as he presses his thumb in between your lips. He shakes his head in disbelief as you happily wrap and swirl your tongue around the digit. “Fuck. Such a sweet, horny girl, aren’t you? Always need something in your mouth.”
For a moment (that felt like eternity to you, you simply watched each other. Your eyes speak, reminding each other of the safety and trust that you both feel when being this close. Are you enjoying it? His hazel ones ask. You give a small nod of your head, and Spencer understands.
“Get up.”
Your knees scramble over the mattress as you sit up. With a swish of your arms, strip yourself of your shirt and bra. In the time that the items of clothing have dropped beside you, Spencer is bare too. His chest is flushed in pink and painted with small brown birthmarks that you can’t admire for long, as his warm hands reach out to cup the skin where your hips meet your waist as he draws you closer.
“You want to take control?” He whispers against your lips.
A moan hugs in between your intertwined lips as you kiss him back in response.
“Ride me then.”
Keeping your lips on his, you slowly sink down his length. Spencer steadies your hips with his hands, but he doesn’t guide you. Letting you tackle this on your own.
“That’s it,” he murmurs as he watches himself fill you up inch by inch. “Look at you, baby. Such a big girl taking all of my cock all by yourself.”
Heat spreads low in your belly as he stretches you out. Your thighs are shaking by the time his body meets yours, and you wonder if he’s experiencing the same sweet torture from you putting your weight on his injured leg.
Spencer shifts his hands to your shoulders. Holding you there, and then he —
“Ah, Spencer!”
The whimper gets knocked out of you as Spencer pushes you further down on his cock — making you realize you missed an inch until you could now feel his trimmed pubic hair tickling against your folds.
“Mm, there you go,” he praises, licking his lips. His gaze is intently fixed on your body, connecting with his, as not a single fraction of space is keeping you apart.
You whimper again. You feel so full. And full is good. Full is fucking good. But only for some seconds before you need him to move. But that won’t happen. No, not with his injury. You’re in charge, just like he said.
With large hands he’s cupping your cheeks, pressing them softly together to get you to pout.
“Come on, honey. You got to work for that cock.”
You tighten your fingers around his shoulders, palms flat on his chest, as you clumsily lift yourself up on your trembling knees that are seated on each side of his body. With uneven moves of your body, you try to roll your hips in a nice pattern, trying to find that sweet spot that Spencer manages to find in a second. But failing.
“Take your time.” He encourages, folding his hands behind his head as he watches you with a smirk.
“Not funny.”
“Not funny, but very entertaining.”
You adjust yourself again, your knees sliding against the white blankets as you try riding him again. This time lifting yourself up and slowly dropping back down. It feels good enough; your wetness makes it easy for his cock to slip in and out of you. Still you weren’t satisfied. Maybe Spencer spoiled you too much, to the point where nothing could satiate the throbbing need in your core but him taking control.
“Spence?”
He lifts his brow ever so slightly. “Hm?”
A small, frustrated noise escapes you as you nod your head to your intertwined bodies.
“Giving up so quickly?” He teases, already knowing the answer.
It’s too embarrassing to admit out loud, so you just nod.
Then his hands move.
You gasp when he grips you by the ass and tilts you over, your body hovering over his as you plant your arms on each side of his head on the pillow.
Your breath catches as his palms slap against your ass, reigniting the sharp burn from his cane. There’s no warning as he lifts your cheeks up and slams you back down on his cock — using his strength to bounce you on top of him, since he can’t use his legs to pound into you like he usually would.
“Fuck, Spencer!” You cry out in the crook of his neck.
“Nuh uh, no hiding. Let me see you. Let me see how I make you feel.”
You weren’t planning to, not with your eyes all watery and your expression showing a raw, messy need that would stroke his ego way too much (even though he deserved all the praise).
He squeezes your ass, harshly enough for you to obey his command and face him.
“Oh, does that hurt?” He pouts. “Is your ass still so sore?”
You whimper a yes. Large, clear tears rolling down your cheeks like they’re a paid actor.
“God, look at you,” Spencer breathes out in awe, looking like he’s trying to memorize every expression on your face in vivid detail. “Taking me so well, angel.”
It didn’t feel like you were taking it well. You felt like a fucked-out mess as Spencer dragged you up and down his cock at a devastatingly fast speed.
“Tell yourself, sweetheart. You’re taking my cock so well.”
You lick your lips that have turned dry and nod. “I-I’m taking it.”
“So well, huh?”
Another nod. “Taking your cock so well.”
Spencer lifts you again and drops you as your hips meet in a filthy, wet slap. You bite back a cry, instead letting a just as filthy moan of his name fill the room.
“That’s my girl, looking so pretty when I’m doing the work,” Spencer groans in pride. One hand slides up your spine as he pulls you flush against him. Hard nipples meeting his sweat-slicked chest.
“Oh, I can come like this, baby.”
The way he whispers it into your ear and instantly presses his lips to the side of your face has you exploding in both pleasure and adoration.
“Let me feel it, angel. Come around my cock like this.” He urged you on as you clenched around him. Your climax tears through you in hot, sharp waves, taking you under and making you feel as light as a feather. Spencer’s deep and slowing thrusts almost lulling you to sleep.
“Oh, oh, oh.”
Spencer’s cock slips out of you, and he paints the sensitive flesh of your lower back.
“So good, sweetheart. So good.” He whispers against your temple, marking the words with a kiss. And another, as he kisses his way from your cheek to your plump-kissed lips.
Orgasm-stricken and exhausted, you decide to stay where you are — comfortable with your head on his chest, gratefully accepting your boyfriend’s soft kisses.
You don’t need a blanket with the way he’s keeping you warm. His hands roaming from your ass to the other parts of your body, rubbing your skin up and down and working like your own personal heater.
“I don’t wanna get up,” you mutter in a disappointed groan as you hear the ticking of Spencer’s watch and are reminded of the unfinished stack of papers on the desk.
“I think I’ve proven to you I feel good enough to read some files.”
“God,” you groan against his neck. “We shouldn’t have done that, I probably have ruined all of your progress.”
Spencer chuckles, moving you as his chest shakes in warm laughter. “I think this was the best motivation I could get to get better as soon as possible.”
Summary: you never knew how much your boyfriend has been a stickler for discipline, you have to find out the hard way after talking back to your boyfriend.
Pairing: post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: smut (duh), unprotected sex (wrap your willy don’t be silly!), spencer is ‘punishing’ the reader, overstimulation, edging, cursing, spencer is kind of a dom, spanking mentioned but no spanking, minors dni!!
Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.
It had been an innocent comment. Or rather, you thought it had been an innocent comment—a totally innocent comment. You didn’t even think he heard it at first, mainly because he showed no indication of reaction. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t looked up from the conversation he was having with Luke. If he had reacted, you missed it entirely, too busy laughing along with Emily and JJ.
“You know what he’s like,” you had said, fork tapping your plate, eyes mischievous. “Everything’s got to be neat, scheduled, color-coded. I swear, if I ever misplace a book, I think he’d put me in time-out.”
A few chuckles went around the table. Even Garcia giggled, raising her glass in faux agreement. “That's the good doctor," she had said, “you gotta love ‘him!” You thought nothing of it.
Until much later.
Until the quiet car ride home, when Spencer kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting calmly on your thigh—but said nothing.
Until you realized he hadn’t kissed you goodbye when the team split for the night.
And now, standing in your shared apartment, coat half-off and keys still dangling from your fingers, you finally turned to him. “Spence?” you ask, a crease forming between your brows. “Are you okay?”
He shuts the door behind him with a soft click. Turns the lock. His movements are slow. Intentional. “I am,” he says calmly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
You relax an inch. “Okay, good. You were too quiet on the way back and I thought—”
“You thought what?” Spencer asks, interrupting you midway through, and shocking you into silent submission. “That I would be mad because you said something so inherently disrespectful in front of my colleagues?” His voice is low, measured, but it’s also dangerously calm.
You blink, taken aback. “Spence, I didn’t mean it like that. It was just a joke—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he cuts you off again, and whilst the use of the pet name would normally calm you down, he says it with such condescending sweetness that it sends a chill down your spine instead. His eyes lock onto yours, unreadable, sharp with something that makes your stomach twist—not quite anger, but control. “I know you didn’t mean it, it was a joke, was it?” You nod, but it’s an empty one. Like, as if you don’t know how to answer him, and lost in your own thoughts.
A breath catches in your throat.
He reaches for your coat and slides it off the rest of the way, folding it neatly over the back of the chair before turning his gaze back to you.
“You think you can say things like that with no consequences?” he asks, tone deceptively soft now, like he’s genuinely curious. “You think you get to mock me in front of people and then come home like nothing happened?”
“I wasn’t mocking you, I—”
“You were,” he says simply.” Your stomach flutters. You know that tone. It’s not quite angry—Spencer rarely ever yells, but it’s firm. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that makes your knees weak. “But it’s okay, that just means that I need to remind you a few things, isn’t that right?”
Another hollow nod later, and he keeps to his word.
One second you were standing there, wide-eyed and flushed, and the next you were on your back on your shared bed, legs pushed up to your chest. Your cheeks are wet, though whether it’s from the flush blooming across your skin or the way he’s so thoroughly unraveled you, you’re not sure. Your chest rises and falls with every shaky inhale, your limbs folded together, your voice reduced to a soft, needy whimper.
His hand rests on your thigh again, same as it had in the car, except this time, there’s no softness behind it. Just weight. Pressure. Spencer leans forward, his breath brushing over the shell of your ear as he speaks, voice low. “I take care of you, don’t I?” he murmurs, fingertips skating just under the hem of underwear that has stuck to your weeping cunt. “I give you everything. I protect you. And all I ask in return is a little respect.”
You nod quickly, breath catching again. “I do respect you, Spence—” The way he drags his cock through your wet folds, tucked under the material of your soaked underwear cuts you off unexpectedly. It feels good—it always does, but you know he’s not going to give into you that easily this time.
He tsks softly, like a disappointed teacher, shaking his head as he ruts his hips just enough to make you gasp. The way his tip brushes over your clit steals the breath out of your lungs. “Respect,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Isn’t making fun of me in front of our friends. It isn’t talking about how I organize things like it’s some kind of flaw. You know how hard I work to keep everything in order… so that you feel safe. So that we’re okay.” He pauses for a second, and you whine to let him know that you want him to continue.
When he eventually starts to move his hips again, it’s slow. Deliberate. Each shallow grind is designed not to satisfy but to tease—to remind you that he’s still in control. You shudder beneath him, hands grasping at the sheets, your breath coming in shaky little bursts. He’s not only torturing you, but he’s also torturing himself at this point. Your panties are soaked not only because of how wet you’ve become, but also because though he has not let you come, you’ve watched your boyfriend come twice now. Each thrust of his hips is a calculating move, they are designed not to satisfy you, but to tease. A Spencer Reid-level precision applied to the art of your unraveling.
Your underwear is an afterthought now, ruined fabric clinging damply to the mess he’s made of you. He pushes it aside like it’s nothing, like it’s just a minor obstacle in his lesson. He takes his teasing a step further, letting the tip of his cock press into you; the theme of the evening present even now, just enough to tease, but not enough to satisfy. You let your dissent known as you whine, the sound half-despair, half-need, your hips instinctively tilting upward to chase more of him. But Spencer doesn’t budge—doesn’t give in, doesn’t soften. He watches you, eyes flicking between your flushed face and the slick mess between your thighs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs again, and this time the condescension is tinged with something darker. “You don’t get to be greedy right now.”
You whimper in protest, thighs twitching under the weight of his hand. He’s still got you pinned, spread open, aching, and completely at his mercy. His other hand, steady and sure, traces a lazy circle over your clit, barely enough to give relief. Your hips jerk instinctively, and he tightens his grip just enough to make a point. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I know,” he says, and this time, it’s not condescending or cold—it’s just soft. Honest. “You did so well,” he whispers in that one voice that makes all the praise you ever receive from him melt straight through your skin. He leans forward, threading his fingers through your hair in an attempt to calm your erratic breathing. “So good for me.” Your breath stutters in your throat at the warmth in his voice, the way his fingers are still gently threading through your hair like he’s lulling you into something sweet. Safe. “But,” he adds, tilting your chin so you're looking directly into those intense, amber-brown eyes, “that wasn’t your real punishment, was it?”
Your eyes widen just slightly. He notices. “But,” you whisper, voice shaky as you feel the tears that threaten to spill, “I was good.”
Spencer hums thoughtfully near your ear, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “You want more?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. He can feel it—how desperately your body reacts to him, how pliant you become under his gaze, his hands, his words.
Your voice is barely more than a whisper. “Yes.”
His lips ghost over your jaw, just enough to make your skin erupt in goosebumps. “Then ask me nicely.”
You swallow hard, the heat rising in your chest again—part embarrassment, part anticipation. You know what he’s doing. He’s not punishing you. Not really. He’s reminding you in the way he knows you need it most. “Please, Spence,” you breathe. “Please… I want more.”
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his eyes catching yours in a look that tells you two things. One, he is not going to let you off easy. And two, he wants to hear you say it—explicitly. Wants you to admit out loud just how thoroughly he’s undone you.
You hesitate for only a moment, your pride warring with your need, but it’s no real competition. Not when he’s still barely inside you. Not when his fingers are still ghosting over your clit with maddening restraint. Not when every inch of your body is crying out for him, and you are pushed so far off the edge that you literally can’t take it anymore. “I want you,” you whisper, your voice cracking with the weight of need. “I want you to fuck me, please. I want all of you.”
That earns you a small, satisfied sound from the back of his throat. His hand tightens around your thigh, parting them so that he can slot himself between, and then—finally—he gives you what you’ve been aching for. His movements are still measured, but just a smidge deeper now, though they are still shallow in a way that makes you want to cry. Steady. Every roll of his hips, every shift of his weight, feels calculated. “There she is,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip, dragging it down ever so slightly. “That’s my good girl.”
He pushes into you, slowly, inch by inch, his eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every expression, every gasp and flutter of your lashes, as if he doesn’t already know you like the back of his hand. Your back arches, a low moan tearing from the back of your throat. “Spence—”
“I know,” he breathes, voice rough as he bottoms out, staying there for a moment that feels like forever. “I know, baby.” And when he finally begins to move, deep thrusts that leave no space for you to think, it’s not punishment anymore. He's devouring you—not with teeth or tongue, but with the weight of his body, the way he fills you so perfectly, like your body was made to take him.
Each thrust is deep and thorough, dragging moans from you that don’t sound like words anymore—just pieces of you, falling apart with every roll of his hips. Your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you, but even that feels too far away. He’s pressing you into the mattress, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll wear his fingerprints tomorrow.
“You feel that?” he pants, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “That’s mine. All of this you—you belong to me.”
You nod feverishly, the confession tumbling out in a whisper: “Yours, I’m yours.”
And Spencer groans—low, broken, like the words physically hit him somewhere deep. His mouth finds your throat, kissing, nipping, sucking until you’re crying out again, and he’s murmuring “that’s right, good girl” against your skin. Your hands scramble to hold onto him—shoulders, biceps, the sheets—anything to tether yourself to the way he’s making you feel. Your head tips back, breath catching in your throat as he starts to lose himself in you, hips snapping harder now, his grunts falling hot against the crook of your neck.
“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin as he picks up the pace. “You know that? Talking back, making jokes like that… knowing damn well what it does to me.”
You mewl in response, legs tightening around him. “I didn’t mean to, Spence, I swear I wasn’t—”
“I know,” he growls, cutting you off, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he collects himself again, burying his face in the space between your shoulder and pillow. “I know. You didn’t mean it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t have to remind you who you belong to.” A sharp whimper escapes your lips as his hand trails down between you, fingers circling your clit with practiced ease—fast and rough in contrast to the way his thrusts have slowed again, dragging out the pressure in long, aching waves. “Say it,” he demands, voice thick with strain. “Say who you belong to.”
“You! Spencer—it’s you,” you gasp, sobbing the words now as your body coils tight around the threat of release. “I belong to you.”
“That’s right.” He kisses you then—messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth like he can’t stand to be apart for even a second. “Mine.”
It builds again, this time harder, sharper, and when it finally crashes over you, it’s like a dam breaking—your entire body clenching around him with a cry so guttural you almost don’t recognize your own voice. He groans deep in his chest, stuttering his hips once, twice, then comes with a broken whisper of your name, spilling inside you as he holds you tight, like the only thing anchoring him to earth.
The room is silent save for the sounds of your mingled breaths, your fingers still digging into the strong line of his back as he collapses gently against you, careful not to crush you. For a long time, neither of you says a word. You are tangled in each other, bodies slick with sweat and trembling, and so, so sated.
Then finally, he shifts just enough to kiss your temple, his voice hoarse but gentle. “No more jokes like that in front of the team.”
You huff a breathless laugh, nuzzling into his chest. “I think I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Huh,” he laughs softly, giving you a funny look, “I haven’t even gotten to the part I spank you with one of the books you misplaced.”
“You—what?” You sputter out a laugh, looking at him for answers with widened eyes. “You are a menace, Spencer.”
His lips twitch into a smirk as he leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “A well-organized menace,” he murmurs, voice still rough with the remnants of what you’d just shared. “Don’t forget that part.”
“Right,” you echo, breath hitching as his fingers tighten just slightly on your waist, “how could I forget—correctional behavior is kind of your love language.”
you ask spencer a question about breath play. he gives you a lecture, a safety demonstration, and a mind-shattering orgasm. in that order.
pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, AFAB, reader wearing a skirt, breath play, choking (consensual), fingering, dirty talk, praise, experimentation, soft dom reid, power exchange, pet names, 75% smut and 25% love letter to spencer reid's fingers
wc: 4.1k
He’s torturing you. Actually, genuinely torturing you. Spencer Reid, certified genius, closeted sadist, worst man on Earth.
Except, well, obviously, he isn’t. You would qualify him as your favorite person in existence on any given day, and therein lies half the problem.
Because right now, he’s just sitting there, reading, while his fingertips scrap absent-minded shapes along the slope of your neck. Each harmless pass managing to turn your thoughts to mush and bones to jelly.
At this point, you’re convinced you’re less a person and more a limp collection of nerves slumped against his side, pretending (poorly, might you add) to watch a show you mentally abandoned about ten minutes ago.
You’re too busy contemplating just how blatantly you’d need to behave to distract him from those words and coax him into pursuits you deem far more exciting. Pursuits that involve significantly more touching.
His grasp on you briefly firms, just a heartbeat of strain if that.
You know it was surely accidental, but your body can’t compensate for the difference. You try to swallow the intrusion of indecent thoughts like sour medicine.
The dose doesn’t take.
You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be pinned beneath him, discovering firsthand the perfect contradiction that is Spencer’s innate gentleness and the strength you’re suddenly craving from his hands.
You’re not crazy for this, you reassure yourself desperately. He’s safe. He’s the literal personification of comfort, disguised in scholarly tweed and tender kisses.
Fantasizing him into something rougher, a little less cautious... it doesn't cancel that out. It just colors it deeper. Some might consider it acceptable, even. Right?
“Spence?”
“Hmm?” He answers preoccupiedly, the pad of his finger wetting against his tongue before flipping another page.
“What do you, um… what do you know about breath play?”
You hate the way your throat tightens immediately as the question leaves your mouth. (The universe is a huge fan of irony, you’ve discovered.)
“You know I love when you ask me questions,” he begins slowly. “But something tells me this one isn’t purely theoretical.” His regard eases as his eyes track over your shoulders, now curving inward. “Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
You could try to pretend otherwise, but you’ve come to realize, faking it is futile with Spencer. You’re sure he already knows. He’s had months to figure you out, and he treats that like a privilege — just one he’s very good at using to his advantage.
“Alright, sweetheart. Enlighten me. What exactly has you curious?”
You flap your hand, unsure what you’re even trying to say with it, and instantly feel ridiculous. Silly even.
But Spencer smiles like he thinks you’re charming and suddenly your embarrassment feels a little less terminal.
“I guess like, what’s the science behind it? Is it an adrenaline thing? A psychological thing? Or is it just, you know… a thing?”
Spencer’s hand drops from your neck, sliding to rest on your shoulder instead. It’s not exactly abrupt, but it’s unexpected enough to spark a little twinge of disappointment that sneaks out in the form of a tiny frown.
You hurry to erase it, but not fast enough.
“I only moved my hand,” he clarifies, “because I don’t want to introduce any external variables into this discussion.”
You stare, brows pinching together. “External variables?”
“Yes.” He nods. “If I kept touching your neck while describing breath play, I'd risk subconsciously steering your reactions. Maybe stirring up curiosity, maybe aversion, or maybe something more complicated. Removing the physical cue ensures you form your opinion independently.”
You squint at him. “That’s… weirdly considerate. And possibly a tiny bit intense, Professor.”
“It’s an intense topic.”
“Oh. Right. Guess that tracks.”
He’s got that look now, that particular smile he only pulls out when you’ve made him laugh without intending to. You should feel annoyed. You’re not. It's more like lucking into treasure when you were content sifting through scraps.
“Okay, so… think of it like this,” he starts, already slipping into that half-professor, half-boyfriend tone. “When you restrict airflow, even briefly, your body interprets it as a stressor. That triggers a fight-or-flight response. Your heart rate spikes, adrenaline kicks in, and your brain releases dopamine to counteract the stress.”
He pauses slightly, eyes searching yours to ensure you’re still with him. You are, mostly. Enough, anyway.
“That dopamine rush is what makes it feel so good to some people. It’s the same principle behind things like sky-diving or high-intensity workouts, the brain perceives a mild, controlled threat and rewards you with a chemical high.”
You open your mouth to interrupt but Spencer’s lips are already curling into a sideways grin, like he’s already one step ahead of you.
“And before you ask, yes, it’s completely safe when done correctly. The key is control. It’s never about actual danger, just the illusion of it.”
You hesitate for a second, then ask, “I mean… how do you know when someone’s doing it right versus, like, actively trying to murder you?”
“First of all, it shouldn’t feel aggressive or sudden. You should feel an edge of intensity without genuine fear or distress. Your body’s reactions shouldn’t tip over into panic or actual pain.” He leans forward, his proximity suddenly sharpened. “And secondly, it has to be with someone you trust implicitly. This isn’t the sort of activity you’d want to try after a few drinks at a questionable frat party.” He lifts a brow. “Selfishly, I’d much rather you not explore something this delicate with anyone but me.”
“Spencer.”
“Just being responsible, angel,” he says lightly, completely unrepentant as he dips forward, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’d hate to imagine you in the inexperienced hands of someone less qualified.”
You press your lips together, glaring in a way you hope reads as stern instead of hopelessly flustered. “Don’t make fun.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Which, given his shit-eating grin, is an outright lie. His hand finds your knee and squeezes. “Any other pressing questions?”
“Have you ever done it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” You fumble momentarily, grasping to find footing that doesn’t involve imagining him with someone else. “Um, so, was it — did you like it?”
He tugs your knee a little closer. “I think you’re asking because you hope my experience will give you some clarity about your own feelings.”
You freeze, because, well, yeah, that’s exactly what you were doing. And hearing it out loud makes it harder to dodge.
“The thing is,” he continues softly, patiently, “my answer won’t really help, sweetheart. My role is fundamentally different, both physically and psychologically, from yours. You're the one feeling the rush. I’d be the one carefully controlling it.” He tilts his head, studying your reaction. “What you need to ask yourself is how the idea itself makes you feel.”
You stare down at your hands, willing an answer to manifest. But the truth is, you don’t have one.
Everything you know about this is secondhand. The way your friends talk about it, joking over drinks like it’s no big deal. The way it’s portrayed in movies, always intense and dramatic. The way a passage in a book makes you pause, reread it over again, just to be sure.
But all of that is distant, safely removed from your actual life. None of it feels like you.
“It’s complicated,” you admit, squirming under his gaze. “It feels interesting in theory. Like, hypothetically exciting. But actually enjoying it? That’s still an enormous, intimidating question mark.”
Spencer’s eyes flick over you once, assessing, before he nods.
“Alright,” he says. “Well, this is a safe, controlled environment. We can take it step by step, nice and logical, okay?”
You nod quickly — probably too quickly. Spencer’s mouth twitches, but he’s kind enough not to call you on it.
His hand moves back to one side of your neck.
“Let’s start by narrowing it down,” he continues, “If I touched you right here —” his voice dipping intimately, “— what’s the first thing you feel? Excited? Nervous? Both?”
Spencer’s hand is cold, just on the edge of uncomfortably so, but by now, you’ve learned to anticipate it.
The first time, he’d explained away the chill, intertwining your fingers while he launched into a gentle explanation about blood vessels, circulation, and temperature regulation, as if medical jargon might warm you up faster. Your dazed, crush-drunk state had earnestly tried to soak up every word.
The second time, however, there had been no hope of retaining anything. His fingers tracing circles around your clit, whispering against your neck something vaguely scientific — vasoconstriction, maybe? — the words entirely lost beneath your own breathy sighs.
Maybe some responsible corner of your brain caught it and tucked it away for later. But right now, all you can feel is the heat flooding your skin, surging up to meet those same chilly fingers, smothering any hope of remembering a damn thing.
You wet your lips. “Yeah, I…I think I like it.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Think?”
You try to swallow, but it’s clumsy. Like your brain forgot how, his touch is so light, it barely registers, and you're honestly not even sure he is touching you or if your brain's inventing it, already drunk on the idea.
“I do like it,” you clarify quickly, ears burning. “But it’s not like you’re doing anything unusual yet.”
“That's because I’d rather ease you into it than overwhelm you.”
His eyes remain locked with yours as he slowly adjusts his hand, four fingers resting on one side of your neck, thumb curving around to the opposite side.
“And this? How does this make you feel?”
You don’t plan to react, but your breath tangles mid-inhale, catching on something sharp. Too fast in, not enough out.
Your fingers tap aimlessly against your thigh, unsure where to go, what to do with all this feeling and nothing to burn it on.
Spencer must notice, because a second later, his free hand finds yours, cold fusing with warm.
“I like the weight of it,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice. “Feels… assertive. In a good way.”
Spencer hums before leaning in, close enough for you to see where his lashes clump at the tips, impossibly dark.
“Yeah, it probably does feel that way,” he says, thumb brushing under your ear. “Doesn’t mean I’m trying to take control. Just means I like knowing I have your attention.”
You almost laugh. He has your attention, your focus, your heart, and a few other things you probably shouldn’t name. But you just nod like he’s not entirely right.
“What now?”
“That depends on you,” he says. “We can take the next step, and I can apply gradual pressure to let you experience the sensation, monitor your response.” His eyes drag over your face. “Or we can pause. Talk it through. Or we can stop.” A squeeze to your hand. “There’s no wrong answer.”
“I want to take the next step,” you say, trying to hide the urgency. “But I might not react the way I’m supposed to.”
“There’s no supposed to,” he says, thumb sweeping over your wrist. “You don’t have to react in any particular way. We’re just exploring. No expectations.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Just… talk me through it?”
“Always.”
His fingers tighten. Just a little. Almost like a symphony getting louder, but one instrument, one beat at a time. You don’t breathe, just to feel it better.
“Let’s stay here a second. Let you get used to it.”
The size of his hand dwarfs your throat, fingers splayed wide directly over your jugular, encompassing delicate skin and fragile bone.
You’re not blind to the strength of him. But what strikes you is the control he exercises over it. The ease with which he could hurt and instead chooses to draw out something else entirely. Every move angled towards pleasure, not power.
He’s studying you now. You know it without meeting his gaze. You can feel the scrutiny everywhere, razor-sharp eyes stripping back every layer you thought you were hiding. Measuring. Tracking.
But you realize it’s more than just simple observation. It’s also craving, masked behind patience.
“Still okay?”
You nod.
“Alright I’m gonna tighten a bit. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He thumb sweeps over your windpipe without closing off any air. Your thighs clamp together accordingly, locking around your joined hands.
Spencer laughs, not at you, never that, but with the same quiet pride he gets when one of his obscure theories turns out to be correct.
Trust you to be another equation effortlessly solved by his clever fingers.
His hand slips from yours, redirecting to nudge your legs apart, stern enough that resistance doesn’t even cross your mind.
As he nestles between your thighs, you wonder if maybe you were purpose-built for this. Shaped by fate into the perfect receptacle for Spencer. It’s not the most absurd thought you’ve had when it comes to him.
“You know why this works?” His voice dips into something possessive, fingers kneading into the plush give of your thighs, sliding upward, a constellation of goosebumps being left in their wake. “Because you like knowing I could keep you here, but also knowing I’d never have to.”
You’ll never understand it — how Spencer manages to reach into the depths of your mind, extracting the exact words there, murmuring them back to you as though they were born on his tongue.
Your hips shift restlessly beneath him, craving friction you hadn’t even consciously acknowledged, your skirt climbs higher, revealing inch by betraying inch of skin without an ounce of remorse.
Spencer’s gaze falls instantly, eyes growing heavy, pupils expanding into endless darkness, mirroring the ache brewing inside you.
“I’m going to introduce something called intermittent restriction, okay?” he says. “That means I’ll apply pressure for just a few seconds, long enough for your brain to notice, but not long enough to make you light-headed. Then I’ll release. That cycle, restriction and releasing, triggers a rush of oxygen back into your system.”
His mouth finds your jaw, so softly that the rush of your pulse seems premature.
“Your nerve endings will become hypersensitive, responsive to even the slightest touch.” And just to prove a point, his fingertips slip between your thighs, tracing fire over already scorching skin. “This, for example,” he whispers, “will feel ten times as intense.”
The pressure on your throat fades as his hand shifts upward, finding a new home cradling the back of your neck, fingertips twining through your hair.
You’re left staring at his mouth, every heartbeat a fervent prayer — kiss me, please, please, kiss me.
Then, slowly, he tilts your chin upward, sweetening your unspoken wish.
When he draws away, your breath trembles, coming in shattered fragments. Your vision dims slightly at the edges, leaving only Spencer in vivid clarity.
“Is that something you’d like me to do?”
“Yes,” you breathe, everything in you reaching. “Yes, please.”
He nods slowly, pressing a kiss to your nose.
“Good. You know the safe word, but if you can’t talk and want me to stop, just tap my wrist twice.” He demonstrates against your neck. “The second it stops feeling good, we stop. No explanations needed.”
His hand settles again at the column of your throat, fingertips fitting into the tender hollow beneath your jawline. He tilts your head back, and for a second all you can think about is how exposed you are. The weird crease on your collarbone. That one spot that gets blotchy when you’re turned on.
You wonder if he sees all of it. If he likes all of it.
He looks at you like none of it surprises you. Like he expected every detail and already decided it was his favorite part.
“What if I do it wrong? Like, should I be —?”
“Hey,” he soothes, thumb gently rubbing slow circles against the underside of your chin. Gentle kisses trail along the line of your jaw toward your ear. “You can’t do anything wrong.” He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging. “Just relax and let me do all the work, angel.”
“Oh,” you exhale quietly as every part of you goes warm and liquid.
“That’s it,” Spencer murmurs. “There’s my girl. You ready?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, “love you.”
His smile deepens, fondness glowing through him as he bumps your chin with his nose. “Love you.”
His breath is minty when it brushes yours again, tinged with that strange clove candy he orders from some European site. You’re still trying to place it when his hand moves — and just like that, you’re out of air.
It should set off alarms, should terrify you, but strangely all it does is strip away the noise, everything crystallizing.
It’s exactly like the first morning after you fell asleep beside him, waking up in tangled limbs, realizing you’d never truly rested before him, the world realigning itself in high definition, as though you’d finally found the perfect pair of glasses after years of blurry half-truths.
Time seems to move in slow motion, each elongated second stretching into something much more infinite. When his fingers ease up, you feel the air whoosh back into your lungs, somehow sweeter than before.
“Good girl,” Spencer praises softly, lips curving into a smile you can feel even with half-closed eyes. “How did that feel for you?”
You pause. “I think I need a little more evidence before I can give a definitive answer.”
You conveniently omit just how much you liked it. How every cell in your body is quietly pleading for him to do it again, and soon. Immediately, if possible. Though judging by the look in his eyes, you’re not exactly fooling anyone.
“Ah,” he chuckles softly, thumb stamping over your bottom lip, “spoken like a true scientist.”
“Well,” you breathe, “there are worse traits I could’ve picked up from you.”
His fingers squeeze around your throat once more.
You’re dimly aware that his other hand has taken up occupancy on your thigh. How long had it been there? Five seconds? Five years?
Both seem plausible, neither important. It’s there, and your lower half is already chasing the feeling, searching in desperate little movements. Anything — his palm, the couch cushion, a miracle — would suffice to ease the fever spreading through your hypoxic brain down to the sticky heat between your legs.
His fingers skim down to the edge of your panties just as his grip on your throat dissolves. One sensation gives way to the other, making it impossible to know where relief ends, and desire begins.
You, however, don’t take the opportunity to gasp for breath. Instead, you chase Spencer’s lips, gifting him your last lungful of air in a kiss that is decidedly messy and anything but falling under the category of graceful. He takes your clumsy devotion in stride, hands moving to haul you tighter against him, slotting your legs tighter around his waist.
You pull back only when your body calls for it, not your heart. And when you do, your head spins a little, most likely oxygen-related, but it feels more Reid-related.
His mouth lingers barely an inch from yours. “Take a deep breath for me, angel.”
One shallow inhale, and then it’s gone. But it doesn’t matter, because his fingertips are dipping beneath your panties in the same motion, stroking through your folds, dragging pleasure through you so intensely, you’re scared you’ll break apart right then and there.
He was right, you’re so unbearably sensitive, nerves bursting open beneath his touch, each one catching like a spark on dry glass, spreading before you can stop it.
He clicks his tongue softly, clearly pleased. “Look at you, making such a mess for me.”
There’s nothing rushed about the way he moves, but your body doesn't seem to know that. Frantic anyway, trembling anyway, gasping like he himself is a trap you’ve willingly walked into.
He doles out air like it’s been earned, a mercy, always paired to the slow tease of his finger gliding up and down your folds, spreading you open, painting your clit with everything he’s pulled from you.
He gives you just the tip of his index, barely inside, and then pulls back like he's punishing you for wanting more than he offered.
You’re soaked now. Slick enough that it’s starting to drip where your pelvis meets his thighs, a growing mess that’s probably already bled through to the couch.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear everything running through that beautiful head.”
“I’m not — there’s not much going on up there,” you confess. “Just need your fingers. ”
“You have them,” he says.
“Inside,” you whimper. “Need you inside.”
He releases your throat just as his finger slides in.
“That’s what you needed, huh?” He smirks. “You sound so pretty when you beg for it.”
And your body answers for you, clenching around the intrusion, like it’s trying to hold onto him, pull him closer, keep him.
You used to watch his fingers like a secret obsession. Long before he’d ever touched you. The slope of his knuckle, the faint ridge of old scars, the exact spacing between his middle and index finger — you’d count it, like maybe the detail meant something.
Now one of them is buried inside you, barely, and it’s already too much.
When the second slides in, it feels like being opened from the inside out. Again. Like every other time he’s had his fingers in you. Or his tongue. Or his cock. You’d think your body would be used to this by now. It never is.
A moan punches out of your chest unfiltered. Your hands reach up for something to hold, finding purchase at the overgrown curls at the nape of his neck, fingers tightening there.
He leans in, eyes half-lidded, voice hushed. “Always so tight for me.”
“Spencer…” You reach, fingers closing around his wrist, moving his hand back to your throat. Your voice comes out pleading, every bit as vulnerable as you feel. “Please?”
He stops. Breathes. Absorbs it like a gift he hadn’t expected to be given twice. But he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.
“So polite, baby.”
Your next inhale gets caught beneath his palm. Your lungs stay empty, but your body lights up in its place. Pulsing. Drenched. Stretched open around his fingers. The sound of it is filthy, wet and messy and loud enough to drown out whatever noise you just tried to make.
You’re grinding down on him now, mindless, rutting against the heel of his palm like shame doesn't even exist anymore.
Your head is light, skin buzzing, orgasm barreling toward you like a tsunami you can’t outrun.
“I wish you could see yourself like this,” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful. Every single time.”
You want to answer. Maybe cry. Maybe laugh. Maybe beg. But your core answers first — vision goes spotty, thighs twitching uncontrollably.
And then everything clenches, cracks open and takes you with it.
There’s a second of silence, brain fogged with nothing but static. Heat, stars, white noise. You only notice his absence when your body jerks, still chasing pressure that’s no longer there.
Your hands find him clumsily, clutching at his wrist, trying to pull him back without a word.
“I’m here. You’re okay. Come here, angel,” Spencer says, already folding you into his chest.
Your face stays pressed to his shirt, breath still shaky where it escapes in uneven puffs. Spencer’s hands stay steady on your back, but you can feel his heart beating a little too fast under your cheek.
“Not gonna ask yet,” he says lightly, “but my brain is running a post-scene checklist at full speed. So just… squeeze my hand if anything feels wrong. Please.”
“What counts as feeling wrong?” You ask. His heart skips a beat beneath you, and you wince. “Not that I feel that way. I definitely don’t. I promise. I’m just curious.”
He strokes your hair once, twice.
“You’re sure?”
You nod, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Mm. Yeah. Just a little floaty. And in love with you. But that’s normal.”
“Floaty and in love,” he repeats, pretending to consider. “Dangerous combination. Might have to keep you under observation.” He kisses your temple, voice gentling, “But seriously, if you feel off in any way. Dizziness, fingertips tingling, even a little headache, I need to know right away, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” you say, squeezing his shirt. “And, um… totally unrelated… how long is the average recovery time before we can do that again?”
“Realistically,” he starts, “we should wait a while. Especially since it was your first time experimenting with that.” Your lower lip starts to just slightly. He grins. “But… if you were interested in cutting off my oxygen, I might have a few ideas.”
You don’t even get the chance to react. One second, you’re in his lap, and the next — you’re airborne, guided up, forward, and set down over his face like he’s been planning this all night.
You let him take your breath. Now he gives you his in return.
💌 masterlist
taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs
Pairings: Monster!Eddie Munson x Fem!reader
Summary: He feeds on your nightmares in the night, but he doesn't want to kill you, no, maybe he's just a little lonely
Warnings: brief mention of blood, it's a MONSTER AU!! kissing, it gives stalker vibes, but he's bound to the room so he can't exactly leave.
Word count: 5.5k lol
Day one of my Valentine's day event
Valentines masterlist
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He is already in your room when you fall asleep. The dark gathering in the corners of the room, thickening where the light cannot reach, until it loosens itself from the walls and takes shape at the edge of her bed.
You stir beneath the weight of his attention, breath hitching as though your body senses him before your mind dares to.
The mattress dips, slow and deliberate and something unseen settles beside you, close enough that the shadows breathe against your skin.
You dream of pressure, of being watched, of a presence that knows the fragile places where fear hides. When your heart begins to race, the thing in the dark leans closer, patient and intent, and waits for terror to wake you fully.
He watches you the way the night watches itself, silent, patient, savoring the tiny betrayals of her body:
The tremor of a finger, the flutter of your eyelids as dreams scrape against your mind.
The air bends around where he sits, pressing shadows into the corners of the room, curling tendrils toward the shape of you. He leans closer, not touching, but letting the heat of his presence seep into your skin, drawing you into the dark like a moth to flame.
Every inhale, every shiver, is a language he understands.
He tilts his head, noting the rapid beat of your heart, the shallow rise of your chest.
Fascination hums through him, hungry, relentless, almost reverent. You do not see him. You cannot see him. But you feel him. And that is enough.
He shifts, a soft scrape of movement over the edge of the bed, deliberate but silent, letting the mattress sigh beneath the weight he does not claim. His shadow stretches over you, brushing your hair, settling along your arms in the way a predator studies prey before the kill. Yet he does not strike.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
Not while you tremble like this, so small, so alive, so deliciously aware of him, yet so clueless at the same time.
He hovers there, waiting, watching, listening… loving the terror he inspires, yet marveling at the strange draw your presence has on him, the pull that keeps him rooted at your side.
So by your bed he stays, just like he has for the past month.
Learning the way you turn in your sleep, remembering the sweet sound of your snores.
He stays.
He feeds.
He learned early that fear tastes sweetest when it’s coaxed, not taken.
Tonight, though,
Tonight, something is different.
The air in the room is thin, stale.
But the dark gathers as it always does, obedient and eager, pooling along the ceiling, dripping down the walls like ink. He settles into it easily, his shape forming in familiar pieces, too-long limbs, shoulders that blur into smoke, curls of shadow that suggest wild hair rather than define it.
If light ever dared touch him, it would probably catch on sharp cheekbones, a crooked grin, eyes that burn like dying embers.
He was never subtle.
He leans over you, close enough that the shadows brush your lips when you exhale.
He expects the usual response,
The twitch, the hitch in your breath, the sweet spike of fear he can draw into himself like a held note.
But you don’t flinch.
Instead, you frown in your sleep.
A tiny, annoyed sound leaves your throat. Your hand curls, fingers grasping at the blanket… then drifting upward, searching.
Your knuckles brush the dark.
He freezes.
The shadows recoil instinctively, pulling back from your touch like it burned him, but you don’t wake.
You just murmur something soft and unintelligible, brows knitting as though he’s interrupted a dream rather than invaded it.
That’s new.
He’s been careful. A month of restraint, of learning you. He knows your rhythms now, when you’re most vulnerable, when your fear sharpens, when it dulls into something softer. He knows the nights you dream of falling, of being chased, of being watched.
He did not expect you to reach for him.
The hunger stutters.
Curiosity curls through him instead, sharp and unwelcome.
Your breathing changes.
It goes shallow, uneven, like you’re surfacing too fast from deep water.
He feels it immediately, the subtle shift in the rhythm he’s memorized over a month of stolen nights. The fear that had softened snaps sharp again reminded suddenly that it is not alone.
Your lashes flutter.
"Oh-" you gasp, a sound torn from your chest as your eyes fly open.
And he is gone before sight can catch him.
The shadows peel away from the bed in a single, silent recoil, retreating to the corners, the ceiling, the narrow space behind your dresser where light never quite reaches. His shape unravels, dissolving into nothing more than darkness again, breath held, hunger forgotten.
You sit upright.
Your heart is pounding hard enough that he can feel it from across the room, each beat like a knock against his ribs. You drag in air like you’ve been running, hand flying to your chest, fingers curling into your shirt as if to hold yourself together.
The room is empty.
Just your bed.
Your walls.
The soft glow of the alarm clock reading 12:14 AM.
You scan the space anyway, eyes wide, frantic, darting from corner to corner. Your gaze lingers where the shadows seem thicker, heavier, as though they haven’t quite finished settling.
2Oh-" Your voice breaks. You swallow and try again. "Jesus."
But your hands are shaking.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor too hard, grounding yourself through the shock of cold. You press your palms into your thighs and breathe, counting under your breath like you’ve done before.
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
He watches from the dark behind your door.
He shouldn’t stay.
You were awake, that was number one code red.
To get the fuck out.
So he did, vanishing in the depths of the dark of your room, pooling into the shadows.
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The next night, the dark hesitates.
It still gathers, because it always does.
Babit, hunger, gravity, but it moves slower this time, thickening reluctantly in the corners of your room as if unsure it’s welcome.
The shadows don’t rush the ceiling. They don’t stretch for the bed.
They wait.
He arrives already tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, the deeper kind, the kind that settles into the marrow of something that isn’t supposed to feel like this.
He pulls himself together from the dark with less flourish than usual, shape forming in pieces that don’t quite lock into place. His limbs blur. His edges smoke and fray.
He doesn’t sit on the bed.
He stays near the wall, half-formed, watching you from a distance like you might spook if he breathes too loud.
You toss once in your sleep, restless, a soft huff leaving you as you turn onto your back. He flinches anyway.
Last night lingers between you, sharp and electric. The way you’d woken so fast. The way your fear had spiked.
Not the slow bloom he prefers, but something jagged and raw. It fed him, sure.
Any type of adrenaline did.
But it left a bitter aftertaste he hasn’t been able to shake.
And the aching feeling of hearing your voice for the first time.
It was rough, drowsy, and weak, but he tries not to remember the way he thought he grew a heart by the sound of it.
You look… tired tonight.
Dark smudges beneath your eyes. Your brows knit even in sleep, like your dreams are crowded with too many thoughts.
The fear is there, it always is, but it’s tangled up with exhaustion, stress, things that have nothing to do with monsters in the dark.
He exhales, a sound like air moving through a cave.
"Hell," he mutters quietly. "You’re not even good to eat anymore."
It’s a lie.
He drifts closer despite himself, shadows dragging reluctantly across the floor.
He stops at the foot of the bed this time, crouching low, arms braced on his knees. From here, he can feel your pulse without leaning over you. Can listen without looming.
You twitch.
And he flinces back. He won’t have a repeat of last night, it can’t happen, but when you twist in your sleep, mumbling sleepily, he can’t help but lean in closer.
You cuddle into the pillow by your side, curling closer like you wanted to seek its warmth, like you crave the affection of being held.
He wouldn’t know much about that sort of thing, there isn’t any sense of loneliness that rattles his bones when he has nothing to do.
There is no companionship when it comes to his kind, and the way you shove your face into the soft fluff of your pillow makes him wonder what it feels like, whether or not you crave that thing…what was it called again?
That was the word.
It comes to him slowly, dredged up from some half-rotted corner of memory, from a time before shadows were the only thing that listened to him breathe.
He rolls the word around in his mind, unfamiliar and irritating, and very deliberately does not let himself wonder whether you feel it now.
You shift again.
This time it’s sharper. Purposeful.
He stiffens.
Your breathing changes, not the gentle rise and fall of sleep, but the uneven hitch of someone surfacing. He feels it before he sees it, the way he always does, a ripple through the dark that tugs hard at his attention.
"No," he murmurs instinctively, already pulling back.
Too late.
Your eyes snap open.
You jolt upright with a sharp inhale, hand flying out as if to grab something, anything to ground you. The room feels wrong immediately.
Too heavy.
Too quiet.
Like the air itself is holding its breath.
Eddie vanishes.
Not smoothly.
Not cleanly.
The shadows snap back toward the walls, peeling off the bed and floor in a rush, but fatigue makes him sloppy. His form breaks apart unevenly, limbs unraveling into smoke that doesn’t quite disperse fast enough.
You see it.
Just a flicker.
A shape where there shouldn’t be one.
You freeze.
For half a second, neither of you move.
Then your brain catches up.
"Oh my god-!"
You scream.
It tears out of you raw and panicked, echoing off the walls as you scramble backward on the bed, heart slamming so hard it hurts.
Your hand fumbles blindly for the lamp, knocking over something small that clatters to the floor.
"Get out!" you shout, voice breaking. "I’m calling the police!"
Eddie slams himself flat against the wall behind your door, compressing his shape until he’s nothing but a jagged smear of darkness.
You’re shaking now, fully awake, adrenaline flooding your veins. You grab your phone from the nightstand with trembling fingers, eyes locked on the far side of the room.
"Who’s there?" you demand, voice high and sharp. "I- I swear to god-"
Your gaze catches on the corner near the door.
You stop mid-sentence.
There’s a shadow there that doesn’t make sense.
It’s darker than it should be, thicker, wrong against the flat paint of the wall. It moves.
Not much, just a subtle shifting, like smoke trying to remember how to be solid.
You stare.
Your phone lowers an inch.
Only to see what seems to be like a pair of glowing eyes, small but unmistakingly bright.
But that alone isn’t what made you tense, it was the mere size of the silhouette itself.
It was dark in your room, sure, it was the middle of the night, but thanks to the street light seeping through your curtains, you could define the darker areas, standing tall against the corner of your room, its form seeming to be cramped under your roof.
"Wha- what are you?" you tremble.
The words hit him harder than the scream did.
What are you?.
They’re small. Broken. Not angry- not threatening.
Just terrified.
He hesitates.
For the first time since he learned how to pull himself from the dark, he hesitates to move forward instead of back.
He’s not supposed to be seen.
Not like this.
There are rules, old ones,
Whispered through shadow and instinct.
If a human sees you clearly, you leave.
If they name you, you run.
If they fear you enough to fight back- He’s heard all of the stories.
Of salt lines and iron blades. Of lights too bright, words too sharp. Of shadows burned away by hands that learned not to tremble.
Humans are fragile, yes.
But they are also cruel when cornered.
And right now, he is the one cornered.
Your hand tightens around your phone.
He sees it clearly now, the way your knuckles have gone white, the way your shoulders are pulled tight like you’re bracing for impact.
You’re crying, he realizes distantly. Not loudly. Just the silent kind, tears slipping down your cheeks while you try very hard not to fall apart.
"Hey," he says before he can stop himself.
The sound of his voice makes you flinch violently.
You choke on a breath, scrambling backward until your spine hits the headboard with a dull thud.
"Get away!" you sob. "Stop!"
His chest tightens, a sharp, unfamiliar sensation, like something cracking where there shouldn’t be anything to break.
He raises his hands again, slow. Careful.
"I’m not gonna hurt you," he says, voice rougher now, edged with something like fear. "I swear."
You laugh weakly, hysteria bubbling up through your terror. "That’s what everyone says!"
"Yeah," he winces. "Okay"
The shadows around him ripple, agitated, urging him to dissolve, to flee back into the safety of formless dark. He almost listens.
Almost.
But then you slide down the headboard, curling in on yourself, knees pulled to your chest like a shield.
You look impossibly small like that, not prey, not food- just a person who is very, very scared.
That’s… new.
He takes one step forward.
You scream again, a short, sharp sound, and shove yourself farther back, fumbling blindly for something on the nightstand.
Your fingers brush against a heavy book, and you grab it like a weapon, holding it out in front of you with shaking arms.
"Don’t come any closer!" you cry. "I mean it!"
He freezes instantly.
"Okay," he says quickly. "Okay, stopping. See? Not moving."
He stays right where he is, just inside the edge of the lamplight.
You can see him clearly now, the tall, looming silhouette cramped beneath your ceiling, the way his shape wavers like smoke held together by sheer will.
His eyes burn brighter when he’s nervous, embers flaring against the dark.
He swallows.
"I'm just going to go-"
Your grip tightens on the book. "You- You were here last night"
He doesn’t deny it, staying silent for a while before whispering
"…yeah."
Recalling the events of waking up in sweat yesterday, you remember all the nights you were woken up almost sleepless, the nightmares haunting you throughout your slumber.
Were they connected to this…being?
"You’ve been here before…"
"…yeah."
Your breath shudders. "My nightmares…."
He flinches at that, shoulders hunching reflexively.
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then runs a hand through his mane, agitation making his edges fray.
"I didn’t think you’d ever wake up like this," he admits quietly. "Usually, people don’t. Or if they do, they don’t see me. Supposed to be careful"
"That’s not comforting!" you snap through tears.
"I know," he says again, softer this time. "I've never had to do this"
Silence stretches between you, thick and trembling.
Your breathing is ragged. His is… unnecessary, but he does it anyway, mimicking the slow inhale and exhale you’re trying and failing to manage.
"In for four," he murmurs without thinking. "Hold. Out for four."
You stare at him, wide-eyed.
"…how do you know that?" you whisper.
His gaze flicks away, embarrassed. "I watch. You do it a lot."
That should scare you more.
Instead, it just leaves you confused and exhausted.
"What?" You stutter out, your voice wavering, and he watches as you wipe your nose with the back of your hand, blinking.
"What- what do you want from me?" you whimper
The question lands between you like something fragile.
What do you want from me?
He goes still.
The shadows around him are quiet, curling in on themselves as if they’re listening too. He stares at you for a long moment, ember-bright eyes dimming slightly, like a fire starved of oxygen.
"I…" He falters, jaw tightening. He hasn’t had to answer that before. Hunger never asked permission. Instinct never needed explanation. "I don’t want to hurt you."
He’s not sure why he said it. His whole being is to bring you harm in the night, but it was only to keep him alive- well, as alive as he can be.
But to harm you physically almost pains him to think about, his point was never to kill you.
You swallow hard. "That’s not an answer."
"I know," he says quietly. "I'm working up to it."
Your hands are still shaking, but you don’t raise the book again. It rests against your knees now, forgotten but not discarded.
The phone lies loose in your grip, screen dark, emergency numbers un-dialed.
That alone feels like a miracle.
But really, after taking the first glance at whatever he was, you realised that the police wouldn’t be able to do shit against this, him.
He shifts his weight back, deliberately increasing the space between you. He keeps himself on the edge of the lamplight where you can see him clearly, no tricks, no vanishing.
It costs him something; you can tell by the way his form wavers, shadows tugging at him like a tide against stone.
"I feed on your fear," he says at last. "Nightmares"
Your shoulders tense, but you don’t interrupt.
"You feed on me?"
He shakes his head vigorouly before slowly nodding, the answer laying somewhere in-between your accusation.
"I- well, you-"
You fiddle with your phone, turning on your flash before pointing in his direction.
He shrinks away, a ghastly shriek deafening your ears as he twitches, his body contorting in stiff and odd ways.
You lower your phone quickly, the high pitch ringing in your ears as you apologise.
"Sorry! I’m sorry!"
The screaming fades away and you can hear the heavy pants of his breath, composing himself again.
The image of his sharp features imprints in your mind. His skin was as pale as it was dark, his face looking hollow and decomposed, but that wasn’t what scared you.
It was the long, boney fingers that swiftly hid his face from the light, the curled nails piercing his flesh, cutting himself.
Looking down at your legs, you frown at the scratches and thin scabs you’ve woken up to in the past month.
He touched you.
He winces in pain and you aren’t sure what to do with yourself, but the moment you see shiny blood trickling down his cheek, you look away.
"I- I have a Band-Aid" You mutter to him
"Band..aid?"
You nod, tearing your eyes away to your nightstand, digging through the drawer.
He watches as you pull out a box, pulling out a small rectangle and peeling it open before you shuffled down the bed cautiously, your hand shaking as you held it out for him.
He stares at it intently, not making any sign of wanting to take it, but you motion to his cheek.
"What?" he questions softly, looking you in the eye.
His breath almost hitched at the gentle gaze you offered, waving the fabric in front of you.
You looked terrified, but oh so curious and concerned.
For the second time you made him feel as though he’s grown a heart.
His chest tightens as you sigh and stand up, daring to take a step forward.
He finches back against the wall, his fingers twitching in the fearful need to attack, but he mustn’t, he doesn’t want to.
"It'll help the cut…" you say meekly
He blinks slowly, feeling the warm trickle of blood falling down to his jaw.
You take another step and he realises he isn’t able to back up any further, instead, he shrinks down, his knees bending as he slides down the wall, the crack of his limbs echoing throughout your room.
"I’m not gonna hurt you" You repeat him, trying to form some sort of smile as he tilts his head away, closing his eyes tightly in some sort of an attempt to stop you from touching him.
But he feels your warmth engulfing his space, causing shivers to run down his spine as you leaned closer.
Even with him crouched down on the floor he was taller than you, it made you wonder how the hell he could fit in your bedroom.
Still, you huff and remove the wrapping of the bandaid, slowly but surely placing it on his skin.
He was cold to the touch, freezing the air with his presence, but as your fingers brushed his skin, his eyes flickered open, his long eyelashes batting as he watched you step back.
He reaches up to his cheek, being careful as the rough fabric tingles his skin.
You didn’t harm him, didn’t curse him or kill him like the tales spoke of. You were…kind.
He held his breath as you stayed by his side, looking so small against his frame.
Then he apologises.
"But I don’t want to do it anymore," he continues, voice rough. "I’m sorry"
"Sorry for what?"
"Taking my feed on you"
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now. Less sharp. Still fragile, but no longer threatening to shatter at the slightest sound.
You shift on the bed, uncurling just a little. Your feet touch the floor, toes digging into the rug as if anchoring yourself.
"You said you feed on fear," you say. "What happens if you don’t?"
He hesitates. The shadows around his ribs thin, flickering.
"I get… empty," he admits. "Faded. Like I forget where I end and the dark begins." He glances at the corner of the room, where the shadows are thickest. "Some of us disappear that way"
Your chest tightens at that, unexpectedly, but he continues.
"We have to choose who we feed on, but some people fight their nightmares, causing us to fade"
"And you chose me," you say quietly.
"I didn’t choose you at first," he replies. "You were just… there. Loud, like I said. But then you started noticing things. The dreams changed. You reacted differently. You reached for me."
He swallows.
"No one’s done that before."
Your hand curls in the blanket you broigh with you to hide yourself.
You remember the dreams, vaguely. The pressure. The sense of something there, waiting. You’d thought it was just your mind playing tricks on you.
"I thought I was going crazy," you murmur.
"I know," he says, guilt threading through his voice. "I’m sorry."
The word is simple, but it lands heavy.
You look up at him then, really look. At the way his shoulders slope inward, like he’s bracing for rejection. At the flicker in his eyes that isn’t hunger now, but fear. Real fear.
"You’re scared," you say softly.
He lets out a breath. "Yeah. Turns out I don’t like being the thing under the bed."
A weak, startled laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
He blinks, his head dizzying at the noise "Was that-"
"-I’m sorry," you rush out. "I just- that was stupid."
"No," he says, something like wonder creeping into his tone. "It’s… new."
He tries to ignore the way his head spins, the refreshing feeling of his gut like he had found his feed.
You laughed, and he felt ful.
You wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed by the lingering tears. Your body still hums with adrenaline, but it’s ebbing now, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion.
"So," you say carefully, "what happens now that you’ve been caught? Do you fade?"
He considers that. The shadows stir, restless but subdued.
"I should leave," he says. "That’s what the rules say. I was seen. Named. Caught."
Your stomach drops. "Oh, can I not feed you anymore?"
"No," he admits. "Cause the fear the recognisable now, expected"
The honesty is terrifying, and grounding, somehow.
You glance around your room: the posters on the wall, the pile of clothes on the chair, the lamp casting warm, imperfect light. This space has always been yours. The idea of being alone in it again feels… complicated.
"So…it’s like I've banished you from my nightmares?" you say.
"Yeah."
You hesitate. Your heart pounds, but not with the same wild panic as before. This feels like standing at the edge of something unknown,
Dangerous, yes, but also strangely inviting.
"What about dreams?" you whisper.
He stiffens."What do you mean?"
"Dreams" you admit. "I’ve banishes you from my nightmares, but what if you can feed from my dreams?"
The shadows around him soften, curling inward like a held breath finally released.
That was never really an option that he considered, beings like him were meant to feed on fear, not something softer, not something bright.
But your laugh, the dizzying feeling it caused him.
He hadn’t had the time to feed on you tonight, so why did he feel full?
"I don’t-" he says. "I don’t know"
You take another breath, steadying yourself. "You can stay," you say slowly, "try"
He shakes his head immediately. "Why would you let me?"
"Cause you wouldn’t be hurting me anymore…and everyone deserves a chance…"
You weren’t sure what came over you, what possessed you to allow this being to stay, but the way he shuddered at your words made you believe that he wouldn’t hurt you.
He seemed lonely.
"And," you add, surprising yourself with the firmness in your voice, "you don’t hide if I’m awake."
He winces. "That’s… risky."
“I know," you say. "But if you vanish every time I blink, I’m going to lose my mind."
A pause. Then, reluctantly, he nods. "Okay."
You relax a fraction, shoulders dropping. For the first time since you woke up screaming, the room feels… still.
"What’s your name?" you say.
"Name" he spoke carefully, uncertain of himself.
"What do they call you?"
He smiles, his sharp teeth flashing in a pearly white and faded yellow.
It would scare you if you didn’t know he was expressing joy.
“Eddie"
"I'm-" You introduce yourself, a timid smile on your lips as you made your way to your bed.
Eddie nods in acknowledgement.
Minutes pass. Neither of you moves much. Eddie stays near the wall, keeping his promise, while you sit on the bed with your knees drawn up, watching him like he might vanish if you look away too long.
Eventually, your eyelids begin to droop. The adrenaline crash hits hard.
"I'm really tired," you admit.
“I know," Eddie says softly. "I can go. I don't want to-"
“No," you interrupt gently. "Just… stay over there. Please."
He nods. "I can do that."
You lie back slowly, every movement cautious. You don’t turn off the lamp. He doesn’t comment.
As your breathing evens out, Eddie settles against the wall, sliding down until he’s seated on the floor, shadows pooling around him like a cloak. He looks smaller like this. Less monster. More… something else.
Lonely, maybe.
"Hey," he murmurs, watching you as you turn in your bed.
"Yeah?"
"What is val-en-tines day?" He says, voice soft with curiosity as he tries to pronounce the word.
A quiet, incredulous sound escapes you, half laugh, half breath, making you sit up in your bed.
“what?"
"Valentine day," he repeats
"How do you know what that is?"
He shrugs"You talk about it"
"No, I don't!" you deny truthfully
“In the box with little people moving in it, you watch and cry" He exposes, blinking in confusion at your denial.
"The TV?"
He doesn’t respond as he looks at you, watching the blanket fall from your frame, finally revealing the pale pink pjamas that cling to your body, a love heart depicted right over your breast.
You huff, shaking your head incredibly at his behaviour, you cross your arms over your chest in an act of frustration.
"Come here" You demand curtly, pointing to the side of your bed.
He slowly gets up, rising until he needs to bend his head down from hitting the roof.
He stalks forward, the loud thud of his footsteps causing you to wince.
Downstairs people won’t like that.
He stands where you point to, gulping.
"Sit"
He sits, his fingers curling around the side of your bed where he rests, looking down at you sheepishly.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asks quietly, avoiding your gaze.
"I do not cry at those movies, alright?" You reason, pointing a finger at him, he shrinks, his head dipping down. And when you sit up straight on your mattress, you notice you're finally at eye level with him.
"Valentine's day is a day where people show their affection towards each other in the form of gifts and acts of service to show their love"
"Gifts" Eddie repeats, blinking up at you.
"Yeah, like flowers 'n shit"
He nods slowly, understanding what you are explaining.
"And a valentine is a person who you celebrate the day with, a partner, friend- if you're single, but it’s mostly a couple thing…do you have a partner?" you frown.
He shakes his head, licking his lips.
"You don’t even know what that is, do you?"
You laugh at his silence, taking it as a no "a partner is like your best friend, someone you spend a lot of time with, someone you love. Girlfriends, Boyfriends, that type of thing, someone you care deeply for" you explain "I’m only watching those movies cause Valentines Day is next week"
He nods again, his eyes dropping down to your frame, his gaze following the soft plush of your curves.
You don’t notice his stare as you lay back down"keep me safe in my dreams, yeah?"
Love
That’s the word Eddie was looking for.
ــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ
— Bonus Ending —
You wake to the unmistakable sense that something is wrong.
Not danger-wrong. Not fear-wrong.
Just… off.
Your eyes crack open, squinting against the soft gray light of morning filtering through the curtains. For one hazy second, everything seems normal.
Then you notice the weight on your legs.
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
There are things on your bed.
You sit up with a sharp inhale, blanket sliding down as your gaze takes in the scene in front of you, and your brain promptly short-circuits.
A bouquet lies across your knees. Except… it’s not flowers. It’s a bundle of delicate black feathers, glossy and iridescent, tied together with what looks suspiciously like a ribbon made of spider silk.
Nestled beside it is a smooth stone that glows faintly from within, warm against your skin when you touch it. A string of little glass bottles clinks softly as you move, each filled with something different:
shadowy mist, glittering dust, what might actually be moonlight.
And sitting right in the center of it all, placed with almost ceremonial care, is a human heart-shaped box.
Except it’s carved from bone.
You stare.
"…what," you say flatly.
A soft scrape comes from the corner of the room.
Eddie is there, half-formed and fidgeting, shoulders hunched, hands clasped together like he doesn’t know where to put them.
His shadows flutter nervously, betraying him completely.
"You’re awake," he says, unnecessarily.
"Yes," you reply." Obviously. Why is there a cursed Etsy starter pack on my bed?"
His eyes widened, almost in offense, but also hurt. "They’re not cursed."
You raise an eyebrow.
"Not really…"
You sigh and rub your face. "Eddie. Why."
He shifts, glancing at the bed, then back at you. "Val-en-tine’s Day" he says slowly, like he’s testing each word. "gifts"
He gestures vaguely. "The stone keeps bad dreams away. The bottles won’t bite. And the feathers-" he hesitates, voice dropping, "-pretty"
You stare at him, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
"…Eddie."
He tenses immediately. "I can take them back."
"No," you say quickly. "Don’t."
He blinks. "…don’t?"
You exhale, carefully picking up the feather bouquet. "They’re just… a lot."
His shoulders slump. "Yeah. Okay. I thought so."
You look up at him, softer now. "But I like them."
His eyes flare bright, hopeful and startled all at once. "You do?"
You smile. "Yeah. I do…where’d you get them?"
He points to himself.
"Yeah, I know they’re from you…where did they come from?"
"Mine" he states "collect"
You frown deeply "they’re yours?"
He nods, swallowing, shy but visibly buzzing with excitement "Happy Valentine Day."
You blink, sucking in a crisp breath of air "…Happy Valentine’s Day, Eddie."
"Kiss?"
Your eyebrows shoot up "uh...what?"
He puckers his lip, just like how he saw on the movies he watched with you.
You really shouldn't have introduced him to that thing.
"Um-"
He moves forward in an instant, lowering his face towards yours, his heavy breath blowing against your skin.
"Please" He pleads, blinking at you innocently.
You hesitantly lean in, trying not to look into his eyes as you aim for his cheek.
But what more do you expect from him?
He moves his face swiftly, his cold lips meeting yours in a swift kiss, his hand reaching up to brush your outer thigh.
It was sweet, and he didn't know any better. but it was crazy, absolutely crazy, kissing...whatever he was.
He pulls away, His grin is all crooked shadows and embers.
As Corroded Coffin’s manager, it’s your job to keep things strictly professional. Frontman Eddie Munson sees that as a personal challenge. 1 1/2 years later and you’ve been seeing Eddie in secret for a year. Everything is at risk for you if it gets out: your job, your reputation, your privacy. But Eddie doesn’t get it - he could take care of you. Everything would be fine. When your inability to agree causes a rift in your relationship, will you be able to move past it? Or will mistakes, fears, and tragedy keep you apart?
Part 1
Warnings:
Smut (18+), unprotected and protected p in v, oral (f and m receiving), cheating (not technically but yeah), pregnancy, miscarriage, blood, fighting, drinking, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 16.8k
A/N:
One million thanks to @punkrockmlchael, @feral4youu, and @sudsys as always 🫶🏻
Sound check was over - and you wanted to devour Eddie.
You didn’t know where it came from, this urge to have him right that second. Usually it was the other way around. But he looked so good on stage. He knew how to work a crowd, even when it was just sound check and there was no crowd. It worked you up, at least.
Eddie walked off stage, giving you a wink. You grabbed his arm as he passed and pulled his head down to whisper in his ear.
“Meet me on the bus,” you whispered.
Eddie looked at you, surprised but not arguing. He just smirked, nodded once, and walked off. You gave it a few minutes before you followed, slipping out the artist entry doors and out to the buses.
They were abandoned, thank god. You climbed the stairs of the band’s bus, finding Eddie sitting on the couch waiting for you. His legs were spread open wide, his hand resting on his thigh.
“Hi,” he said lowly, and you clenched your thighs together.
“Hi,” you said back, shy all of a sudden. Why, when you’d never been shy around Eddie, you had no idea.
You approached him slowly, teasingly. When you reached him, you rested your hands on his shoulders, slowly dragging them down his arms. Your hands met his thighs, rubbing them over the stiff material of his dark wash ripped jeans.
You could see the strain in his pants, his desire obvious. He adjusted, moving his hips down lower. He watched you intently, letting you take the lead, letting you do whatever you wanted to him.
You sank to your knees in front of him, and his smirk grew.
“Good girl,” he rasped, watching you. “Y’look so good like that. On your knees for me.”
You hummed, trailing your nails over his bulge. “You looked good up there,” you said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You leaned in, brushing your lips over the straining bulge. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Had to get you back here.”
“Hm,” Eddie grunted. “And what did you want?”
You shrugged, your fingers dancing featherlight over him, teasing. “Dunno. Didn’t think that far.”
Eddie scoffed. “I don’t think that’s true, sweetheart. I think you had plenty of thoughts of what you wanted to do to me when you got me alone.”
It was the truth, read right out of your pretty little head. You blushed. “I dunno about that.”
“I do.” Eddie tilted his head. “So go on, then. Do what you were daydreaming about while you watched me play.”
You let out a rush of breath. You moved for his belt, unbuckling it tantalizingly slowly. You locked eyes with him as you undid it, painfully used to the handcuff clasp by now. He’d been wearing it for years, and at this point, you’d taken it off many times.
He breathed heavily as he watched you undo his jeans. He lifted his hips for you, letting you pull them down, his hard cock thwacking against his firm stomach. Precum dribbled from his tip, leaving a wet mark on his t-shirt.
You leaned forward, swiping your tongue over his slit and licking it off. Eddie shuddered. “Christ.”
You wrapped your hand around the base of him, holding him tight. Slowly, you stroked your hand up and down his cock. Eddie moaned, watching your movements with half lidded eyes, focused on how you were pleasuring him so well already.
“Such a good girl,” he praised. “Can’t get enough of this cock, can you?”
“No,” you agreed. You couldn’t.
Eddie drew in a sharp breath as you started moving your hand faster. More precum was dripping from his tip and down his shaft, easing the glide of your hand. You leaned forward again, gathering saliva in your mouth and spitting lewdly on the head of his cock - Eddie’s hips jerked up into your hand, a shuddering “Fuck” spilling from his bitten lips.
“So filthy, baby,” Eddie cooed. “Love when you get sloppy on it like that. So good.”
You stroked him a little longer, the wet noises of your hand on his cock and his soft moans the only sounds in the quiet bus. Finally, after enjoying the feel of him for long enough, you wrapped your lips around his cock.
Eddie groaned, one hand moving to fist in your hair. He didn’t push, just rested there as you began bobbing your head, your hand working the length of him you couldn’t take yet. Eddie didn’t mind. It felt incredible to him.
“You suck dick so good, baby,” he hummed. “Look at you, my big cock in your mouth. Taking it. Dirty fuckin’ thing.”
You focused your tongue on the vein on the underside of his cock, working him higher and higher. You swallowed around him and he groaned, his hips jolting up into your mouth and nearly choking you.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Just- fuck- couldn’t help it.”
You cradled his balls in your hand, massaging them while your tongue massaged the underside of his shaft. Your reddened lips were slick with saliva, spit dripping down from your lips to his lap. Eddie drank it all in, committing you to memory.
“Perfect,” he moaned. “You’re fucking perfect. Holy shit. Sucking my cock so good like that.”
You swirled your tongue around his tip, making him buck his hips again. You made eye contact with Eddie, his eyes darkened with lust. “You’re gonna make me lose control, sweetheart,” he said, his voice deep. “Is that what you want? For me to lose control and fuck that throat the way I want to?”
You squeezed your thighs together again, your clit throbbing uncomfortably, desperate for some friction. You hummed around his cock, making him tighten his hand in your hair.
“You do want it, don’t you?” he asked quietly. “Slut. Tell me you want it, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Mmhmm,” you hummed around him, looking up at him with glassy eyes, pleading. Eddie bit back a moan, his hips jerking.
“Okay, fuck,” he said. “Okay. You wanted it, baby.”
Eddie gripped your hair in a tight fist, holding you in place as he started fucking his hips up into your mouth, his cock roughly hitting the back of your throat, making you gag.
“Fuuuck yeah, that’s it,” Eddie moaned languidly, watching you take every inch of his massive cock. He was amazed, entranced - no girl (or guy) had been able to take his whole cock like this before. Eddie fucked your throat mercilessly, his balls tightening, thighs trembling.
“Jesus,” he said. “God, I’m gonna cum down your throat. Fuck. You gonna take it?”
You couldn’t answer him verbally, that was for sure. You squeezed his thighs in answer instead, letting him know you were ready.
Eddie pushed your head down as he thrusted up and you dug your nails into his thick thighs, his cum shooting down your throat while Eddie tossed his head back, moaning wantonly. His moans were filthy, utterly sinful. You grinded your clothed pussy down against his boot, desperate for anything.
“Fuck,” he breathed as you lifted off of him. “Let me see.”
You opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. His cum coated your mouth, and Eddie moaned, leaning forward and licking against your tongue. He tasted himself on you, moaning as he kissed you hard and deep.
“So perfect, Christ,” he huffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
You stood, your knees aching from the position you’d been in. Eddie tucked his dick away, doing his pants back up. You were about to say something else when there was a knock on the bus’ door.
“Shit!” you whispered.
“Relax,” Eddie said. “You’re allowed to be here. We were just talking. No one’s gonna suspect anything.”
Eddie casually walked to the door, pulling it open. Erik stood there, his hand on the railing and one foot on the step.
“Hey, Eddie,” he said, then noticed you standing behind him. “Oh. Hey.” He turned back to Eddie, thinking nothing of it. “They’re ready for you backstage. They’re about to start letting people in.”
“I’ll be there in a sec,” Eddie said. Erik nodded, turning and leaving you alone again. Eddie turned to you.
“See?” he said. “Nothing to be worried about.” He closed the distance between you, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips that conveyed even more than his words ever could. “I gotta go. I love you.”
“I love you too,” you said, like you were in a daydream. You didn’t move until Eddie was gone, bus door closing behind him.
After the show in New York, you laid in the California King bed in Eddie’s penthouse suite. Despite the massive bed and tons of room, you were cuddled right up to Eddie, your arm around his waist and your leg over his.
Eddie smoked a cigarette, blowing the smoke out as he scrolled through something on his phone, his brows furrowed. You were content, your eyes closed as you leaned against him.
“What are you looking at?” you asked him sleepily. Still naked, still completely sated.
“Just some dumb gossip shit,” Eddie muttered, shutting his phone off. He laid it facedown on the end table.
“I thought you didn’t pay attention to that stuff?” you teased. “Thought it didn’t matter to you.”
“It doesn’t,” he said, his voice gruff. “And it shouldn’t matter to you, either.”
“Why are you being grumpy?” you questioned, sitting up. “Did we not just have incredible sex?”
Eddie sighed. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
You tried to find the bliss you had been in just moments ago, but it had already slipped from your grasp. “Something’s bothering you.”
Eddie ran a hand over his face. “I just- I don’t get why we can’t just be together. I’m tired of doing this, tired of sneaking around. Tired of keeping you a secret.”
You frowned. “Eddie, baby, I know. I hate it, too. But we don’t have a choice-“
“We do have a choice,” Eddie said, raising his voice. “We do have a choice, and you’re the one choosing not to be with me. That’s your choice.”
You jerked back, surprised by his harsh words. “Eddie, you know it’s not like that. It’s not that simple. I would lose my job.”
“You don’t need a job if you’re with me,” Eddie said, grabbing both your hands and looking at you, pleading. “I can take care of you, easy. It’s no problem.”
“That’s not the point,” you muttered, pulling your hands back. “I like my job.”
Eddie didn’t understand. He didn’t get why you’d choose your job over him, why it seemed to be more important than anything to you. “It’s just a job,” he said.
“It’s not just a job,” you said, getting upset. “I love my job, and I worked my ass off to get here. I spent years doing bullshit intern work until I got to actually start managing acts on my own. And I only got to do that so soon because I’m fucking good at it. I’m good at it, and I love it.”
Eddie just watched you. “We’re never gonna agree on this, huh? What, did you just want to fuck me? Is that it?”
You gasped. “Eddie. Why would you say that?”
“Because that’s kind of what it feels like,” he said, throwing the covers off his legs and standing up from the bed. “It kind of feels like that when you refuse to be anything more than a secret fuck. When I’m begging you to be my girlfriend, and you always have a million reasons why we can’t.”
Your chest ached at his words. “That’s not true. That’s not why. I just don’t want to give up everything.”
“You’re my everything,” Eddie said. “I’d give up all this shit for you. If it was the only way I could be with you, I’d give up the band and the fame and everything. I’d do it in a fucking heartbeat.”
“It’s easy to say that when you know it’s not gonna happen like that,” you said. “I will lose my job if it comes out that I’ve been with you. It’s not a possibility, its a promise. That’s like, rule number one in the tour manager handbook. Don’t sleep with the band.”
“I just feel like,” Eddie began, taking a deep breath. “I feel like if you felt as seriously about me as I feel about you, you would think about it.”
“I’ll think about it then,” you said. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“No,” he said. “Because you’re not going to do it.”
“I will.” You sat up, covering your breasts with the white sheet. “Eddie, come on. We were having a nice night.”
Eddie was pulling his jeans back on, rifling through his suitcase for a clean shirt. “I think I might go out with the guys tonight after all.”
You felt sick. “Eddie.”
“What?” he snapped. “You’re gonna tell me I can’t go out now? I can’t talk to girls, I can’t fuck anyone else, I can’t go out with my friends, but you won’t be with me?”
You felt as if you’d been slapped. You didn’t say anything, and Eddie went back to angrily getting dressed.
“Stay here as long as you want, but go back to your room tonight.”
That was the last thing he said before he stomped out of the hotel room, slamming the door hard behind him. The picture frames on the wall rattled, nearly hitting the floor.
You were stunned. You didn’t understand how things had gone so wrong.
And you feared they’d only get worse.
Eddie shuffled his feet as he headed into yet another meet and greet. He tried his best to muster up all the enthusiasm in his body for these fans, but it was hard. He was struggling.
He hadn’t spoken to you since the fight. He went out with the guys that night, got blackout drunk, and didn’t even remember making it back to his hotel room. He was disappointed when he got back and you weren’t there, even though he’d told you to leave.
You’d been avoiding him since. He couldn’t blame you. He’d been harsh. But he was hurting, too, dammit. He hated this secret shit more than anyone. Eddie had never been one to hide who he truly is.
“You ready, man?” Gareth asked, smacking Eddie on the shoulder. “The girls look nice, at least. Won’t be a bad time.”
Eddie nodded. He didn’t particularly care about any girls, but it was just a group of fans. Corroded Coffin fans were cool, and they were the reason he was where he is today. He knew that, and he respected it.
He just felt so low.
You weren’t even here. You were always here.
The meet and greet began, and the four guys walked out to the area where the fans waited. There were three groups - the first was a group of metalhead guys, definitely more Eddie’s speed. They talked music for a bit, and Eddie found himself having a good time.
The second group was two guys and a girl. They were nice, if a little shy. Eddie and Gareth had them warming up in no time, laughing and getting their shirts signed before the photo was taken.
When Eddie looked at the third group, his heart stopped in his chest.
Three girls, but the only one that really mattered was the one on the right, batting her eyelashes at him. She was beautiful. One of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen in his life.
Her long strawberry blonde hair swayed when she walked, her makeup was done naturally, subtly. She wore the tiniest little jean shorts and a Corroded Coffin tee tied off at the waist. He thought about wrapping his hands around that waist, pulling her close-
She reminded him of Chrissy.
He snapped out of it as the group approached them. Eddie gave all three girls a polite smile, trying not to linger on the blonde, although she was staring at him. They chatted, he signed their shirts and vinyls. They took their picture, the blonde taking the spot right next to Eddie. She laid her head on his shoulder, her manicured hand on his chest. He wondered if she could feel how hard his heart was beating.
He’d never felt like this around a fan before.
The girls stayed around, chatting with the band a little longer. Gareth was flirting with the brunette, Grant and Jeff fighting over their friend. Eddie turned to the blonde, finding her looking up at him, her green eyes sparkling.
“Hi,” she said, her voice like a melody. “I didn’t get to introduce myself. I’m Courtney.”
“Eddie,” he said, taking her small, soft hand in his own. He held it a little longer than necessary.
“I’ve been a fan literally since the beginning,” she started rambling. “I love your music.”
“Thanks,” he smirked. “Is this your first time at one of our shows?”
“Yeah.” She tucked a strawberry blonde lock behind her pierced ear. “I’m really excited. My sister surprised me with tickets and meet and greet and everything for my birthday.”
“It’s your birthday?” Eddie smiled. “How old are you?”
“21,” she blushed.
“Maybe I can buy you your first drink,” he smirked. Fuck, was he flirting?
“Really?” her eyes lit up. “That would be, like, an amazing story to tell.”
“Yeah, of course. It’s no problem. Just…” Eddie thought for a second. “I’ll put your names on the list. Come backstage after the show.”
Courtney looked like she couldn’t believe what was happening. “Are you serious?”
“‘Course,” he said. “Just tell them your name. I’ll have it ready for you.”
Eddie thought of Courtney for the rest of the day, until showtime. He barely noticed you - you were still avoiding him, clearly. If you wanted to be like that, he’d let you.
The show went off without a hitch as usual, and Eddie was pumped as he ran off stage, stashing his guitar and grabbing a beer. He stayed backstage for a few minutes, laughing with Erik and Taylor and some of the other roadies, until Gareth came up to him, huge grin on his face.
“Eddie, those girls from earlier are in the green room,” he said, excited. “The hot blonde is asking about you.”
Eddie’s heart sped up in his chest. He had nearly forgotten during the show. He said a quick goodbye to Erik and Taylor. You gave him a look as he passed by - he met your eyes for only a second before he turned the corner, entering the green room.
She had changed. Now she wore a tiny black dress, the material showing off her smooth thighs. Her tits nearly popped out of the top. She looked hot.
Eddie took a seat next to Courtney, her sister on his other side, although he paid no attention to her. He faced Courtney entirely. He bought her that drink he promised, a light mixed drink that she nervously sipped on. They talked while the other guys entertained her sister and friend. She made him laugh a lot - he felt so loose with her. She was sweet, bubbly, cute-
He thought of Chrissy.
He shook those thoughts out of his head.
The night wore on, and their time at the venue was coming to a close. Eddie sat his ringed hand on Courtney’s thigh, leaning closer to her. “Want to come up to my room?” he whispered in her ear.
“Yes,” she said immediately. No hesitation at all.
Eddie smirked, standing and offering her his hand. She took it. “I’m going back to the hotel,” Eddie announced to his bandmates. “Catch you guys in the morning.”
Eddie led Courtney out of the building with his hand on her lower back. He didn’t see you as he left - he figured you must have left on your own again. He opened the back door of one of the cars, watching Courtney’s ass as she climbed in. He followed, closing the door behind them.
It was quiet for a moment as the driver took off in the direction of the hotel. It wasn’t a long drive. Eddie looked over at Courtney, his gaze trailing up her long legs, crossed at the ankles. Cute. Up to her plush thighs, the material of her dress barely covering them.
She was looking at him, too.
Eddie leaned in, and she leaned towards him. Their lips met in a hungry kiss, Eddie gripping onto her thigh tightly. His hand slipped under her dress, cupping her heat as his tongue slipped into her mouth. She kissed him back passionately, grabbing onto the sleeves of his leather jacket.
They were interrupted by the car pulling up to the hotel. Eddie helped her out, then they walked quickly to the elevator, giggling like a couple of kids. As soon as the elevator doors closed, he grabbed her hips, pulling her body into his and kissing her again.
“Eddie,” she giggled. “We haven’t even gotten to the room yet.”
“Can’t keep my hands off you,” he growled. “You’re so fucking hot.”
Courtney laughed, tilting her head to the side for Eddie to kiss and bite. She moaned when he bit down, then licked over the bite. He grabbed her ass, pulling her against his raging hard on.
The elevator doors dinged and they stumbled out, hands still all over each other. Somehow they made it to Eddie’s suite, and he unlocked it without looking, his lips still attached to hers.
In the hotel room, Eddie pulled his shirt off. Courtney moaned, her hands roaming Eddie’s tattooed chest. “You’re so hot. Oh my god.”
Eddie was breathing heavily, thinking about nothing more than getting between this girl’s legs. He reached around her back, unzipping her dress and letting it drop to the floor. She didn’t have a bra on, and he dropped to his knees in front of her, looking up at her like she was a goddess.
“You’re fucking stunning,” he said, kissing along her thighs. She shook, leaning back against the wall. “I’m gonna ruin you.”
He pulled her panties down and threw one of her legs over his shoulder, burying his face in her sweet cunt. She moaned loudly, grabbing onto his shoulders - but she didn’t pull his hair the way you did, the way he liked.
He ate her out until she came on his tongue twice, barely able to hold herself up. He carried her to the bed, quickly shedding his jeans and boxers. He grabbed a condom from the box he had bought for you, and slipped it on, his eyes never leaving her naked body.
“You want me to fuck you?” he asked her, stroking his cock.
She nodded. “Yeah. Yes, please.”
Eddie groaned. He lined himself up, and pushed inside her tight heat, groaning at the sensation. She was tight. He grabbed onto her hips, thrusting into her quickly, chasing his own release.
“You feel so good,” she whined, holding onto him.
“Yeah?” he breathed. “Fuck. You feel fuckin’ good, too. Perfect fuckin’ pussy.” He fucked her harder, grabbing onto the headboard, slamming it into the wall with every thrust. “Fuck. I’m really not gonna last.”
“Cum,” she begged him. “Please. Want you to.”
Eddie took it to heart. He fucked into her faster, hands balling in fists in the sheets, and cried out, burying his face in her neck, smelling the sweet smell of her perfume. He kissed her neck, but he was losing himself fast.
“Gonna cum,” he moaned, and then - with a cry of your name - he came inside the condom, riding out his high inside her. She let him - she didn’t mention it.
When he was done, he pulled out of her and rolled onto his back. The gravity of what he’d done set in as he looked at this beautiful girl in bed with him, this gorgeous girl he’d just fucked - who wasn’t you.
She wasn’t you.
And he was the biggest fucking asshole in the world.
Eddie woke up next to a stranger.
The memories of last night came rushing back to him the second he saw that strawberry blonde hair cascading across the hotel pillow. Still beautiful, even in sleep. But not you.
All he wanted was you, and now he had probably fucked that up for good.
He shook the girl gently, her green eyes peeking open to look up at him. A drowsy smile crossed her face. She was still naked.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.
“Good morning,” Eddie said gently, trying to figure out how to possibly get this girl out of his bed without hurting her feelings. “Uh…they have breakfast, downstairs.”
“‘m not really hungry,” she said. She traced her hand over his side, giggling. “At least, not for food.”
Eddie shuddered. It would be so easy to let her touch him, so easy to fall back into bed with her. “I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to get on the bus to the next city.”
Courtney poured. “You have to leave me? So soon?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, although he wasn’t really. “I just have to go. I had a nice night.”
“Will you call me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t follow through. “I just need you to go now.”
Courtney reluctantly got up, finding her clothes from the night before. Eddie felt bad, giving her an old t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. He pulled on a pair of sweats himself and walked her to the door, opening it and smiling down at her as she looked at him with stars in her eyes.
He didn’t see you coming out of your room across the hall at that exact moment.
“Oh,” you said. “I didn’t know you had company last night.”
Courtney smiled at you sheepishly, totally unaware of the way your heart had shattered into a million pieces in your chest. The way you wanted to turn around and throw yourself off your top floor balcony. The way you wanted to scream and curse at Eddie and never see him again.
Eddie felt panic creeping into his own veins. He was going to tell you, of course he was, but this wasn’t how he wanted you to find out. He never wanted to hurt you like this.
Logically, he knew he’d made the decision to hurt you the second he invited Courtney back to his room.
“Sorry, I was just leaving,” Courtney said bashfully, ducking under Eddie’s arm. She turned and, before he could do anything, kissed him softly on the lips. “Thanks, Eddie. Look forward to your call.”
You and Eddie both watched her go down the hall, her hair still somehow perfect despite being fucked into the mattress last night. Your stomach clenched - how were you supposed to compete with girls like that? You couldn’t, and you knew it.
Eddie finally looked at you. “Sweetheart-“
“Save it,” you said. “I guess you were serious about being tired of waiting for me. So you went and found yourself somebody else to keep your bed warm. Good for you.”
“It’s not-“ Eddie stopped himself. What was he gonna say? It’s not like that? It was like that. He had fucked her. He had brought her here and fucked her right across the hall from you. The woman he loved.
“Were you even gonna tell me?” you asked. “Or just wait for me to find out? Keep fucking me and her at the same time, maybe?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “Can you just come inside so we aren’t arguing in the hall?”
You thought about it, because the last thing you wanted was to follow Eddie into his suite he’d spent the night in with that girl. But he was right - you were being loud and anyone could hear you.
You followed him into his suite, ignoring the messy bedsheets. You didn’t want to think about what had happened there.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie said as soon as the door closed. “That was the biggest fucking mistake of my life.”
“Were you drunk?”
“No, but-“
“So you made that decision all on your own.” You scoffed. “Perfect. Tell me how you really feel, Eddie.”
“How I really feel is that I love you,” he said. He didn’t dare touch you - he knew that wouldn’t go over well. “I love you. I fucking love you. I just want to be with you.”
“You want to be with me, so you slept with some random fan?” You barked a laugh. “That’s rich, Eds.”
“That’s not why I did it,” he said. “I didn’t do it to hurt you, or get back at your or, or- it was just a moment of weakness. A moment of stupid fucking weakness. I was an idiot and I can’t tell you enough how fucking sorry I am.”
You looked up, trying to will the tears not to fall. They were creeping up your waterline, a few escaping down your cheeks. “I don’t know if that’s enough.”
Eddie’s heart broke. He wished more than anything that he could take back the last 24 hours, rewind all the way back to your fight and fix things right then. Tell you he’d do things your way, whatever you want, as long as you’re his.
“What can I do?” he asked quietly, defeated. “What can I do? Name it, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. Please.”
You shook your head, more tears falling. “You can’t fix this, Eddie. I get that we weren’t technically together, but I…I think you made your decision.”
You walked to the door, shaking Eddie off as he tried to grab your arm. You paused with your hand on the doorknob, turning back to look at Eddie.
“I loved you, you know. I really loved you.”
Eddie watched you leave, his heart in pieces.
You avoided Eddie for a week after seeing that girl coming out of his room. You hadn’t seen him with another, and he hadn’t been going out with the others. He’d been keeping to himself, trying to get a minute with you every time you accidentally ended up alone in a room with him.
You focused on work instead. You booked interviews and magazine shoots, you scheduled the bands’ time off post tour, and you had lunch ordered for everyone by 9am without having to ask what anyone wanted.
You were so focused on work you didn’t even notice when your period didn’t come.
You didn’t notice until you woke up sick to your stomach, stumbling out of the hotel bed and falling flat on your face before scurrying into the bathroom, getting sick in the toilet. You threw up everything you’d eaten, all of it making a reappearance.
When you were done, you flushed the toilet, sitting back against the wall in shock, breathing heavily. What the fuck was that about? You hadn’t even had any wine the night before.
That was when it dawned on you. You felt sick again as you literally crawled out of the bathroom, across the carpet and to the bedside table. You reached up, knocking your phone to the floor. You picked it up and checked your period tracking apps-
Two fucking weeks late.
The nausea rose in your stomach all over again and you rushed back into the bathroom, making it barely in time. You were weak when you were done, cleaning up and turning around to turn the bathtub on. All you wanted to do was sit in a hot bath.
You thought. Could you be pregnant? Of course you could. You and Eddie had unprotected sex twice almost a month ago. Of course it was possible. It was very fucking possible.
You stripped your clothes off, sinking slowly into the steaming water. You relaxed your body while your mind raced. You looked down at your stomach, looking the same as it always did. You rubbed a hand over it, imagining what it might be like to be pregnant.
You’d have to get a test.
The next morning, you set your alarm much earlier than usual. You yawned, pulling a hoodie over your head and sneaking out and down the stairs. Mark waited for you, giving you a ride to the pharmacy.
The second you grabbed the pregnancy test off the shelf, you froze. You didn’t know if you could do this. Logically you knew you were either pregnant or you weren’t, but as long as you didn’t know, you didn’t have to know.
But that was stupid. You snatched the box, walking to the front counter and buying the test, avoiding eye contact with the cashier.
Back at the hotel, you sat on the edge of the tub, eyeing the box on the counter. It stared back at you menacingly - or at least, that’s how it felt. You finally snatched it, ripping the box open and taking the instructions out. You read over them carefully, not wanting to make a single mistake.
You took the plastic stick out next. It looked much less intimidating than it should, you thought. You took the test and replaced the cap, sitting it down on the counter while you walked back out into the room, pacing.
You paced, the 5 minute timer started on your phone, until a knock at the door startled you.
You looked at the door, then at the bathroom. You closed the bathroom door as you passed it, then cracked open the room’s door, forgetting to check the peephole beforehand.
You weren’t the most surprised to see Eddie standing there. He looked sheepish, not meeting your eyes as easily as he normally did before everything fell apart.
“Can I come in?” he asked. “I just wanna talk.”
It was not the time, but you sighed, moving out of the way. “Okay. Be fast.”
Eddie walked inside, moving to take a seat on your already made bed. He looked down at his hands as he spoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I- I can’t say that enough. I fucked up so bad. But I was thinking of you the whole time, baby, I swear-“
You rolled your eyes. “Save your breath, Eddie.”
“That came out wrong,” he said. “I didn’t- it was a mistake. The dumbest fucking mistake. Please, I- I don’t want to throw away what we have over one night with some random girl.”
“That was your choice,” you snapped at him. “If you threw away what we had for one night with some random girl, that’s on you.”
“This isn’t going how I planned,” he said, burying his face in his hands. “Fuck. I don’t know what to say. I just want you to look at me again.”
You felt sick again. You slowly looked over, meeting his big sad brown eyes as he looked up at you from his position. “I just don’t know if I can forgive you, Eddie.”
That broke him. He covered his face again, like he was actively trying not to cry. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, thinking, trying to think of anything he could do to make this better.
Your phone’s alarm went off. You both froze, looking at the device laying on the side table. You reached for it, quickly turning the alarm off. You’d completely forgotten about the pregnancy test on the counter as soon as Eddie walked into the room.
“What’s that for?” Eddie asked, his brows furrowed.
“Nothing,” you said, too quickly. “I think you should go, Eddie.”
“Wait,” he said. “What’s going on? You’re being weird all of a sudden.”
It was your turn to cover your eyes, the heels of your hands digging into them, making you see spots. “I just really need you to go right now.”
“You’re freaking me out,” Eddie said. He ducked his head, trying to get a look at your face. “Tell me. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Eddie, just go!” you yelled, louder this time. When you moved your hands away there were tears in your eyes, streaming your mascara down your cheeks.
“Jesus,” he said. “I’m not leaving if something’s wrong, and clearly something is really wrong. You’re scaring me.”
You wanted to scream. You wanted to push him out the door, slamming and locking it behind him. You wanted to run away from your whole life.
“Fine,” you said. “You want to be here for this? Then be here.”
“Be here for what?” he asked, trailing behind you as you opened the bathroom door and walked in. “Sweetheart, what are you-“
He froze when he saw the stick laying on the counter.
“No fucking way,” he said.
You scoffed. You picked up the test, flipping it over in your hand - seeing two pink lines. Positive. You were pregnant.
“Yes fucking way,” you said, pushing the test into his chest as you left the bathroom. Eddie caught it, taking it into his own hands and looking at the result. It was clear as day. Two pink lines, with what that meant written right next to the results window. Two lines = pregnant.
Eddie let out a long breath - then realized he’d lost you. He hurried out of the bathroom, finding you sitting on the bed this time, head in hands. He dropped to his knees in front of you, pulling your hands away from your face.
“Baby,” he said. “This is…”
“A total disaster?” you sniffled. “My life is over. It’s all over.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “It’s a new beginning, sweetheart. We’re having a baby.” He grinned at you, like this was the best news he’d received ever. Like this fixed everything.
“You’re crazy,” you said, laughing although nothing was funny. “This is the worst timing, the worst thing that could have happened right now. We can’t- we can’t have a baby together, Eddie. We aren’t even together.”
“Then let’s change that right now.” He held your hands in his. They fit around yours so perfectly, his rings cool against your skin. “Be with me. For real. We’ll go public, we’ll tell them about the baby. Everything is gonna work out.”
Eddie sounded like he had it all figured out, like it was that easy. You looked up, tears falling. “I’m gonna lose my job. I loved my job.”
Eddie frowned. “I know you did, sweetheart. But you don’t need to work. I’ve got you. I’ve got both of you.”
“I don’t want to rely on you for everything,” you said. “I want to be independent. I want to keep managing, keep traveling. Keep touring.”
“You can tour with me,” Eddie said gently. “You and the baby can come on tour.”
“That wouldn’t even work-“
“We could make it work. I’d make it work for you.” He brushed your hair back. You were completely disheveled, your hair and clothes a mess. Eddie didn’t care. He still thought you were beautiful.
“You cheated on me,” you said.
The words hit Eddie hard. He winced, looking down. “I didn’t- we weren’t together,” he said.
“But we were exclusive, weren’t we?” you were crying properly now, hot tears pouring from your eyes. You hadn’t let yourself feel the pain from Eddie’s betrayal until now. You had pushed him from your thoughts entirely, but that was impossible to do with him kneeling in front of you, and his child in your womb.
Eddie didn’t have an answer for that. You had been exclusive, even if it had never been discussed. He knew why you were hurt. He knew he was a total asshole. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to get you to forgive me, but I want that more than anything. I want to be with you. I want to be a family with you.”
You wiped your eyes. “I want an abortion.”
Eddie reeled back. “What?”
“I want an abortion,” you said again simply, like you were saying you were going to the store. It was the only solution in your mind. The only way you’d get to keep your job, your life.
“Baby- please, no,” he begged. “Please don’t do that. Please.”
“Why not?” you sniffled. “It’s not the right time. We’re not together. I’m gonna get fired for sleeping with you. All those things could be avoided if I get an abortion.”
Eddie’s heart broke. “I…I want this baby,” Eddie said, his voice choking up. “I want this baby with you more than anything. Please, baby.”
“Stop calling me baby,” you spat back, even though it pained you to do so. You wanted to fall into his arms, to feel like everything was fine again.
His face dropped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Habit.”
You both sat in silence. Eddie still held your hands, didn’t let go of them for a second. He thought of what to say, if there was anything to say.
“I don’t know what I can do,” Eddie said, his voice hoarse, holding back tears of his own. “I don’t know what to do. Is there anything to do? Did I really fuck it all up for nothing?”
You hated the way your heart reached for him. “I don’t know if there’s anything you can do.”
“Let me try,” he pleaded. “Let me try.”
You thought about it. This was a major decision, keeping the baby and getting together with Eddie. You’d have to prepare for everything to change. Your life would look completely different. Bad different? Or maybe good? This could be the right decision.
You didn’t know.
“You’re asking me to keep this baby?” you clarified. You looked at Eddie sternly, but it was fear that coursed through your veins like poison. Ice cold fear. Like standing on the ledge, preparing to jump off without a parachute.
“Yeah,” he said, squeezing your hands. “I am. I want to have this baby with you.”
You let out a sigh. “And you’re actually gonna take care of us? Because I am getting fired.”
Eddie did feel guilty about that. “I’ll take care of you both until the end of time,” he promised. “You’ll both come on the road with me. We’ll still see the world. Together.”
His idea didn’t sound so terrible. Sure you would grieve the end of your days as a manager - you would surely be fired from your company and blacklisted in the industry. But you’d have Eddie, and a child together. The thought warmed the chill of fear from the inside.
“Let me think about it,” you said gently. “It’s…a really big decision.”
“We don’t have to jump into anything right away,” Eddie said quickly. “We’ll be able to hide it for a while longer.” He smiled, cautiously lifting his hand and letting it rest on your stomach. More symbolic than anything, since nothing had changed.
There was something in there, though. That idea would take some getting used to.
Eddie kissed your knuckles. “I love you,” he said. “And I’m gonna prove that to you every day.”
Eddie was so attentive once he got the news he would be a father. He was right by your side at all times of the day, even when you were working, finding totally normal reasons to constantly be standing near you.
He had the hardest time keeping the secret. He wanted to yell it to the guys the second you told him, but you were still thinking things over. He had to respect that.
You were replying to an email on your phone while the guys finished up their sound check. You nearly jumped out of your skin when a hand slid around your abdomen, cupping your stomach.
“Jesus, Eddie,” you said, looking up into his sparkling brown eyes, the bright grin on his face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I missed you,” he said, rubbing your belly. “Both of you.”
You looked around nervously, making sure no one was close by. “Eddie…”
“I know, I know,” he said, backing off. “We still have to be careful. I get it. I’m just so excited.”
You frowned. “I still haven’t even decided completely if I’m keeping the baby, Eds.”
He had to brush those words off. Otherwise, they made his chest ache. “You’ll figure things out soon,” he said simply.
The truth was, you were starting to warm to the idea of keeping the baby. You were beginning to think the idea wasn’t so bad, your potential future life with Eddie. You’d have Eddie - finally.
“Wanna come up to my room after the show?” he asked. “I wanna cuddle you tonight.”
You blushed, looking down at your heels. “Sure, Eds.”
He smiled. “Okay. Cool. See you then. Please be careful.”
You watched Eddie turn and jog off in the direction of his bandmates. Your own hand landed absentmindedly on your stomach - you didn’t even notice.
After the show, you kept your word, meeting Eddie out back and casually climbing into a car together. Inside, Eddie wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.
In Eddie’s room, you laid in bed together, naked bodies tangled in the sheets. You hadn’t had sex, not yet at least. You were just enjoying the feeling of each other.
“I’m sorry,” you said, out of the blue.
Eddie furrowed his brows, looking down at where you laid your head on his chest. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I was…I was kind of shitty to you, too. And I never acknowledged that.”
Eddie was quiet. He listened, letting you speak, letting you say what you needed to. He traced shapes on the skin of your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he finally said quietly.
“I just- I blamed you for everything. And it was my fault, too.” You were glad you didn’t have to meet his eyes for this conversation. You didn’t know if you were strong enough. “I’m sorry I made you keep us a secret. I mean, I had my reasons, which you know. But it still wasn’t fair to you.” You let out a shaky breath. “And we weren’t together when you slept with someone else. So…you didn’t cheat on me. If I would have just been with you in the first place, you wouldn’t have done it.”
Eddie’s chest clenched. He rubbed the bare skin of your back with his calloused hand, rings safely on the bedside table. “I still fucked up,” he said. “I didn’t have to sleep with her. That was fucked up of me. I knew it would hurt you the way it did.” He chewed the inside of his cheek for a second. “But…thank you.”
You snuggled closer into him, and he tightened his arm around you. Your finger traced the shape of the faded spider tattoo on his chest. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said, not having to think about it for a second. “I love both of you.”
Eddie was always reminding you about the baby. You wished you could be as happy and excited about it as he was. You wished you could stop worrying for five seconds.
“Yeah,” you agreed weakly.
“Are you okay?” he asked gently. “You still seem bothered.”
You shrugged. “Just…nervous. About the baby.”
Eddie squeezed you closer. He kissed the crown of your head. “My beautiful girl,” he mumbled into your hair. “You’re going to be an incredible mom. This baby is going to be so lucky to have you.”
His words sent a warmth through you, unfamiliar and soothing. You allowed yourself to think about it for the first time properly. To picture it. Picturing Eddie holding a little baby that looked just like him, or maybe you.
You fell asleep just like that, wrapped in Eddie’s arms, his warmth and his love. You slept tangled in each others’ bodies like that, like you wanted to become one.
The next morning, Eddie was still there. That was unusual.
“What are you doing?” you asked drowsily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and eyeing Eddie’s shirtless form across the room. His back was to you, and you couldn’t see what he was doing.
He turned, shooting you a smile over his shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d be up this early.”
You swung your legs over the bed, ready to get up, but Eddie stopped you. “Wait there.”
Skeptical, you sat back down, but grabbed Eddie’s t-shirt and slipped it onto your naked body, now cold in the morning chill. Eddie turned, a card and small gift bag in his hand. Your eyes widened as he walked over, sitting the gift right in your lap.
“Eddie- what?” You were shocked and completely confused. It wasn’t your birthday. It wasn’t an anniversary, not even of the day you’d first hooked up. Not a holiday, as far as you could remember. “What’s this for?”
“Do you know what today is?” he asked softly, a warm grin on his kissable lips.
“No?” Your brows were furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s Mother’s Day,” he said. “Your first one.”
You froze. “Oh, Ed-“
“No, please,” he said. “I just wanted to do a little something to maybe cheer you up. And say thank you, y’know…for carrying my baby.” He nudged your shoulder with a smile.
You felt yourself starting to tear up - god, you’d been doing that all the time lately. You felt a little overwhelmed. You were still trying to wrap your mind around this pregnancy in the first place, and now you were sitting here opening your first Mother’s Day gift.
You didn’t question Eddie on it any further, because he seemed excited, waiting for you to open it. You reached for the card first, carefully opening the seal. You pulled out the card, a simple pink thing decorated with flowers and Happy First Mother’s Day on the front.
You opened it, your vision blurring with tears the second you started reading Eddie’s messy scrawl.
Sweetheart,
I can’t tell you enough how happy I am to be on this journey with you. I can’t wait to be parents and I can’t wait to meet our little baby bat. I love you.
Eddie
You smiled at Eddie through the tears and he leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “Now open it,” he chuckled, gesturing to the gift bag.
Slowly, you removed the tissue paper - either Eddie had paid someone to do this, or he was really good at making gifts look nice and fancy. The paper out, you saw a dark blue velvet box sitting in the bottom of the bag. Your heart thudded hard in your chest as you lifted it in trembling fingers.
You were too scared to open it. You held the velvet box in your hand until Eddie gently took it from you, tilting your head to look at him. He looked deeply into your eyes, his own brown eyes sparkling with emotion.
He cracked open the velvet box, revealing a diamond ring.
You gasped, covering your mouth. “Eddie-“
“Just…listen,” he said, suddenly nervous. “I was just…I just thought…you know, we’re really together now. We should have been for the past year, but that doesn’t matter. You’re with me now, and we’re having a baby together, and you’ve seriously made me the happiest guy ever.” He plucked the ring from the box, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger. “I know it’s sudden. I can see you freaking out. But just…sweetheart, will you marry me?”
Tears were pouring down your face. You didn’t know what to do, how to react. Finally - you nodded.
A face splitting grin spread across Eddie’s lips and he kissed you hard before pulling back and taking your hand in his, sliding the costly diamond on a pure white gold band onto your finger. A perfect fit.
Eddie pulled you into a tight hug, and you let yourself get lost in him, his smell, the feeling of his skin and chest hair against your cheek.
You and Eddie were building a proper family. Now, you had the baby in your belly and the rock on your hand to prove it.
Which meant it was time to come clean to everyone else.
Things between you and Eddie were amazing.
You still hadn’t come clean about your relationship yet. It was only a matter of time, though. You and Eddie had been discussing the best way to do it - an interview? A press release about the pregnancy and engagement? Just randomly show up in public pregnant and married?
You were partial to the last one, but Eddie was so excited to tell the world. He wanted everyone to know he was going to be a dad, and that you were his.
You slipped out of bed (and out of Eddie’s arms) in the middle of the night, padding through the hotel carpet and to the bathroom. You felt off - you weren’t sure what it was. You had been cramping, but you read that was normal in early pregnancy.
You held your hand to your abdomen as you walked through the dark room, free hand feeling the wall to guide you. When you reached the bathroom finally, you flicked the light on and closed the door.
You noticed the blood the second you looked down.
A ton of it, caked on your thighs, your underwear. Your breathing shortened, and you drew in gasping breaths, borderline hyperventilating. You pulled your pants down, seeing your underwear and shorts completely soaked with dark blood.
You were shaking, your legs giving out. You slid to the floor in a pile of your own blood, your hands covered in it, and a sob rearing its way out of your chest.
You hadn’t even been sure about this baby, and now you were panicking, the thought of something having happened to it making you want to curl in a ball and die right there on the bloody tile floor.
You didn’t know what to do.
“Eddie!” you screamed as you cried, primal and full of pain. “Eddie!!”
You heard the thud followed by frantic footsteps as Eddie jolted awake at the sound of your cries, fell out of bed, and ran to the bathroom. He threw the door open.
“What-“
He stopped himself as soon as the word was out of his mouth, the second he took in the sight in front of him. He fell against the door frame, the shock nearly knocking him over.
“J-jesus,” he said. It was a lot of blood. You were sobbing, right in the middle of all of it, your face screwed up in total agony as you wailed. He dropped to his knees, not caring about the deep blood soaking into his sweatpants. “Baby, we- we gotta- gotta call an ambulance, we gotta get you to a hospital.”
The pain radiated from your chest through every inch of your body. Not just physical, the emotional pain knocking the breath from your lungs, making you double over. Eddie held you, not caring about the mess.
“Shit,” he cursed, and his arms were trembling where they were wrapped around you. “I’ve gotta go get my phone, sweetheart. We need to call somebody.”
You didn’t want Eddie to leave. It was the last thing you wanted, to be left alone, with your child surely dead inside you. There was no way the baby was still okay with the amount of blood you were sitting in. You leaned over the toilet just in time to retch into it.
Eddie watched you for only a moment longer, his eyes wide with horror, before he sprinted back to the bed and grabbed his phone from the charger. He fumbled it in his panic, the device falling onto the carpet with a quiet thud.
He dialed 911 in an instant, relaying what was happening to the operator with a shaking voice. “My girlfriend- she-“ He was tripping over his words, trying to keep himself together. He could still hear you crying in the bathroom. “She’s pregnant and I think- I- there’s a lot of blood. Too much.”
With an ambulance on the way, Eddie rushed back into the bathroom. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He was panicking himself, praying to a god he didn’t believe in that the baby would somehow, someway, be okay. He crouched down next to you, moving your hair out of your sweaty face.
“Do you feel…” he swallowed, trying to find his words. “Do you feel, uh…”
“Dizzy,” you said weakly, head lolling back against the counter.
That set his heart racing even faster. You were bleeding so much, it had to be too much. Were you dying? The thought alone had him gripping onto the counter to keep himself upright.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, trying to convince the both of you. “They’re- there’s an ambulance on the way, okay? We’re gonna go and get you and the baby checked out.”
“They’re gone,” you wailed, your red swollen eyes nearly out of tears at this point. “There is no baby anymore.”
Hearing it made his heart crack in his chest. His head dropped forward, curls brushing against his knees. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing reality to change, for any kind of miracle to happen.
The ambulance arrived minutes later, Eddie letting them into the room. In the commotion, Gareth drowsily peered out of his own room. seeing Eddie with the paramedics coming into his suite.
“Dude, what-“ His eyes widened. “What the fuck happened?”
Eddie didn’t know what to say to his friend. How could he explain that you were currently miscarrying his child and bleeding out on the bathroom floor of his hotel room?
“I’ll explain everything,” Eddie said, and then he rushed back into the room.
The paramedics surrounded you, taking your vitals, examining you. Eddie stood frozen with his back pressed against the wall, watching, terrified. His face was ashen pale, staring at the scene before him but not really taking it in.
Eddie didn’t even notice Gareth coming into the room, or shaking his shoulder, frantically saying something. Eddie snapped out of his panic, turning to his friend.
“What the fuck is going on?” Gareth asked. He was in a vintage band tee, with his plaid pajama pants and messy curls. His eyes were wide, looking between Eddie’s trembling body and the commotion in the bathroom. “Who’s in there? What the fuck is happening?”
Eddie couldn’t make himself answer Gareth if he wanted to. It was like he couldn’t form a single coherent thought, like his brain had shut off completely. He was vaguely aware of the paramedics loading you into a stretcher.
Gareth shook him by the shoulders. “Dude. Come on. You have to tell me what’s going on, I’m freaking the fuck out right now.” He turned, looking into the bathroom again - finally able to see you inside. It was Gareth’s turn to go pale, as he said your name like a question.
“What is she doing in here? What happened to her?!”
“I…” Eddie tried to muster an answer. Everything was falling apart so suddenly and horribly, he was overwhelmed. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream.
“You have to talk to me, man,” Gareth said. “Did you…did you do something? Are you in trouble? I don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into, dude, but-“
Eddie shook his head. “I didn’t do anything.”
As the paramedics began pushing the stretcher out of the room, Eddie rushed to your side. He grabbed your hand, pale and freezing cold. Your eyes were fluttering shut, like you were trying to stay conscious but couldn’t.
“Can I come?” he asked anyone. “Can I go with her?”
“One person can ride in the ambulance,” one of the paramedics said. “But be ready, we’re bringing her down now.”
Eddie swallowed, nodded. He backed up to give them room and grabbed the nearest t-shirt he could find, throwing it on with his sweats. With you and the team gone, Eddie was left alone with Gareth, who stood near the door, staring at his best friend like he didn’t even recognize him.
Eddie finally met his gaze, the confusion and betrayal and fear blurring Gareth’s normally bright blue eyes. He felt guilty. He had kept so much from all of them.
“I promise I’ll explain everything later,” Eddie said, on his way out the door. “But I have to go with her.”
“Fuck that,” Gareth said. “I’m getting a ride and coming with you. You can explain everything, like why our manager was just bleeding out in your hotel room, at the hospital.”
Eddie couldn’t argue. He just grabbed his wallet and left, Gareth following quickly behind him.
Eddie followed you as far as he could, but it didn’t take the doctors long before they confirmed there was no heartbeat and they took you back for a D&C.
Eddie was numb as he left your side, walking slowly back into the waiting room where Gareth sat. The drummer was slumped in one of the chairs, head resting on his hand while he scrolled on his phone. He looked up at the sight of Eddie’s footsteps, seeing his best friend look more exhausted and defeated than he’d ever seen him.
Eddie took a seat next to Gareth, his hands in the pockets of the hoodie he’d thrown on. He rested his head back on the seat, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were swollen and red from the crying he’d already done. Now, he felt too numb for anything.
The baby was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Gareth looked at him like he didn’t recognize him at all. He was still completely in the dark. None of this made any sense to him. What the fuck had you been doing in Eddie’s room? That was the question that plagued him the most.
He didn’t know what to say. It was clear Eddie was feeling fragile, and he didn’t want to be the thing to make him fall apart. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. “…Is she okay?”
Eddie stared into the fluorescent lights, buzzing, the bulbs about to go out. The whole vibe of the place was so depressing, it didn’t help anything. The look on his face was utterly vacant. “They said she’s gonna be okay.”
Silence. Gareth chewed on his bottom lip, looking down at his lap. “Eddie…what was she doing in your room?”
Eddie shook his head. How did he even begin to explain this? How could he begin to explain the secrets he’d been keeping? He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. There was still blood caked to them.
He didn’t know if you’d still be going public with your relationship at this point, but it was time to come clean to the band.
“We’ve been…” Eddie began, stopping to think. “…seeing each other.”
Gareth’s eyes went wide. He didn’t expect that - well, of course he had been suspicious after seeing you in Eddie’s room in the middle of the night, but hearing it confirmed still shook him to his core.
“What does that mean, exactly?” he asked, trying to reign in his emotions. This was bad for the band, it was bad for their reputation. It was bad for you. “And for how long?”
“A year,” Eddie said, and Gareth reeled back.
“A fucking year?!” he said. “That sounds pretty serious, Ed. You kept this from everyone for a year?”
Eddie hung his head. “I’m sorry. It was…it was complicated. She didn’t want to tell anyone, you know? I don’t…I was trying to do what was best. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to make her happy.”
“Shit,” Gareth cursed, realization dawning over his face. “You love her.”
Eddie nodded, slowly. “Yeah. I do.”
Gareth leaned back in his seat, letting out a long rush of air. “Okay, so…you’ve been fucking for a year. Got that. But…what happened tonight?”
Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, resting his head in his hand. His head pounded, from stress or crying or a million other reasons. “She…was pregnant.”
Gareth could not have been more shocked by that answer. His mouth fell open and he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to process what he’d just heard. He shook his head, fluffy curls bouncing around his face. “You’re having a kid?”
“Was,” Eddie specified.
“Oh, fuck,” Gareth said. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. But…what were you thinking?”
Eddie flinched as Gareth raised his voice slightly. His friend’s confusion and fear were quickly turning into anger, hurt, betrayal. “I-“
“You slept with our fucking manager and got her pregnant,” Gareth continued, talking over Eddie. “Do you even…begin to understand how you could have fucked us?”
He knew Gareth was right. He’d been selfish and reckless, and now he was here. With you in surgery, his best friend pissed at him, and an uncertain future. “I asked her to marry me.”
Gareth froze. “You did what?”
“I proposed,” he said. “And she said yes.”
“Eddie, what the fuck?” Gareth asked. “That’s fucking serious. That’s serious shit. You almost got married and had a kid with our manager behind everyone’s back. I’m supposed to be your best friend. How could you keep this from us? From me? For this long?”
Eddie didn’t think he could feel any worse. He’d lost his child, he’d almost lost you, and now his best friend was pissed at him. This had to be the worst day of his life, hands down.
“I don’t have an answer for you, Gare,” Eddie said weakly. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“We don’t even really know this girl, Eddie,” Gareth went on. “Do you really think you know her? It takes one wrong move to piss a chick off and have her go all scorched earth, running to the tabloids and burning us all down with you. Bye bye Corroded Coffin, bye music career, goodbye fame and money and beautiful women-“
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Eddie snapped, harsh. Gareth flinched. “She’s not like that. She wouldn’t do that.”
“Do you know that, though?” Gareth asked, more gently this time. “We’re in a precarious position, man. It doesn’t take much to topple what we’ve built. This was - so fucking reckless and stupid, man.”
“Fuck off,” Eddie snapped, looking at the blue eyed man next to him. “Look, Gareth, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but come on. It’s my life. I don’t have to tell you everything. I don’t shit on you guys for fucking groupies every night, so you have no room to say anything about me being with her.”
“That’s different,” Gareth said. “That’s so fucking different.”
“Do we have to do this right now?” Eddie said, dropping his hand, shaking his head and looking at Gareth with so much pain in his eyes it took his friend’s breath away. “I just lost my kid, man. I don’t feel like doing it right now.”
Gareth faltered. “No. Yeah. Whatever. We can talk later.”
Gareth stood, shaking his head as he walked out of the hospital, leaving Eddie alone. It was clear he was still pissed, but that was the least of Eddie’s worries right now.
He sat there in heavy silence. Eventually Eddie dozed off, slumped in his chair, until he was shaken awake by a nurse. He started awake, looking around, forgetting where he was and what had happened for a moment. Like it was all a bad dream and he was going to wake up in his hotel bed with you, ring glistening on your finger and baby safely tucked inside your womb. If only.
“Mr. Munson?” the nurse asked gently. “She’s out of surgery, if you want to see her.”
Eddie left the waiting room and slowly walked down the hall, following behind the nurse. She opened the door to room 19 and Eddie stepped in, the cold antiseptic smell stinging his nose. He pushed the curtain by your bed aside, his chest clenching at the sight of you.
You looked so weak. You were still asleep, monitors beeping softly. Eddie took a slow seat in the visitor’s chair, pulling it as close to your bedside as he could. He took your cold hand in his.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered softly, to you or himself or no one at all. He squeezed his eyes shut and fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
After being discharged from the hospital the next day, you felt empty. Eddie stayed by your side constantly, helping you since moving around was still hard to do. If it were up to him, he’d be pushing you around in a wheelchair instead.
Returning to the hotel was awkward. The night’s show had been cancelled since Eddie spent the entire night in the emergency room, and you weren’t exactly up to traveling right away. It was a huge disappointment, and not only to the fans. You felt terrible.
Eddie didn’t let you entertain those thoughts for a second, though.
Gareth, Jeff, Grant, and the crew all gave you strange looks when you first arrived back, like you were a stranger, or something so fragile you’d break if they looked at you wrong. Everything was weird.
You spent a couple days in Eddie’s hotel bed, allowing him to wait on you because it made him feel better. You didn’t exactly have the energy to get out of bed, anyway. All you did was sleep.
When you had physically recovered enough from your surgery to move on your own, you buried yourself in your work right away. Everyone knew what had happened, but you refused to talk about it. You acted like everything was normal, although you didn’t really talk to anybody about anything that wasn’t business.
Eddie tried to help. He tried to get you to open up, but you’d push him off, insisting you were fine when you clearly weren’t.
“Baby,” he’d say, so gently, like he was afraid you’d shatter before his eyes. “Are you sure everything’s okay? I’m really worried about you, sweetheart. You can tell me anything.”
“I’m fine, Eddie,” you’d say for the millionth time, thumbs frantically typing an email without even looking at him as he spoke to you. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
But he did. He could tell there was so much you were keeping inside, and it drove him crazy that he couldn’t help you.
“You haven’t said a word about it since it happened,” he said, like he was trying to carefully coax it from you. Some truth, some emotion. But you ignored him.
“…I lost the baby too, you know,” he said when you didn’t respond, his voice barely a whisper.
You froze, sitting completely still. Then, abruptly, you stood, straightening your pencil skirt. “I’ve got a phone meeting.”
Eddie watched you leave, feeling utterly helpless and useless.
Things with the band were weird for Eddie, too. They all felt betrayed by Eddie and his secrets. They were cold to him, like they didn’t want to talk to him for a while. They all thought he was reckless and selfish, and he knew it. Eddie felt it was worth it. Anything would have been worth it for you.
He would have gone to the ends of the earth for you.
With the show back on the road, things were tense on both buses. The band’s bus was unusually quiet, the usual laughter and banter missing. It only made Eddie feel worse.
On the crew bus, everyone acted like they were scared of you. You ignored them. You stayed busy, replying to messages and emails, making phone calls, lining things up for the band. Just like you’d always done. Like nothing was different, like everything hadn’t changed.
After a month of this, Eddie had had enough.
You were in his room after another show, sitting on the side of the bed, removing your heels while Eddie was in the shower. The sound of the running water filled the room as you stood, unzipping your skirt and letting it fall to the floor, then unbuttoning your shirt and letting it go, too.
You sat back down on the bed in your black bra and panties, garter belt and stockings still on. You gently traced your hand over the scar on your abdomen.
With Eddie in the shower, and you alone, you let yourself feel for just a second. The pain crept through your veins like fire, burning you from the inside. Your chest clenched, tight, and you bent over, trying to breathe and push it all back down.
Eddie came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, steam pouring out behind him. He dried his hair with a second towel, but stopped when he saw you there. He dropped the hair towel and rushed to your side, dropping to his knees next to you.
“Are you okay?” he asked urgently, pushing your hair out of your face. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”
Mask back on, you sat up. “I’m fine,” you said simply. “Sorry.”
Eddie looked at you with sadness glistening in his eyes. “Baby,” he said, so gently, like he was talking to a scared animal. “You’re not fine.”
You didn’t say anything. You wouldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t even look at him. You bit the inside of your cheek, hard, trying to keep it together. The metallic tang of blood hit your tongue.
“Please talk to me,” he pleaded. “I’m hurting, too. A lot. And I want to help you.”
“How can you help me?” you snapped, finally looking at him. “You can’t. The baby is gone and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Ignoring your harsh words, he took your hand in his and kissed your knuckles. You softened - you were pushing him away, and he was still right here. Holding on.
“Just…” he said, trying to think of the right words to say. Something that would make anything better, even if only a little. “I wish you’d stop pushing me away like this. I want to help you. I want us to lean on each other. We’re…we’re a partnership, right?” His thumb rubbed over the diamond that still sat on your ring finger.
You said nothing, but you could feel those emotions you’d repressed so well creeping up your chest. They reached your throat, taking your breath away, and a cry choked its way out. Eddie’s face crumpled, and he pulled you into his chest as you sobbed, clutching onto him like a lifeline.
Eddie rubbed your back, laying his head on the top of yours. He didn’t say anything, because there wasn’t anything to say that would take your grief away.
But he could hold you, and he could be here for you for as long as you needed him.
Things did get better, with time. Slowly, the pain stopped being so all consuming and it stopped feeling so hard to get out of bed in the morning. The grief never went away, but at least you could breathe again.
The guys eventually got over their feelings about you and Eddie. They still didn’t approve of it - it was clear in the way they looked when Eddie was affectionate with you in the privacy of the bus or backstage - but at least they were talking to both of you again.
You climbed onto the band’s bus now, knowing Eddie was still there, resting before the show. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant had run to get something to eat, but Eddie didn’t feel like going.
You found him sitting on the couch, strumming his guitar. He looked up when you walked in, smiling once he saw it was you. He quickly moved the guitar off his lap and set it down.
“Sweetheart,” he said, standing and meeting you halfway. He rested his hands on your hips. “What are you doing?”
“Just wanted to see you before the show,” you admitted softly. Eddie smiled, thumb rubbing over your cheek.
“Come sit with me,” he said. “Let me show you what I’ve been working on.”
He led you by your hand to the couch, letting you sit before sitting next to you. He lifted his beloved guitar again, settling it in his lap. He grabbed his pick, hand hovering over the strings before he finally started strumming.
It was slower, a ballad. Corroded Coffin didn’t have many, but the ones they did have were powerful, Eddie’s lyrics straight from his heart. Their most popular was about you, and seconds into the one he played you now, you realized this one was, too.
A slow smile spread across your face, and you put your hand on your chest as Eddie sang the words he’d written for you - and your baby.
When he was done, he looked at you to see your reaction. You pulled him straight into a kiss, Eddie chuckling against your lips. He set his guitar down and kissed you deeper, resting his hand on the side of your face and pulling you close.
He moved over you, pushing you back to lay on the couch. His kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, to your neck, down your chest where he started unbuttoning your blouse. He watched your breasts heaving with your breaths while he slowly exposed your body to him, kissing down between them and lower, seductively.
“Let me make love to you,” Eddie pleaded. He kissed your healed scar gently, rubbing his nose against your skin in reverence.
Your breath hitched in your throat. He peered up at you, and you gave him a slight nod. You hadn’t had sex since the miscarriage.
Eddie lifted and carried you with ease to the big bedroom in the back the boys often fought over. He was claiming it for now, laying you down gently right in the center of it and quickly undressing both of you.
He didn’t waste time, kissing you passionately one more time and then working down your body. He spread your legs wide and lowered himself between them. He kissed your inner thighs slowly, your body starting to tremble with anticipation the closer he got to your core.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said quietly. “I love you.”
He buried his face into you, licking through your folds and sucking on your clit. You cried out, grabbing his hair and pulling, making him moan loudly against you.
“Oh god, Eddie,” you moaned, writhing beneath him. He dug his fingers into your thighs, pulling you closer to his face.
Eddie’s nose brushed against your clit as he dipped his tongue inside of you, and you gasped, grinding down against him. He slowly rolled his hips into the mattress, hard and aching.
There was nothing better to Eddie than getting you off like this. He loved tasting you, loved getting you so worked up that you pulled his hair and begged for more. And he really loved when you fell apart for him.
He pushed two long fingers inside of you, curling them deep and making you gasp. Your head was spinning, your skin tingling with electricity.
“Feels so good, Eddie,” you moaned. It had been so long since you’d felt anything like this, and Eddie was taking you there fast.
“Give it to me, baby, please, come on,” he begged, pumping his fingers deep. “Need you to cum for me.”
“Want your cock, Eddie,” you begged, his fingers delicious but nothing compared to the real thing.
“Cum for me and I’ll give it to you,” he said, working you higher and higher. “You’re doing so good for me, I can feel you clenching around me- come on, baby-“
You pulled on his hair harder, making him groan against you as you let out a choked moan. The coil in your belly tightened, and you called his name again and again as you saw stars, your ears ringing.
“Eddie, oh fuck-“
Eddie took everything you gave him, riding you through it. When you had come down, he pulled back, climbing up your body and kissing you as he pressed his cock against your slick pussy.
“Need it so bad,” he said against your lips, grinding into you. “Missed this so much. I need to fuck you right now, baby.”
You reached between you and grabbed his cock, stroking it languidly. He groaned, his head dropping and hips bucking into your hand. You lined him up, and he smoothly slid in to the hilt, filling you exactly the way you craved.
He lazily rolled his hips into yours, moaning softly as he kissed you, licking into your mouth and pressing your tongues together. He slowly began to speed up, fucking into you faster and harder.
“You feel fuckin’ amazing,” he groaned lowly, moving from your lips to nip at your neck. He gripped your thighs, pushing them up high so he could fuck you deeper. You gasped - you felt like you could feel him in your throat.
“Eddie,” you whined, eyes fluttering closed as your back arched against his chest. Your nipples brushed against his skin, so sensitive, every movement going straight to your core. “Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t stop, baby,” he assured you. The bed was rocking and creaking loudly with every swift thrust of Eddie’s hips. He was holding you close, covering every bit of skin he could reach in kisses and little nips and bites. “Gonna make you feel so good again.”
Eddie grabbed onto your ass and rolled you over, immediately guiding you up and down quickly on his cock. You let out a cry, laying on his chest and letting him fuck up into you.
“Eddie,” you whined, so fucked stupid it was the only thing you could think to say. Eddie was letting out the hottest moans you’d ever heard in your ear, pulling you down onto him in time with his thrusts.
Your pussy throbbed around his cock, your release once again building with every hit of his tip against your bundle of nerves. Nothing but a whimpering mess on top of him, you let Eddie use you.
“So good, baby,” he huffed. “‘m gonna cum. I’m so close. I know you are, too- let go for me, sweetheart. Cum with me, please.”
Your body trembled in his hold. He fucked into you hard a few more times and then you were nearly screaming, face muffled in his neck as you shook and came around him. Eddie grabbed onto your hips and thrusted up a few more times before he keened, holding you down tight onto him as he spilled inside of you.
He pumped every drop of himself into you, making sure you got it all. Your weary body rested on top of his, unable to move.
Eddie’s phone dinged. You both sighed. He patted your ass before you giggled and climbed off of him and he reached over, grabbing it off the floor where it had fallen. He read the text, his face dropping. “Shit.”
“What?” you asked, your heart sinking.
“I’m late. They’re looking for me.” Eddie sighed, running a hand through his hair. He jumped up, grabbing his clothes and throwing you yours. You both redressed as quickly as possible, knowing someone would come looking any second.
You walked off the bus first. As you were just stepping off the stairs, you felt something grab your hand. You spun around and landed right into Eddie’s chest as he kissed you, his lips lingering only for a moment before letting you go. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” you said, still breathless. He let you go, and you walked into the venue.
A couple of days later, you woke up in bed alone. You furrowed your brow as you saw the empty bed next to you, the silent hotel room.
“Eddie?” you called, wondering if he might have been in the bathroom. No answer.
There wasn’t anything scheduled for the day, so you figured you’d go get some coffee. You dressed in jeans and a cute top, did your hair and makeup, and headed downstairs. On the way down the elevator, you shot Eddie a text.
Hey, where are you?
He didn’t answer, so you put your phone back in your pocket. The metal doors opened slowly, you stepped out - and were immediately rushed by a crowd of people, cameras flashing right in your face. You stepped back, startled, covering your face with your hands.
“How long have you been sleeping with Eddie Munson?”
“Have you slept with any of your other clients?”
“Are you using Eddie for fame?”
“How much is he paying you?”
You were in shock. The hotel employees tried to wrangle the paparazzi, pushing them back and towards the door. You didn’t stay to watch - you turned and ran back onto the elevator, back to your room.
You dialed Eddie’s number, sobbing. It rang and rang with no answer. Again. And again. And again. Until it finally stopped ringing at all, going straight to voicemail.
Opening the browser with hands shaking so hard you could barely hold your phone, you searched up Eddie’s name. Instantly, tons of articles popped up.
Corroded Coffin frontman’s secret relationship - with his manager!
You opened the first one and scanned the words quickly, the nausea in your stomach rising with every word. A whole story about you and Eddie, leaked by some source. They knew how long you’d been together, how you’d been sneaking around. They knew about the pregnancy and miscarriage. They knew about the engagement.
You threw your phone on the bed, a primal scream tearing its way from your throat. This was bad. This was terrible. This was the worst possible outcome.
All your fears were coming true.
Downstairs, Eddie sat hunched down in a conference room chair with the rest of the band and a phone in the middle of the table, the head of the label on the other end. They’d been being scolded for an hour at this point, and Eddie had a raging headache.
“Should we be expecting a lawsuit from this woman?” he asked over the phone.
“No,” Eddie said quickly. “No, she would never do that.”
The man scoffed. “That’s what they all say right before it happens.”
“She’s not like that,” Eddie said, his headache only getting worse.
The man called his assistant’s name. “Get the company that woman works for on the phone.”
Eddie’s stomach sank. “No, please don’t do that. She- she loves her job, she’s good at it. Please.”
“You’re lucky you still have a job right now,” the man said. The call ended, plunging the room into silence. None of the boys moved, and Eddie could feel the tension radiating off of them.
“You’ve fucked us, you know that?” Gareth snapped once he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “This is just gonna escalate, you know that, right? Things are going to get worse. You couldn’t just fuck some groupie like the rest of us?”
Eddie buried his face in his hands. He had ruined everything and he knew it. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant stood, leaving the room and Eddie behind.
He took a few minutes to calm himself. He had shut his phone off when you started calling - he felt bad, but he couldn’t answer in the middle of their meeting. Now, he knew he had to face you.
He grabbed his phone and turned it on. He saw the missed calls and texts from you pop up immediately. He dialed your number as he left the room, walking through the hotel with his head down, trying to avoid attention.
You didn’t answer. He didn’t like that.
Upstairs, he went straight to your room. He knocked, and he half expected you not to answer. But a minute later you pulled the door open, looking like a complete mess with your eyes bright red and wet, tears down your cheeks, clear you were actively crying. You were dressed casually, and your suitcase was on the bed. His chest clenched.
“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
You didn’t say anything, but moved out of the way. Eddie walked inside and shut the door. A sob choked its way out of your chest.
“Everything’s over,” you said. “My life is over. And I don’t even get the baby.”
His heart shattered even more. He reached for you. “Sweetheart-“
You jerked away from his touch. “I’m going home.”
“No,” he said, panic rising. “Please don’t do that. Please.”
“I have to,” you scoffed. “I got fired. I’m not your manager anymore, I have no right to be here.”
“You got fired?” His voice was quiet, soft. “Baby-“
“We knew this would happen,” you said, laughing humorlessly as you threw clothes into your suitcase. “This is what we were asking for, isn’t it?”
“You can stay,” he said quickly. “Just stay on the bus with me.”
“No one wants that, Eddie.” You threw a hoodie into the bag. “I’m sure everyone hates me. They’re talking about you too, you know. And you should see my instagram. I had to turn comments off.”
The guilt was eating at him so deeply, he felt sick. “I’m sorry.”
You shrugged, although you were still crying. “Too late for that.”
Eddie stood, watching you pack, helpless. His mind raced, thinking of any way to change your mind, to make you stay. “…Are you leaving me?”
You stopped. This was what you had been dreading. Having to break his heart. “I have to.”
“You don’t,” he said quickly, pleading. He took a long step towards you, grabbing your hands and making you look at him. “Please. Don’t do this, baby.” He could feel tears pushing their way through, but he tried his hardest not to cry. He needed to be strong.
“I have to,” you said again. “We can’t…I told you from the beginning, Eddie, that this was never going to work. And now we’re finding out the hard way.”
“Please,” he said again. His thumb brushed your ring. “We’re gonna get married. We’re gonna start a family - try again. I love you.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from falling. It wasn’t working. “I’m sorry, Eddie. My flight leaves tonight.”
“No,” he said, the rising panic making him feel frantic, desperate as he gripped onto you. “No, baby, please. Don’t do this. Seriously, please. It doesn’t have to end like this. It doesn’t have to end at all.”
You pulled your hands from Eddie’s grasp. Slowly, reluctantly, you grabbed the ring and pulled it off your finger. You handed it back to Eddie, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Eddie refused to take it. “No.”
“Eddie-“
“No,” he said, louder this time. “Do you hear yourself? You’re throwing everything away. Everything we have. Everything we’ve had.”
“I’m letting it go,” you said. The words coming from your mouth were a lot more sure and firm than you felt. “I’m letting you go.”
You pushed the ring into Eddie’s hand and turned back to your bag, zipping it up. “I think you should go. I’m gonna take a nap before I have to leave.”
Eddie stood there, dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe you were really doing this. “I can’t even stay until you go?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” you said. You tried to be strong, tried to hold your ground, when all you wanted was to run into Eddie’s arms and have everything be okay.
“Baby-“
“Please don’t, Eddie,” you said. “This is already hard enough.”
“Then don’t do it!” he begged, his voice getting louder. “You don’t have to do this! You want to run and throw us away because you’re scared. You don’t have to be scared. I’m going to take care of you.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me!” You yelled through the tears. “I wanted my job! I wanted my life I worked so hard for! I spent years getting here, finally found success, and ruined it in a year.” You wiped at your eyes. “Just go, Eddie.”
Eddie looked at you like he barely recognized you. You’d been through so much together, and this is where you were calling it? Just like that?
“Just go,” you said again. “You’re not going to change my mind.”
Eddie knew it was pointless. You had made up your mind, and you were throwing him away. You were giving up on your relationship and there was nothing he could do to change your mind.
“Fine,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”
Eddie turned and left the room, slamming the door.
Things didn’t end there.
Eddie was miserable enough in your absence, but with the news breaking, more and more kept coming out. Lies, and shit Eddie didn’t even know about.
Another woman speaks out: says she slept with Eddie Munson weeks before news of his secret relationship broke.
It didn’t even surprise Eddie when it happened. He just poured himself another drink, turned the TV off, and drank himself stupid like he did every night.
But things got worse.
Eddie was on the couch of his hotel room, drunk already, the TV on in the background, when the news broke. Corroded Coffin drummer accused of harsh treatment of women, paying for multiple abortions, possibly spreading STDs? Text messages, photos, and documents filled the screen.
“What the fuck,” Eddie muttered. He stood up, stumbling slightly, and rushed out of his room to Gareth’s, banging on the door.
The look on Gareth’s face told him everything about how much his friend already knew.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he spat, but he turned and walked into his room, leaving the door open.
Eddie followed him inside. “Did you-“
“Yes, I fucking know,” Gareth said. “This is all your fucking fault, you know that?”
“My fault?” Eddie gestured towards himself. “I didn’t do all that shit with those groupies-“
“Yeah, and none of it would have come out if it weren’t for you fucking our manager!” Gareth yelled back at his lifelong best friend. “You have fucked us. If Corroded Coffin ends over this, it’s entirely your fucking fault.”
“There wouldn’t have been anything to come out if you hadn’t done this shit, so I don’t see how the blame is on me-“
“Because Rockstar fucks groupie isn’t fucking news,” Gareth said. “It’s what you did that brought this attention on us in the first place. It’s what you did that’s ruining everything we’ve worked for. You didn’t even love her, did you? You still fucked that random chick-“
Eddie grabbed Gareth by the front of his shirt, pushing him against the wall. “I did fucking love her. You have no idea how much I fucking love her. Don’t fucking talk about her.”
“I know you think you’re better than the rest of us,” Gareth seethed, “but you’re no fucking better than me.”
Eddie shoved him, knocking Gareth’s back into the wall hard, the frames on the wall rattling, one crashing to the ground. It knocked the air out of him, taking him a minute to recover. “Get the fuck out.”
“Gladly.” Eddie slammed the hotel room door hard as he left, stumbling into the wall as he headed back to his own room. He picked up his bottle of whiskey and drank it straight from the bottle until he blacked out, passed out on the couch.
And he dreamed of you.
Back in your apartment in Chicago, you let yourself wallow in pity for a good week. You laid on the couch under a blanket, doom scrolling on your phone, drinking glass of wine after glass of wine.
But that wasn’t in your nature. You wanted to work. You put in applications everywhere, all kinds of management companies even for positions lower than where you’d been. But everyone knew your name now.
Things did die down, eventually. It’s not like this kinda thing was groundbreaking for a rock band. You tried to avoid Corroded Coffin news wherever possible.
Months after things blew up, you had found a job working for a different management company. You were grateful they gave you a shot - although you might as well have been a glorified intern.
You had just gotten home from work, kicking your heels off and to the side. You sighed, reaching for your glass and bottle of wine, your nightly ritual now. Just as you took your first sip, there was a knock at your door - unusual. No one ever visited you. All your family and friends were back in your hometown.
You walked to the door slowly, nervous. You opened the door - and you were immediately rooted to the spot, your jaw dropping.
Eddie stood there, looking handsome as ever. His long hair was wild and gorgeous as usual, he was wearing a Metallica shirt and his tight ripped jeans. He held a huge bouquet of carnations, pink and white. He smiled at you shyly.
“Eddie,” you breathed, in complete shock. You hadn’t spoken to him since you’d left. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?” he asked sheepishly.
You thought about it for a minute. It felt like a really, really bad idea. But it was Eddie.
“Yeah,” you said, moving out of the way to let him in.
He stood in the quiet of your apartment, looking around. He’d never seen it before. There wasn’t much to see, really. You were hardly ever here.
“Eddie, what-“
“I love you,” he said, the words blurting out without his permission. “Fuck, I- I love you. I still love you, after everything.”
You bit your lip. You looked down at your feet, the tile of your floor. “Eddie, please.”
He said your name pleadingly. “There is no one else for me. I’m telling you that. You’re it for me.”
“That didn’t stop you from-“
“Yeah, I know,” he said. He wasn’t upset with you, he was desperate. “I know I fucked up. But I haven’t been with anyone since you left, I’m telling you. You’re all I can think about. You’re all I want.”
You shook your head. “Eddie, I told you it’s over.”
He set the flowers down on your counter, taking a step closer to you. “Do you remember when I kissed you for the first time?” Eddie asked gently, grabbing onto your hands. “I know you felt it, too. I’ve loved you since that moment. Maybe even before.”
You closed your eyes. It was a lot harder to stay strong when he was looking at you like that, saying things like that. “I do remember,” you said quietly.
“And when you told me you loved me for the first time,” he said. “While I was-“
“Yeah, I remember.”
Eddie smiled. “You meant it. The next morning, you were half asleep when I left, and you said it again.”
You blushed. “I did love you.”
“You did?” he asked. “Or you do?”
You didn’t know how to answer that. You knew what the truth was, you just didn’t know if you were prepared to say it.
“Tell me,” Eddie said, his voice barely a whisper. He was right in front of you now, his body nearly touching yours as he looked down at you. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll go.”
“Eddie…” you whispered back, looking up into his brown eyes.
He placed a hand on your cheek. “Say it, and I’ll go.”
Your mind spun. Your heart was beating out of your chest, making your whole body ache. But you couldn’t lie to him, not really. Not ever. You grabbed his wrist. “I love you.”
Eddie didn’t waste a second as he pulled you into a searing kiss, his arms wrapping around your body and pulling you into him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, letting him kiss you breathless.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the glittering diamond ring. You looked down as he took your hand, sliding it back on. “I’ve carried this with me since you left. It’s yours. It doesn’t belong with anyone else. Marry me or not, it’s yours.”
You felt like you were dreaming.
“Just be with me,” he said. “We can take it slow, we can do whatever you want. I just need you. I need you.”
You nodded, slowly at first and then faster. “Okay,” you said. “Okay.”
He kissed your knuckles. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
🎵my man gives real love that’s why I call him killer, he’s not a ‘wham! bam! thank you ma’am!’ he’s a thriller.🎵
summary: After being stood up on a blind date, the cute bartender you’ve been ‘trying’ not to flirt with keeps you company.
word count: 12.6k
warnings: 90’s AU / 18 + no minors! /eddie is in his early 30’s, fingering, oral (f receiving), semi public smut (p in v), cream pie, dirty talk.
authors note: my love letter to the 90’s 💕after one month of brain storming and three weeks of writing here’s part one of Whatta Man! Eddie’s night. (This is a singular one shot. Steve’s night is part two, can you find the easter eggs for his night 😉)Thank you to my very talented friends who always brain storm with me and share ideas. This fun lil AU wouldn’t have happened with you. ily 💗 edit by @eddiemunsons-missingnipple
You didn’t want to go on this date. Not when your roommate set you up, and you certainly didn’t want to go when he picked The Foxy Lounge. But when Weather Man Mike predicted the first warm day after three months of bitter winter you’d take any excuse to wear your favorite dress.
You’d been here before, always stumbling in after a night out with friends because they were the only 4am place in town. Those late nights turned to early mornings were more of a thing of the past now so when you got to the familiar chipped red door you didn’t recognize the bouncer standing outside. He has a head of honey colored hair that’s just long enough to run his fingers through. His toned frame sits pretty wrapped in a tight black tee and long legs covered in dark wash jeans tight enough for you to really have to focus on keeping your eyes on his face. A freckle covered neck leads to a strong jaw and a chiseled nose. Leaning against the brick wall with his boots crossed at the ankles a toothpick twirls between his straight teeth.
The platform of your sneakers hitting the pavement as you come to a stop and the jingle of your power beads alerts him of your presence, hazel eyes going round like the moon in the sky. Straightening his posture he snatches the tooth pick out of his mouth, stuffing it in his back pocket. You swear you see a Tamagotchi tucked away as he clears his throat with a puff of his chest.
“I.D.?”
Your lips twitch, the forced deep baritone in his voice isn’t fooling you, and you wonder if it fooled anyone when the signature beep of a Tomogatchi pet needing to be fed goes off in his back pocket. He coughs to try to cover the noise while you quickly pull what he needs out of your cross body. Holding it out for him to examine you look up with a glossed smile matching the one in the picture. Narrowing his eyes, you catch a glimmer of playfulness when he clicks on his flashlight.
Examining it like it could be a fake, you bite back a giggle while he turns it around giving it one more once over before handing it back to you with a soft chuckle.
“Funny, we have the same birthday.” His voice comes out normal this time, soft and friendly just like you thought.
“Twins!”
A genuine smile lights up his face like the sign above your head, his boyish features coming out despite the stubble on his chin.
“Might as well call us the Olsen’s.” Throwing you a wink he pulls the gold handle to open the door for you. The sounds of Return of the Mack break through the hums of the street behind you. “Have fun tonight honey, be safe. If anyone bothers you, just come grab me okay? I’m steve.”
Your cheeks heat up at the endearment and you have to remind yourself that you’re here for a date. You catch a hint of his cologne when your shoulder brushes against his chest on your way in, the expensive scent making you dizzy when it hits your senses.
“I will, thanks Steve,”your words are shy when they come out, making his lips twitch in response. Nodding his head, you catch the tinge of pink on his skin before he closes the door with a small wave.
It's even louder inside with the drunk conversations battling for dominance against the music. Tugging nervously at the bottom of your dress you look around the bar for the vague description of this guy Craig your friend gave you.
You scan the crowd a few times before your eyes catch the big brown ones of the bartender. The stool in front of him freeing itself at the same time your eyes connect, the corners of his plush lips pull up as he beckons you over with two heavily ringed fingers. The unruly dark auburn curls that hit just below his shoulders catch the low light behind the bar, the yellow glow softening up all his edges.
Rocking back on your heels you pull the strap of your cross body closer, doing your best to collect yourself before you push through the crowd accepting his invitation. His smile widens, pulling up his stubble covered cheeks to reveal a set of perfect white teeth to you. The one you give him in return comes out a little shy as you plop down on the ripped vinyl that matches the red of the door.
Ink litters his arms disappearing under the frayed ends of his sleeves letting you know there was more under the tight fit of his worn faded black Metallica shirt. The two rips near the collar give you a glimpse of the chain wrapped around his neck. The scruff lining his jaw adds a few years from afar but from this close he looks your age. The silver hoop in his nose catches against the bright lighting under the bar like the rings adoring his fingers. Pulling out two empty shot glasses with a twirl he quickly fills them up with Jameson.
“This one’s on the house sweetheat, it’ll help make your date cuter.” He winks with a sly grin, your stomach flutters with his full attention on you like this.
The glass is heavy in your grasp as you stare at the dark liquid with a faint grimace. His low chuckle catches your attention before the pop and hiss of the soda fills your ears. As if reading your mind he slides over a coke, letting you keep your pride by not having to ask for a chaser.
“How do you know I’m here for a date?” Raising a questioning brow, the sides of your lips twitch as you struggle to hold a straight face. “A girl can’t come to the bar alone on a Friday night?”
The chocolate in his eyes lights up at your playful banter, slinging a white towel over his shoulder he leans in, forearms pressing hard against the counter as he invades your space. The spice of his cologne and the burn of cigarette smoke joins with him and you find yourself sucking your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Are you telling me you’re available then?” Dropping his voice low enough to feel between your legs, you wished more than anything you had a different answer to give him.
The heaviness of his gaze has your cheeks warming, the intensity of the eye contact forcing your gaze away for a second as you clear your throat. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear you muster enough courage to meet his eyes again.
“N-no unfortunately, you were right.” Exaggerating a heavy sigh, his confident demeanor never wavers despite his confirmed suspicions.
“Unfortunately is right, huh?” Winking, he pushes back leaving only the lingering scent of his cologne raising his shot in an offering of cheers. “To what could have been, baby.”
A giggle bubbles past your lips when his fingers brush against yours meeting in the middle with a clink. Downing his shot like a professional, he’s left to watch the way you struggle with yours. Amusement is evident on his face while he watches the way your throat stays unwilling to open. Holding the alcohol in your mouth longer than anyone would want, it finally gives in letting the bitter liquid go down with a bite. Pushing the can of coke towards you with his knuckles, his laugh booms loud from his chest as you search for reprieve in the sweetness with desperation.
Chugging with abandon, you forget your surroundings for a second before your eyes meet his over the rim of the can and it’s almost enough to have you snort the rest of it all over yourself.
Coming up for air you grumble a half assed “shut up” doing your best to try and fight the smile begging to spread across your lips as you wipe them with the back of your hand.
“Not a whiskey girl I take it?” Punctuating the ‘t’ harder than normal, his teasing falls on deaf ears when you get distracted at the way his thick fingers wrap around the shot glasses.
“Not a shot girl in general, I’d rather not taste the alcohol if I can help it.” Shrugging, you trace invisible patterns on the sticky quartz of the bar top with french tipped nails silently reminding yourself for the second time tonight you’re here for a date.
“So how’d you two meet?” He raises his voice so it comes out sickly sweet while a shaker and a lemon appears in his hands. Setting them down on top of the worn jagermeister logo that covers the drink mat he starts rolling the fruit against his palm.
“We haven’t met yet actually, a friend set us up.”
Eddie’s movements freeze for a second, eyebrows furrowing together in a look of confusion as if that was the craziest thing that anyone had ever told him. He grabs the bottle of simple syrup adding more to what looked like it was going to be a sweet drink before he answers.
“Someone like you shouldn’t need to be set up, sweetheart.” He looks up at you from under the hood of his lashes quickly picking up on the effect he has on you.
He twirls another empty glass onto the counter top before he smashes the lid of the shaker on, not giving you a chance to respond he starts shaking it louder than you know is necessary. The bats tattooed on his arm dance across the muscles with the flex of every flick of his wrist.
“Really? Laying it on thick, huh?” Raising your voice enough to know he could hear you, he taunts you by cupping his free hand over his ear to make a show of pretending he can’t, mouthing a ‘sorry’ with a smirk. The laugh he earns from when he finally relents is the prettiest sound he thinks he’s ever heard.
“Well I hope this ‘friend’ has a good vetting process. No less than three interviews or no dice.” He pours your drink with panache, like he’s putting on a show for you, like you’re sure he does with all the other girls.
Grabbing a straw he plugs one end with his index finger before he dips it into the slightly lighter liquid. The heat between your legs becomes almost unbearable when his lips wrap around the end tasting his creation with a low groan, his pink tongue pokes out to collect the sweetness left behind.
“I think, I think you’re gonna like this one. It’s an Eddie Munson original, I’m calling it "Wasting Love.” The roll of your eyes makes him bark out another laugh. The signs of the smoke you smell on him are more noticeable in this one’s rumble.
“I wonder what could have inspired it?” Biting your lip to hide your smile, you knew you shouldn’t be flirting with him while you waited for Craig, but you can’t help yourself. Besides, he was already ten minutes late.
“I think you know what inspired it sweetheart, I can tell you’re not just some pretty face.” Dimples poking through his cheeks, he finally takes notice of the glares from the customers filling up the bar. Everyone’s patience starting to wear thin while they waited for whatever this was to be over.
“I gotta stop ignoring all the other people in here real quick, but I’ll be back for your review.” He throws you another wink and it has you shifting in your seat as he starts to walk away.
“Wait! I never opened a tab!” Calling after him as you reach for your purse, he tuts loudly, turning around to face you, continuing his path walking backwards.
“You shouldn’t be paying for a thing tonight, gorgeous.” He waves his hand dismissively before his back is to you again giving his undivided attention to the bearded man who looked ready to murder the carefree metal head if he didn’t get his Bud Light in the next five seconds.
Trying not to get too caught up in someone that wasn’t your date you timidly bring the straw to your lips. Humming appreciatively when the sweetness hits your tastebuds you’re pleasantly surprised at how much you actually like it. Feeling bold enough to take a bigger gulp, you look around for Craig again. So lost in the little bubble you had been in with Eddie you didn’t realize how much more the bar had filled up since you arrived. A new kind of rowdy energy in the air — the low murmurs of conversation get loud enough to drown out Semi- Charmed Kinda Life.
Glancing down at your pink swatch watch, your date was now twenty minutes late. Turning around to check and make sure the lavender cross body you told him to look for was visible, you crane your neck around looking one last time. It’s easy to shrug off the sinking feeling of rejection when you turn back around to watch Eddie in his natural habitat.
He moves behind the bar like he’s been doing it his whole life, like everything was muscle memory. As if he could feel you staring he catches your gaze throwing you a smirk before he tosses a bottle of tequila in the air catching it with ease. Pouring it into four lined up shot glasses, the group of girls in front of him celebrating what looked like a bachelorette party with all their multi-colored hats and boas squealed with drunk delight. Your eyes hit the back of your skull in a hard roll when one of them bats their eyelashes at him with a hand on his arm.
Sucking down the rest of your drink, the slurping once you hit the ice is loud enough to annoy the guy next to you who shoots you a warning look over his shoulder. Mouthing an apology you push your empty glass away looking around the bar one more time. The guilt of flirting with Eddie starts to disappear when you look at your watch again and start coming to terms you were actually being stood up. Searching for his doe eyes again, your heart sinks when you find him this time.
Dimples in his cheeks again, he’s practically beaming at her. Their body language telling you this isn’t their first time meeting and how animated he is when he talks to her is like he’s known her for years. Gesturing wildly with his hands while she nods enthusiastically, something he says has her throwing her head back with a laugh loud enough you can hear it over the music. You huff through your nose, the sting of rejection sneaking its way back in. The reminder that he was just doing his job and you were here for a date, one that never showed up, slaps you right in the face.
Averting your gaze to spare whatever confidence you have left, your eyes find the bouncer at the front door. Inside the bar now with a hard glare set on his handsome face. His arms sit folded across his broad chest while his jaw clenches at the same time as the muscles in his shoulders flex. Steve looks pissed.
Interest piqued, you follow his line of sight despite it going in the direction of the bar you were trying to avoid. Somehow not surprised when your eyes land on her again, you notice Eddie has already busied himself with someone else. With his back towards both of you he fills two pints with Blue Moon, the uncomfortable look on her face couldn’t be missed. The greasy blonde hair on the man that was clearly invading her personal space told you he’d been drinking all day. The grimace on her pretty face says she could smell it on his breath too.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you see him grab onto her arm while trying to whisper in her ear. You feel yourself ready to stand up and help when she pushes him away, with the way the veins in her neck were flexing whatever she was saying to him wasn't nice. Shoving her hand in his face she storms towards the front door where Steve is waiting, looking seconds away from killing the man who followed her path out of the bar with a leer.
The scowl on her face softens instantly when she’s met with Steve opening the door, the glare on his face being replaced with a deep flush when you catch a “Thanks, Stevie” fall appreciatively from her lips.
SMACK
Jumping at the sound of metal hitting wood, Eddie’s dimples show themselves only this time they are for you as he leans forward on his arms again, eyes flicking towards the spot next to you. He pulls himself even closer when he notices no one new occupying the stool, making you search for friction with the fat of your thighs.
“Penny for your thoughts, beautiful?” Flashing you his perfect teeth for the second time tonight the bruise to your ego already starts to disappear.
“I drank it without gagging, didn’t I?” Crossing your arms on top of the bar it's your turn to lean into his space and you swear you hear his breath hitch at your new boldness.
Licking his lips, your eyes greedily follow the path of his tongue. His smile stretches across his face even more when he notices, making no effort to move- unwilling to back down from the silent standoff you’ve challenged him too.
“‘I’ll have you know I take that as a very high compliment coming from you.” His breath fans across your cheeks from this close, mint and whiskey hitting your nose when he huffs a laugh. “Where’s Prince Charming?”
“Turns out there was no Prince, just an ugly old toad.” Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you look up at him through half lidded eyes, “Good thing I didn’t kiss him, huh?”
A low rumble shakes in his chest as he dares to lean in even closer, the tips of your noses almost brushing while the bubble you’d lost yourselves in reappears.
“Yeah baby, you can’t give those out to just anybody, they gotta be for someone special.” His voice is low, dripping with the kind of want you’d never had directed at you before. His eyes take in every inch of your face from this close while you try to keep up with his smooth tongue.
“Got anyone in mind, Eddie?” Doing your best to match his tone, his brows pinch together at the way his name sounds coming out of your mouth taking one last look at your lips before meeting your eyes again.
“Yeah, I know a guy actually. He’s a bartender with a great head of hair.” Wiggling his eyebrows when you snort, the front door swings open, breaking you two apart as the girl from before commands the room like a record scratch, silencing the bar for the first time all night.
“Eddie! It’s bad, Steve needs you!” The sheer panic in her voice is enough for the jealous monster inside you to stay at bay as Eddie pushes back on his heels.
An irritated sigh escapes him while he mutters ‘not a-fucking-gain’ under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before his eyes find yours. You jump a little when he grabs your hands, the warmth of his palms enveloping yours while he gives you a pleading look.
“Don’t - I mean, please don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back, I need to go save my buddy’s ass again. But I promise I’ll be right back, this conversation is too important to leave unfinished.” He flashes you that million dollar smile like chaos isn’t ensuing outside and all you can do is nod, signaling that you’ll stay put.
Hopping over the bar his loose fitting combat boots squeak over the counter top, the black jeans that were hidden from your sight somehow fit him even better than his shirt. Your gaze is shamelessly hungry as it follows him until he’s out the door. The scuffle outside leaking through the music with a blur of bodies outside.
Too focused on the glimpse of Eddie’s towering frame stepping between the two guys to break up the fight, you don’t notice the person who walks through the unattended door until it shuts behind him with a thud. Ready to glare at whoever it is your eyes widen when you meet the ones belonging to who you can only assume is Craig. The burnt auburn hair he sports and the way he zero’s in on your purse confirms your suspicions. This was Craig, you're incredibly late and not even remotely as attractive as the bartender, date.
“Shit, shit, shit.” No matter how quickly you averted your stare, you knew it was too late, he saw you. Panic sets in while your brain goes a mile a minute trying to think a way out of this.
Looking around the bar for some sort of escape, the thought of ducking into the bathroom sounds like a winner but then the image of Eddie coming back and seeing you gone seeps into the forefront of your mind making you quickly toss that idea out the window. Turning to the people on either side of you who are too lost in their own conversations to notice your dilemma, you try to decide which one you could interrupt the most naturally.
The couple on your right looks like they’re on a date going really well and the one on your left seems like two friends catching up. The tap on your shoulder is enough for you to make a split second decision, clearing your throat you spare the newly blossoming romance next you from your desperate antics, choosing to interrupt the friends who are reconnecting with a loud fake laugh.
“That’s when she told me- um excuse me do I know you?” Gruff and confused, the man closest to you looks at you as if you’ve grown two heads. First your loud slurping and now this? This plan was never going to work from the get-go.
Another persistent tap on your shoulder has you grasping for straws. You open your mouth to try to sell whatever this was one last time.
“Umm excuse me?” Craig’s voice comes out loud enough to cut you off and for the poor guy next to you to give you the final cold shoulder. Unable to ignore him any longer, you force yourself to turn around and face him head on. Kind of.
Channeling your inner Alicia Silverstone you try to give him the best Clueless look you can muster and he returns it with an even more confused expression, clearing his throat.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. I’m Craig, Ariana’s friend. I think I’m supposed to be meeting you?” Shoving his hands in the pockets of his tan slacks, the maroon sweater he wears fits loosely over his thin frame, dirty black chucks on his feet, his look screams ‘I listen to Nirvana’.
“Umm, I think you have the wrong person? I wasn’t supposed to be meeting anyone here tonight.” It’s not believable in the slightest when the words leave your mouth, your less than confident delivery giving you away. The look on his face lets you know you’ve definitely been made
“Are you sure? I was told to look for the girl with a lavender purse.” As if to prove his point he points to the exact one he’s talking about slung across your shoulder. He scoffs when you keep up with your charade, “I know I’m late but this is ridiculous.”
“A lot of girls have purple bags, Craig.” His name comes out dripping in venom, the need to get rid of him before Eddie’s return throwing any logic out the window. You needed to believe your own lie.
The sudden harshness has him raising his hands in defense, backing down a little under the daggers of your glare.
“Whoa, chill out, my bad. You just match the exact description I was given, that's all.”
Clenching your jaw in frustration because he just won’t give up, you try to hold your composure while your eyes flick towards the door in anticipation for his return.
“Well you’ve told me you were late twice already so she probably just left. Rude of you to keep her waiting honestly.” Narrowing your eyes at him, you know that he’s aware of exactly what you are doing but you don’t care anymore.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened, and not her being bitter I’m one measly hour late.” The way his words clip signal the rejection sinking in, a glare setting firm on his face.
It’s the stare down of the century before Eddie comes barging through the entrance with a loud huff and a clap of his hands. Cheeks red from yelling and hair slightly more wild than before. He checks to make sure you’re still exactly where he left you before he glances over to Craig for a split second not registering who he is. Hopping over the bar with another skid of his boots, he still manages to give you a lopsided grin when he gets to the other side. Hitting the top of the bar in a series of beats - he’s a ball of energy.
“Sorry to keep you waiting sweetheart, Steve’s lucky the girl he took a knuckle sandwich for has a first aid kit. Rick keeps saying he’s gonna get one but I have yet to see it. Want another cocktail?” Talking a mile a minute with the leftover adrenaline from the fight, he still doesn’t notice the way Craig watches the two of you until he catches how awkward you’re being. Eddie’s face hardens, the softness he was giving you disappearing. “Something I can help you with buddy?”
You don’t even have to look at Craig to know he’s puffing out his chest with a point of his chin addressing Eddie.
“Actually pal, maybe you can.” His tone makes Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, a tested smile spreading over his lips while he lets Craig continue. “I was supposed to meet someone here for a blind date, I was told to look for a girl with a lavender purse exactly like this one. You haven't seen another girl with this exact same bag have you?”
Eddie’s wide eyes meet yours, amusement filling the specks of golden brown as he picks up on exactly what’s happening. The corners of his lips twitch before he nods his head licking his bottom lip holding your gaze long enough to make you squirm before bringing his attention back to Craig with a low whistle.
“Oh yeah, I remember that hottie, man. It’s a shame you were late, she took off with this dude she met waiting for you. She didn’t stand a chance, though, honestly. I know the guy, he’s too smooth for his own good. Pretty good looking too. Can’t be leaving your girl unattended around him. Probably wouldn’t have worked out between you two anyway.” Eddie catches the roll of your eyes at his self indulgent story as you cover your mouth with the palm of your hand to hide your face splitting grin.
“Why don’t you walk away with some dignity. What’s that saying? There’s always more fish in the sea or some shit.” Eddie adds more salt to the wound, finally breaking Craig enough to give up.
“Whatever you say man, this bar is fuckin’ lame anyway. Who wants to drink to Third Eye Blind.” Grumbling his insults as he slinks away, he takes one last look at you and Eddie before his final exit with a flip of his middle finger.
Eddie’s stare is hot on your face, while you bashfully avoid his gaze keeping your eyes lingering on the door. When you finally dare to meet his eyes the shit eating grin on his face makes you groan, the buzz of your drink pulling a giggle out of you.
“Eddie, don’t —“
“Well, well, aren’t you just a little heartbreaker, huh?” His teasing only makes your cheeks grow hotter as you try to hide your face from his view.
“Don’t you need to go attend to all the customers you left?” Your words come out muffled from behind your hands as you slowly pull them down just enough to uncover the fake glare you were sending his way.
“I’ve got my favorite one right here.” Voice dropping low with a smirk, he was right, you didn’t stand a chance.
“I haven’t paid for a single thing, you refused my money if you remember.” Bringing your hands down to fully come out of hiding, he bites his bottom lip when he can take in your features again.
“It’s no good here, baby, I could actually get arrested if I take it and then how would I be able to take you out to get pancakes after my shift if I’m behind bars?” Bringing his hands together in mock shackles and a pout, the chain wrapped around his wrist catches your eyes for the first time.
“You’re takin’ me to get pancakes?” Flirting like a love sick teenager, you even start to kick your feet under the bar.
“It’s the least I can do since you’re my fill in bouncer for the rest of the night.” Smirking, he nods his head to the man at the opposite end of the bar flagging him down with a twenty dollar bill. His eyes sparkling with something new now that he had you.
“Me? A Bouncer? I’m not intimidating in the slightest!” Your cheeks hurt from how hard you smile at his retreating form, the game of ‘playing hard to get’ becoming a thing of the past now.
“Sorry, you owe me, heartbreaker.” He shrugs like it’s out of his control before flashing you the same lopsided grin leaving you a mess of nerves from getting to spend the night with him.
The hours till close go by faster than you anticipate with Eddie topping off your drink any time you ask, the buzz from the alcohol is just enough to handle the growing intensity of his flirting. Now that the only obstacle in the way of each other was time, he was relentless.
Enjoying the game of chicken the two of you had started unconsciously playing, you stop noticing the clock. Every six customers earns you five —sometimes ten minutes of his time and he makes sure to use every second of those breaks as an excuse to lean in close, whispering in your ear, holding your face close every time you talk. He was getting off on the way he could make you shift in your seat and hide your bottom lip between your teeth when he got close enough for his lips to brush against your ear. Your fingers find excuses to wrap around his wrist when he invades your space, playing with his chain, you keep him close making sure to tilt your head just enough for him to catch a glimpse down your neck into the low cut of your dress.
The small hand on the clock above the door hits the three and it’s not until his breaks start getting longer and your touches are able to get a little bolder that you notice the murmur of voices over the music disappears. The few stranglers left sipping their last drinks of the evening are paying the two of you no mind despite the way he’s tucking your hair out of his way to trace the shell of your ear with the tip of his nose.
The realization that you’re finally about to be alone with him brings your nerves to a head and the need to check yourself over in the bathroom mirror becomes urgent. The flick of his tongue along your earlobe distracts you for a second as your head nudges against his when it tickles making a giggle slip past your lips.
“I gotta go to the bathroom, Eddie.” You inhale the scent of pine lingering in his shampoo, giving him one last nudge with your nose before hopping off the stool. He gives you his best puppy eyes as you get up to leave, pushing out his bottom lip when you tug your dress down.
“Please, I’ll be like three minutes.” You roll your eyes at him but the smile that lights up your face tells him you’re eating it up.
“I’ll be counting every second you're gone, baby.” Holding his hands over his heart for dramatic effect the man at the end of the bar snorts loudly ruining the moment. He earns an annoyed glare from the bartender, “Better hurry up and finish that shit old man, it’s closing time.”
You hear him grunt in response to Eddie’s rude reminder before disappearing into the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. Stickers and writing with permanent marker cover every inch of the dark crimson walls. The doors of the black stalls barely hang from their hinges, dents from many reckless drunk nights at The Foxy Lounge punch random spots into the metal. The bottom of your sneakers stick to the floor with every step to the mirror where more stickers and black scribbles line the surface including a girl named Leigh’s phone number with the note ‘for a good time call’ attached at the end leaving just enough room to see your face.
The space buns on top of your head are messy from Eddie nuzzling his beard into your hair all night. You try to salvage what was left of them by tightening the knots a little more before deciding it's a lost cause. He was probably just going to mess them up more anyway. The thought of Eddie’s hands being free to touch you in every way you’ve wanted all night has you taking a deep breath while you hold your own eyes in the mirror.
“It’s happening, you’re gonna have sex with him. You’re gonna fuck the super hot bartender who flirts like it’s his second language tonight and you’re gonna be confident about it okay? You hear me?” Pointing to yourself in the mirror, the determination in your stare is enough for your tipsy pep talk to work its magic.
Taking one last look at yourself with a nod of your head you pull open the bathroom door ready to take on the rest of the night. Only to stop in your tracks when you notice the stool that was occupied is now empty and every inch of Eddie is also in full view from where he stands in front of the jukebox. Your eyes are insatiable taking in his tall frame like this for the first time all night.
You notice the giant chain that hangs from his belt loop this time, and there’s even more rips in his jeans than before giving you a peek at the pale skin hidden underneath. His shoulder blades move under the thin fabric of his shirt when he clicks his choice on the machine. Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer spills out from the speakers of the bar as he turns on his heels, the smirk that plays on his lips dares you to catch the hint with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“Very subtle.” Crossing your arms as if to act immune to his charms, you know he sees right through your facade but he plays along anyway raising his big hands up in the air in mock surrender.
“It’s just one of my favorite songs, I don’t know what kinda ideas you got going on in that pretty little head of yours.” He takes a few more steps towards you slowly closing the gap, daring to be closer to you than he had been all night without a wooden bar separating you.
“Interesting, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Sixpence fan.” Raising your eyebrow, you have to look up at him when he finally takes the last few steps to stand in front of you.
“Why? Cause I’m such a tough guy?” His grin grows wider when he looks down at you catching the roll of your eyes while you uncross your arms opening your body up to him with a laugh.
“I can’t stand you.” Your swat is flirtatious with your palm hitting his chest. He’s quick to catch it, using your hand as leverage to pull you closer, biting back his groan when a breathy gasp slips past your lips when he tucks you into chest. First your giggle and now this? He just knew you were going to sound so pretty falling apart for him.
“I think Craig would call that bluff sweetheart.” He gives you a minute to let his words sink in, throwing his head back with a loud laugh when you huff at him embarrassed. “I’m teasing, I’m teasing. He needed to be dumped, a girl like you deserves someone that's gonna show up when they’re supposed to.”
The sweetness of his words has you melt against him, the playful pull from before surrendering to his touch and you swear there’s hearts in your eyes from the way he looks down at you after saying something like that.
“Thanks for tonight Eddie,” your voice is small when it comes out laced with adoration, and it’s his turn to get bashful making your favorite dimples come out again.
“No problem sweetheart, honestly it’s my fuckin’ lucky night.” Pulling your knuckles to his lips, he places a gentle kiss to the skin stretched over them before letting your hand drop, noting the disappointment on your face that you’re quick to cover up.
“Wanna get some fresh air while I smoke before I close this place down?”
——
Eddie somehow looks even better under the twinkling stars and pink fluorescent lights of The Foxy Lounge sign. The low hum of the electricity filling your ears as you lean against the brick of the building. His eyes are brighter out here, catching them with your own when he looks at you over the end of his cigarette.
He winks when you meet his pointed gaze, the flame of his lighter casting shadows that dance across the strong lines of his jaw, the orange glow highlighting the stubble that covers it. Batting your lashes at him, you push your hips off the wall playfully while he keeps his eyes on you through his entire first drag, only breaking contact for the split second he needs to blow the smoke he inhaled away from you.
“Don’t look at me like that.” His words come out like a warning before he takes another hit.
“How am I looking at you Eddie?” Biting your lip to hide your smile, you make sure to say his name extra sweet just how you figured out he likes. He shakes his head with a low chuckle blowing more smoke into the clear night sky.
Despite only taking two drags, he flicks the barely smoked cigarette to the side before closing the distance with a few steps leaving him crowding you against the building. Your chest brushes against his with every shallow breath. Getting lost in the darkening amber inside his eyes, the calloused tips of his fingers catch against the soft skin of your chin. The pad of his thumb pulling the velvet of your bottom lip from between your teeth.
“Like you want me to kiss you.”
Ducking his head down he nudges your nose with his, the heat of his breath fanning against your open mouth. His eyes go from yours back down to your glossed lips silently begging for your permission.
“I think it was you that was hinting at kissing me earlier.” Pushing up on your tiptoes, you smile against him when your lips just barely touch.
“Oh? You think that’s what I was doing hmm?” Asking the question he already knows the answer to, his tongue licks against your top lip as your hands find the material of his shirt, fisting as much of it as you can before yanking him down to collect his lips with an eager mouth, giving up winning whatever game this was.
You swallow his moan when your tongues meet in the middle battling for dominance, teeth scraping, you taste the few puffs of tobacco still lingering on his taste buds as his muscle massages against yours. Sliding his knee between your thighs, he smiles smug into the kiss when your hips search for friction against the denim.
He breaks away from your mouth long enough to start trailing wet kisses down your jaw, the rough hair on his chin rubbing your skin raw as he starts nipping and sucking bruises along your neck. Biting hard enough at your pulse point to have to soothe it with his tongue after the mewls he pulls from you are enough to drive him insane.
Your fingers tangle into the curls at the nape of his neck, giving his roots a pull while you turn your head, opening more of yourself to him. Taking your silent invitation he nips at the dip of your collar bone before lifting his head to press his forehead to yours.
“I gotta close up baby, but then…”rubbing his hands up your curves with a low groan he squeezes at the plush of your hips before finishing his sentence, “I think I promised you pancakes.”
Nodding your head because words are stuck at the tip of your tongue, he grabs your cheeks with a strong grip, smushing your lips together before stealing one last kiss.
——-
Eddie doesn’t give you the attention you’ve grown accustomed to all night when he starts the process of actually cleaning the bar. Your body still buzzes like a live wire from the drinks and the kiss outside. He’d been counting his tips with his back to you for the last ten minutes and you were growing impatient for more of him. You needed it.
Counting the last bill he finally turns around and your thighs press together when you get to see his face again. Shifting in your seat when his eyes barely meet yours, he makes his way to the other end of the bar. Pushing yourself up to lean forward with puckered lips, he ignores your advances passing by without so much as a glance in your direction. Huffing when you plop back in your seat, he flips the knob starting to wash his hands in the mini sink with his back to you again. Your foot taps against the metal of the stool as you watch him grab the scratched up red bucket hanging below and a fresh rag quickly replacing his hands with it to fill up.
You wonder if he can feel your stare when he adds the soap, taking his time while he spins the rag in the steaming water, he starts ringing it out. Arms flexing and suds spilling over his knuckles, you were gonna lose your mind if you didn’t get your hands on him soon.
He makes big swipes as he starts working his way towards you, keeping his eyes so focused on his task you’d think you were invisible if it wasn’t for the smirk that was getting impossible for him to hide. It only grows bigger when he stops in front of you, adding a low hum to his charade purposely wiping around the outline of your hands that were splayed out on the counter ready to push yourself up again.
“Eddie - c’mon!”
You’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t for the laugh that falls easy from his chest when he finally looks at you. His face softens and his eyes darken when he catches your angry pout, your fingers are quick to find his free ones making him tsk at you but he doesn’t pull away.
“My hands are wet baby.” He knew you didn’t care and the teeth showing in his wide grin told you he didn’t either.
Giving into your persistence like it hasn’t been a fight to keep his hands to himself this whole time, he leans forward brushing his nose with yours before nudging it against your cheek so your lips just barely touch. When you go to close the space he pulls back just enough to tease, a small whine escaping you at his games.
“What’s got you so needy, huh?” His words are whispered as he presses with the slightest pressure before pulling back again. “I didn’t kiss you good enough outside, you need more?”
“Please.” Your cheeks burn when you hear how your voice sounds, but his grip on your fingers tighten and a low moan breaks through his front at how desperate you sound just for a kiss.
“Gotta give my girl what she needs.” Your brain gets stuck on the words ‘my girl’ taking you a minute to realize he was finally giving you what you want.
It’s slower than outside, he’s taking his time with you this time. Untangling his fingers from yours, his hand comes up to wrap around the side of your neck. The water feels good on your skin as the pad of his thumb starts rubbing soft lines under your jaw while his tongue swipes at your bottom lip looking for more. You don’t give into his advances on purpose, keeping your mouth closed to get him back for all his teasing you feel his smile grow against your own.
Expecting him to stop and surrender, he only doubles down. Catching your top lip with his bottom, he pulls away just enough for you to open your eyes. God, you wished you kept them closed. The brightness from outside had turned them into nothing but black leaving no trace of the specks of brown from before. The knowledge that he was just as affected by all of this as you sends you reeling. Toes curling inside your sneakers.
“Whining over here for me to give you what you want, and here I am baby, and you’re playing hard to get.” Nipping at your bottom lip he meets your heavy lidded gaze again, “Gonna let me give you what you want?”
He barely lets you finish nodding before he’s on you, the hunger from outside coming back as he leans over the bar to deepen the kiss like you’d been begging him for. Opening your mouth for him without hesitation when he asks for permission again your tongues meet lazily, exploring each other like you didn’t get a chance to before. Pushing up again eager to get more of him he pulls back leaving you breathless with spit slick lips.
Despite the way his chest heaves trying to catch his breath, he does his best to play it cool, smirking when you have no shame chasing for more.
“I gotta finish closing up.” He gives you one more chaste kiss before he starts wiping the rest of the counter down.
Jutting out your bottom lip into a pout, he laughs, throwing out a ‘you’ll survive five minutes baby.’
You leave him alone doing your best not to distract him, despite how much your fingers itch to have him close again. Grabbing the money from the register and the receipts for the night he disappears back into what you could only assume was Rick’s office. When he pops back out he looks a little more relaxed.
“Just gotta wipe the bottles down and then I’m getting the prettiest girl the best pancakes in town.” Clapping his hands together with a rub of his palms, he grabs another rag.
You were starting to hate pancakes. Not that you didn’t want them, you just wanted him more.
“Hey Eddie?” Trying to hide your ulterior motives in the sweetness of your voice, his eyes meet yours almost instantly and they narrow just as quick.
“Yes, sweetheart?” Setting the rag down he leans forward with his palms on the bar he gives you his undivided attention. An intimidation tactic. Unable to help yourself, your eyes trace up the ink covering his arms.
“Teach me how to make that drink?” Looking up at him from under your lashes, you see something flash across his face, fingertips digging into the countertop after the question leaves your mouth.
“Wasting Love?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t call it that now, would you?” Laying it on thick, a slow smile spreads across his face. He saw what you were doing and he was going to fall into your trap willingly.
“Why don’t you come back here then, we’ll make our own.” His voice comes out low, his pupils taking over all the brown, pretty white teeth baring themselves at you.
His gaze is predatory when he watches you jump from the stool, the exaggerated sway of your hips keeps his eyes trained on the curve of your waist as you make your way into his space for the first time all night. Leaning against the back counter, his legs are spread wide leaving little to the imagination on how worked up you had him. His eyebrows raise when he sees the automatic press of your thighs at the sight. It wasn’t fair, you were trying to seduce him, not the other way around. He wasn’t even trying.
As if on cue the jukebox that had been left to play all night clicks, Ginuwine’s Pony pouring out of the speakers as he licks his lips unashamed at the way he’s drinking all of you in like this.
“Gonna teach me how to make something sweet, Eddie?” Trailing a finger along the bar while you close the distance, you drag out the ‘e’ at the end of his name just enough to get him to groan.
His hands grab your waist squeezing just hard enough to feel his strength before using it to pull you flush against him. The material of your dress doing nothing to hide how hard he is pressed into your ass. His lips trace the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath tickling your neck as you push back into him searching for more. The stubble on his face rubs rough against the soft skin of your cheek as he punctuates each word with a roll of his hips.
“The sweetest, baby.”
You bite back your moan when his nose trails up your neck, his lips just barely grazing the warmth of your flesh before they settle back against your ear. You hold onto the wood of the bar in front of you when he hums low, feeling it deep in your core. His calloused fingers start a path up the bare skin of your thigh hiking up your dress when they catch the hem.
“Tell me,” your eyes close when his nose is pressed to your temple as he speaks, “Do you like cherries, baby?” His tongue catches your earlobe sucking it into his mouth, grazing it between his teeth when he lets it back out.
Your knees almost buckle at how good everything feels, the slow rock of his hips never stopping as he plucks at the lace trim of your underwear.
“Y- yeah, I love cherries,” you whimper when his palms lay flat on the outside of your thighs, the cool metal of his rings biting into your skin when he squeezes at the fat working his way back up.
“Of course you do, pretty.” His thumbs hook the sides of your underwear, “You’re just so sweet all the time, huh?” Despite the need for friction, you spread your legs for him wondering if he can hear the way your lips pull apart sticky, arousal coating the inside of your thighs.
He chuckles soft in your ear praising you with a ‘so sweet’ before giving them a tug, letting the red lace fall to the floor. Keeping his hands on your hips, he presses himself against you hard enough to have the heels of your sneakers pick up off the ground. A low ‘fuck’ slipping out from under his breath when you whine a little.
“Red lace? Was Kurt gonna get lucky or was this just a ploy to get me all along, sweetheart?” Your cheeks burn at his question, his low chuckle tickling your ear when he hears you huff out an annoyed breath. “‘Cause if that’s the case all you would’ve had to do is walk through that door on any given night.”
He grinds himself against you one more time, but you can really feel him this time and it makes your legs shake.
“Are we gonna make this drink or do you wanna keep talking about Craig?” The shake of your voice doesn’t go unnoticed despite trying to be sharp with him but the grip on your waist still tightens at the mention of the other man’s name
“Sure we can, if that’s really what you wanna do.” His words taunt you but with one hand holding you against him the other flips a clean cocktail glass onto the bar top with ease, like he wasn’t rock hard digging into your back.
Reaching around, his hand trails up the front of your thigh sending goosebumps across your heated skin. A shiver runs down your spine when he dares to dip between your legs inching his way towards where you want him most.
“We better not mix liquors so why don’t you be a good girl and grab the whiskey for me.” His lips brush against your ear with every word, his hand never faltering on their path even when his fingertips meet your slick folds. Feather light, he traces along your slit, not daring to break the barrier yet. Brain hazy with want you don’t even comprehend what bottle you reach for, blindly grabbing for whatever was in front of you.
“That is tequila, sweetheart. Tsk, tsk, tsk are you even listening to what I’m saying? Or are you too…” Before he finishes his sentence he pushes his index finger past your entrance, your warm walls wrapping tight around his digit, “…distracted?”
Your head lulls back against his chest, your eyes closing when he pushes two knuckles deeper. Your needy whimper makes him kick up again making you grind your ass against him in response. Licking your lips, you try to collect yourself only chasing for more of his finger once.
“N-no, I can do it.” Determined to prove him wrong, you focus just long enough to grab the Jameson bottle, “What’s next?”
He hums in approval while his smile grows against your skin. Deciding to indulge in your stubborn game still, he curves his finger enough just to make you gasp his name.
“Are we keeping this simple, or do you want something a little more—” Adding a second finger, you stretch easily for him now, dripping down his hand, “Complicated?”
You shudder, a moan slipping past your lips while your grip on the bottle tightens so much you're scared it’ll shatter. Fuck, you gotta keep it …
“S- simple - oh.” His thumb finds your clit applying just enough pressure to have your mouth fall open and your brows to knit together, and just as quick as he’s there, he’s gone.
Pulling himself free, he tries his best to ignore the way your pussy tries to suck him back in, your body begging him for more. You whimper at the loss, your eyes opening to remind you where you are.
“I’m gonna need both hands to do this, baby.” His fingers shine with your slick when he wiggles them for show, stepping back just enough for you to see the grin on his face but not enough to get out of your personal space.
Grabbing his wrist, his eyes go dark when he realizes what you’re about to do. Gaze turning half lidded when your mouth opens, huffing out a deep breath when your tongue flattens against the pads of the two fingers that were just buried inside of you. Wrapping your lips around them, your arousal is tangy sweet hitting your taste buds.
Hollowing your cheeks as you suck them clean, you watch the confidence drain from his face, eyes rolling in the back of his head at the sight. The blunt ends of his nails dig through the soft material of your dress and he starts rutting into you with a little more force when you slide your tongue between each knuckle.
“Jesus christ,” his voice is strangled, words coming out through gritted teeth when you let him go with a loud pop.
“Now you can use both hands,” you say innocently, like you didn’t just suck them clean. You let his fingers tug at your bottom lip before dropping his wrist.
He fists a handful of your dress, a low growl rumbling from his chest getting a taste of his own medicine. Licking his lips, his eyes narrow at you before his teeth start to show, mischievous in the low light.
“Well if we want this drink cold, we need to fill this shaker with ice.” Just like the glass, he flips it on the counter one hand never leaving your waist despite his claim.
Pressing his lips to your ear again, he makes sure to let his breath linger a little before he talks, enjoying the goosebumps that appear from such a simple touch.
“Fill it up for me, baby?” Your thighs clench at the deep rasp in his voice, both of his hands finding a home spread out on your thighs.
Nodding your head you slide open the silver metal door of the ice chest below you, bending over more than you needed to to scoop it up into the shaker. He groans loud when you press into him like this, his fingers making quick work to flip the back of your dress up.
“Look at you, so fucking messy for me and I’ve barely touched you.” Grabbing a handful of your ass, he ruts into you, the rough denim hitting your clit in a way that has you moaning his name.
He laughs quietly at your neediness flipping your dress back down when you straighten out. Chests heaving in time with the other, neither one of you was ready to back down. Not yet.
“Might need to unzip those pants.” Looking over your shoulder at him you fake a pout, “Feeling a little strained back there handsome.”
Smugness dripping from the smile on your face, he raises his eyebrows at you in a challenge.
“Since you wanted something simple sweetheart, we just need two more things.” One hand snakes its way back between your legs, squeezing at the inside of your thigh before he lets you go for the first time since you set foot behind the bar.
Craning your neck so you could follow him, you find him bent down grabbing lemon juice from the mini fridge under the shorter back counter. Shutting the door with his foot when he stands up, he throws a wink your way when he grabs the simple syrup.
Setting the bottles in front of you he steals a quick kiss that leaves you wanting more before he grabs the small tub of cherries from the fridge he forgot his first go around.
“Okay, so you’re gonna grab the Jameson, and I want you to pour it out to the count of three for me then cut it off.” He returns to his place behind you, his large hand swallowing yours when it shadows your movements.
Your pour is shaky when he counts low in your ear, nuzzling his nose in your hair calling you a good girl after each successful addition to the simple concoction.
“Alright, now you’re gonna shake it as hard as you can angel.” His hands squeeze your hips for encouragement.
Doing as he says he pulls you against him even harder when your arms start to go wild. Your chest bounces with each movement making you giggle and you almost don’t hear the hitch in his breath at the sight.
He helps you by putting the strainer over the rim of the glass when you’re ready to pour. Mumbling soft words of praise while he nibbles at your ear lobe. The drink is much lighter than the one you had all night, the dark orange turning lemon as the white foam fizzed on top.
“I think I could take your job.” You smirk reaching for the cherries to top it all off.
“You think you could take my job?” He snorts incredulous, watching you unwrap the plastic wrap from the small tub dropping three cherries into the already very sweet cocktail.
“Absolutely.” Grinning while ignoring his stare you reach for another cherry, “No doubt in my mind.” You grab the fruit between your teeth, finally meeting his eyes as you pull the stem, relishing in the burst of sugar and grenadine that erupts against your tongue.
“Tough luck princess, unless you know how to tie that cherry stem in a knot with your teeth, no bar in this town is gonna touch you.” Grabbing his own cherry, he dangles it in front of your frowning mouth for you to bite. Obliging him with it bumps your bottom lip you tug gently, taking the fruit before chewing slowly while he sucks the stem once before it disappears in his mouth.
“I’m calling your bluff now. No one knows how to actually do that.” Daring him to prove you wrong he mutters a ‘watch me’ between his working teeth.
You don’t lose focus on the way his hand on your waist starts to wander, the blunt ends of his nails scratching against the fat of your thigh while his tongue ties the stem like it’s easy. Jaw flexing with each twist of his tongue before he pushes it out to show you, a pleased look on his face when the small knot in the middle comes out perfectly placed.
Swiping it off his tongue with the fingers that were inside you minutes ago, you wonder if he can still taste you when he sets it next to your drink satisfied by the way your jaw drops.
“How do you think I got this job? I’m more than just a cute face.” The touch of his hands grows bolder when they start working their way up your dress, a thickness in the air that wasn’t there before filling your lungs.
“That’s quite the skill set you have there Mr. Munson,” your giggle is breathless, your eyes going from his down to his lips as you try to play it off.
“I can do more than that with my tongue sweetheart, if you wanna find out.” His nose nudges against yours, the smirk on his face making you sweat when his fingers trace up your wet folds again.
Surrendering instantly, you forget all about the drink the two of you made nodding without hesitation the desperation for him all night finally taking over.
“Yeah?” His voice breaks when his thick fingers push into your entrance again feeling just how worked up all his teasing had you.
“Please - Eddie,” the pad of his thumb finds your clit again making you beg, “Fuck.”
“Asking me so sweet, how could I say no to you?” Murmuring against your lips, he finally gives in and kisses you. Wet and sloppy he only does it long enough to take your breath away before dropping to his knees.
His big hands on your hips angle you to face forward, flipping your dress up over your ass again. The air of the bar is still hot against your folds, arousal dripping down your thighs, you’re fully exposed to him now. You hear him suck the skin of his teeth at the sight, a ringed hand coming down just hard enough on your right cheek to make it jiggle before both hands palm the fat.
“I can’t believe you were gonna let anybody else but me have this pussy. Should be a punishable offense.” Pulling your cheeks apart to expose more of you to his hungry eyes, he pushes at the small of your back signaling for you to bend over more for him.
He moans loud enough to make you jump when you listen to his command, even you can hear the sound of your lips pulling apart for him.
“All this for me, baby, fuck, you spoil me.” He wastes no time burying his face between your folds, his talented tongue collecting your juices before finding your clit. The rough hair on his chin rubbing your sensitive skin raw as he shakes his head from side to side.
Squeezing your ass to pull you closer to his face when you try to run away, he sucks your bundle of nerves harder when he gets you back to where he wants you, dipping his nose into your entrance every time.
He does the motions he would do when he ties the cherry stem into a knot against your clit, a strangled moan ripping from your throat when he does it again.
Your hands find purchase on the top of the bar, eyes closed tight while you see white behind your lids. Your nails dig into the wood when his tongue flattens, the lewd squelching of your arousal filling your ears when he pushes his face so deep between your legs you aren’t sure if he can even breathe. The moan that rumbles through his chest and vibrates to your core tells you he doesn’t care. Wrapping his lips tight around your clit he sucks even harder, not caring when your legs start to shake from overstimulation.
“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna - fuck!” His name comes out long and drawn out when you fall apart on his tongue. Relentless, his teasing never stops, his hands holding you up while your body starts to shake. Humming low in satisfaction against your cunt.
“I n- need, I need…” willing your eyes to open, your vision’s blurry from how hard he made you cum. Pulling away with a loud smack of his lips, he palms your ass cheeks before craning his neck to try and get a good look at you.
“What do you need, baby?” He nips at the curve of your right cheek before pressing his face to it, dazed from getting what he’s wanted all night completely content.
“I just, I just need you to fuck me,” you don’t recognize the choke in your voice when you whine for him. Whine for more.
“Jesus christ.” His words tickle against your skin when he groans, kneading the soft flesh of your ass one more time before standing up.
His hands are on your hips before you can fully register the change in position, spinning you around and lifting you up he sets you on top of the counter behind the bar. The one where drinks aren’t served and the one that’s low enough for Eddie to slot himself perfectly between your legs.
Eyes blown black while his beard and nose ring shine with your slick, his lips part - swollen and pink from pulling your first orgasm out of you. Bangs clinging to his forehead, his hair is a wild mess on top of his head from your hands. The confident air about him is gone, replaced with nothing but the need to have you. Snapping out of your daze, you’re quick to find the metal of his belt buckle.
His forehead presses to yours, while he watches the way your dainty fingers work the leather out through the loop. The white tips of your nails catch his eye when you undo the button of his jeans and his cock twitches at the thought of them pumping him for all he’s worth.
He hisses when you push the denim down his hips, his hard dick springing out to smack against his shirt that you immediately wish wasn’t there. Precum leaks from the angry looking pink tip while your hands fist the hem of the worn cotton, silently begging him to get rid of it. The big vein that follows the curve of his length makes your mouth water as he obliges your pleas, ripping his shirt off and throwing it somewhere you’d have to find later.
You’re able to really take all of him in like this, his chest is heaving covered with just as many tattoos as the rest of him, the silver chain you’d peeped earlier hanging right in the dip between his pecs. Your eyes follow the dark patch of hair that leads to his cock, long with the kind of girth that you know is going to be a stretch, a strangled whine bubbles out of you at the sight while your thighs spread begging for him.
“God, I want you so bad,” you whine wrapping your legs around his waist, you pull him even closer giving into your animalistic instincts.
“I know baby, me fuckin’ too.” He pumps his cock a few times groaning loud, squeezing hard at the base before pressing the head between your dripping lips. Mesmerized at how they wrap around his tip, his precum mixes messy with your arousal making lewd noises as he sweeps it through your folds.
Body shaking every time he hits your clit, you finally hook your ankles growing impatient when he teases your entrance.
“Fuck. Me.” You get out through gritted teeth, the lopsided grin he’d been giving you all night turns cocky when he pushes the tip in, your head lulls back at the invasion, the silk of your walls desperate to start sucking him deeper.
“Not so sweet now are you, huh?” Pushing himself all the way in, his rough thatch of pubic hair hits your clit when he bottoms out. His confidence falters for a second when a deep moan rips through his chest at the feeling. “So fuckin’ tight baby - shit.”
Your nails dig half crescent moons into his inked skin while you adjust to his size, his nose skimming against your cheek while he whispers how good you take him when your walls start to milk him, your body letting him know it was okay to finally move.
“Feel so good, Eddie, fuck - so good.” Your hips start a slow rock, feeling every ridge and curve of him. Your dress sits rucked up at your waist giving a perfect view of the way you take him, and it’s even better than what his imagination had come up with all night.
He lets you use him for a minute, big hands resting on your waist — content with just watching the way you coat his cock with everything you have left over for him from the first time he made you cum.
“That feels good, huh?” Cooing at the way your brows knit together and your mouth falls open, he picks up the pace, taking control.
Pulling you all the way to the edge, his strokes get deeper, the tip of him hitting the spot that you know Craig would have never found. He pulls his cock out half way, relishing how your velvet walls try to keep him in place, he holds his composure before pushing back in, filling you to the brim. Addicted to the way it makes you gasp his name and arch your back, your body asks him for more when you’re too cock drunk to get the words out.
The straps of your dress start slipping down your shoulders with every thrust, your breasts bouncing just begging for his attention. His cock twitches inside you, it's almost too much. Greedy for more despite fighting the urge to cum, he tugs the front of your dress down to reveal a matching bra to the panties on the floor. Hips stuttering for a moment he growls at the reminder of your date before tugging the lace down, your nipple pebbling instantly for him before he takes it in the heat of his mouth.
Pushing yourself closer, needing more, your hands find their way to bury themselves in his curls, holding him close. You needed him close. His tongue flicks at your sensitive bud and it makes you suck your bottom lip between your teeth. Your hips finding a way to match his strokes, reigniting the flames deep in your gut. God, he was gonna make you cum again.
He grunts around your breast, spit dripping down your soft skin from his ministrations while the snap of his hips start to get harsher and you know he’s nearing his end. He lets your nipple go with a loud pop before his hand comes up to grip your chin, his lips finding yours in a frantic mess of teeth and battling tongues.
The wood creaks underneath you from the force of his thrusts and the bounce of your ass to meet them. Mouths tangled, you swallow each other's ragged breaths, both of you desperately searching for your end when his fingers find your clit. Rubbing circles with just enough pressure to have your body start to shake against his, he nips at your bottom lip grunting when he feels the way it makes you flutter around him.
“Come on baby, give me another one. Be my sweet girl again and tell me how good I make you cum.” His fingers slip against your clit, fingers wet from how worked up he had you but his words are enough to have your world stop for a second.
“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Ed-“ Going blind behind your closed eyes he coaxes your second orgasm out of you with a silent scream falling onto his turned up lips. Proud of his work, his hips start picking up their pace inching closer to his own release he’d been fighting off since going down on you.
“God, - fuck I’m close - where d-do you-?” Sweat drips down his forehead while he struggles to find his words, his impending orgasm making him short circuit.
“Inside, shit - please, I need it, Eddie.” Still needy and barely coming down, your legs around his waist tighten their hold, locking him in place while you use the last of your strength to help get him there.
“Whatever you’re doing - holy shit , Jesus - I’m cumming, I’m cumming.” His hips press hard against yours when his cock twitches, spilling warm inside your greedy walls that don’t stop asking him for more. His face hides in your neck, the heat of his breath fanning against your sweat kissed skin while his body shakes with his release.
The roll of your hips never stops, just slowing enough to make him shiver after he starts softening, spent inside of you. You know there’s a mess starting to drip but neither one of you has the energy to move just yet. His lips start leaving small kisses along your neck, nose nudging against the space behind your ear and you can feel his smile against your cheek before he finally lifts his head up. The brown in his eyes return to a warm auburn like before when they meet yours.
“Rick is gonna fucking kill me if he ever finds out what happened on this counter tonight.” Rolling your eyes, you snort at his joke before shoving against his chest.
“You’re telling me you don’t fuck all your cute customers behind the bar, Eddie?” Batting your lashes at him, he squeezes your hips with a smirk.
“Only, the really, really cute ones. I take them to get pancakes at IHOP around the corner, too.” Something shifts in his eyes and you think for a second you might see self doubt in them for the first time all night, “That is, if they still want to.”
“Well lucky for you, I only let bartender’s from The Foxy Lounge take me out.” Nudging your nose against his, your smile touches his lips.
“Sweetheart, you know I’m the only bartender here right?” Grinning like someone who just won the lottery, he quickly gets rid of the space between you, kissing you like it too.
✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶
NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au
[wc: 8.8k]
↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness
The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.
Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.
Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.
Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.
The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.
Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.
The true night began.
A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.
The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.
Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.
Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.
An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.
Eddie kicked the can away.
He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.
Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.
You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.
It was a lot to deal with.
Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.
So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—
You flinched.
A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.
Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.
You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.
More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.
Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.
You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.
Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.
He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.
Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.
Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.
Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.
That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.
The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.
You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”
It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.
“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”
Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.
“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”
The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.
You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”
And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.
But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.
You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.
Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.
Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.
There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.
The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.
You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.
He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”
A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”
“What’d you order?”
Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.
Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.
“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.
“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”
Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.
Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.
“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.
A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.
A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.
Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.
Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.
Drip, drip, drop.
Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.
You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.
You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.
Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.
Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.
Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.
His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.
Toofulltoofulltoofull.
The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.
But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.
Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.
Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.
Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.
The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.
Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.
You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.
You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”
“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.
Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.
Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?
Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.
Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”
Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.
“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.
He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.
Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”
The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.
Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”
You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”
“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”
A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.
You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.
No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.
~~~
When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.
A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.
Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.
Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.
Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.
“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.
Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?
Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.
He got up, and left.
Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.
Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.
Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.
Your pen was mighty interrupted.
It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.
A pang of humility gentled his nature.
The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.
It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.
Eddie made it exactly how you liked.
Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.
The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.
Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.
The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”
You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”
“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.
You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.
Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.
Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.
He snorted.
Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”
No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.
He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.
“Uh-huh.”
The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.
While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.
You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.
“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”
“No.”
His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.
The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.
A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.
The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”
You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.
“I earned this,” you said about the drink.
“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.
In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.
You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”
His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.
Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.
Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.
The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.
Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”
The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.
Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.
His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.
When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.
The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.
Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.
The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.
Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.
Boys will be boys behavior.
“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.
You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.
At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.
He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”
Not an apology.
“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.
Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.
Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”
Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.
“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”
“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.
You closed your curtain, too.
The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.
You could do many therapeutic things.
Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.
stage manager!eddie munson x theatre kid!fem!reader
a collab with @reidsbtch- mariah is literally the best person to collab with, it's like our brains were making out the whole time we were writing this. thank u for letting me collab with you to write this absolutely not self indulgent, way too long fic together <3
summary: Now on the tail end of graduating, Eddie Munson is required to take part in an extracurricular activity. He's assigned as stage manager for the school's production of Romeo and Juliet. You, the star of the show, aren't too happy to have your senior performance sabotaged by one long- haired metalhead.
word count: 7.7k words
warnings: no y/n, no physical description of reader, swearing, oral (m & f receiving), enemies to fuck buddies to lovers, mentions of queer!reader, it's actually just fucking smut, fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up), cream pie, use of nicknames (baby, sweets, sweetheart etc), eddie being a stupid lovable idiot
This and all of mine and mariah's works are 18+ minors do NOT interact
He’s been slumped in the guidance counselor’s office for thirty minutes, the wooden chair digging into his bones, growing uncomfortable as he listens to her, hardly believing he’s so close to leaving this fucking school himself.
“You’re keeping up your grades and maintaining regular attendance, Eddie. You’re just missing one last thing to be able to graduate.”
He rubs his face, maybe from the lack of sleep, or the restlessness of finally being able to leave the office he spent way too much time in during the past six years, as long as he keeps showing up to school for the next two months. He groans regardless.
“What would this ‘last thing’ be? Am I gonna be sent on a quest to slay a fucking dragon? Is that what’s gonna take me to graduate?” He snaps, the lack of sleep has finally gotten to him– school doesn’t really appeal to his late bird nature.
The counselor gasps at the crudeness of the profanity “Language!” She exclaims, like he’s never heard that before, daring to swear in front of students, staff and faculty alike, but the blonde lady with the ridiculously coiffed and teased and sprayed hair composes herself again, jutting a look down to his student folder again.
He imagines it to be full of red pen marks, every single one of those a proof of his own failure. He’ll steal it the day he graduates– and set it on fire. Hell, he’ll even roast marshmallows on it.
“Anyways,” she explains in a way that really shows the massive stick up her ass that makes her think Eddie should just stop bothering with school altogether. “You have to partake in an extracurricular activity.”
And he chortles. He was thinking something dreadful like picking trash up at the park or feeding and bathing the old people at the retirement home.
“Something funny, Mr. Munson?” Her nostrils are flared, she can’t wait ‘til he leaves her office.
“So like- like drama club and shit?” His tone is incredulous, he can deal with a couple lines to memorize. He’s had to do way worse for his Dungeon Master role, and even then, Miss George likes him– she’s let him and the club play DnD in her room for the past two years. Should be easy.
The counselor takes her glasses off her pointy nose, letting them hang with a tacky pink, flowery chain around her neck. “Well, yes– that’s one of the options. Unfortunately, your GPA is not high enough for you to partake in the school play, per se, so I can only place you in the backstage crew– building sets and moving things around. We’ll put that brain of yours to work.” She chuckles as she hands him a slip of paper to give to Miss George.
Eddie picks up his bag, “Real funny, huh.” He shrugs his shoulders and heads to the school auditorium. Last time he was there he’d gotten caught by a custodian while Terry Richardson’s face was stuck in between his legs, trousers pulled down halfway down his thighs as she gave him a toothy blowjob. He got suspended for a week.
He sees Miss George sat in the audience, scribbling notes onto a notepad as you recite the famous balcony monologue from Romeo and Juliet. He knows you, he’s seen you around– you’re by no means in the popular crowd, but you stand out, in the way that your clothes always seem to border the fine line of what's socially acceptable and outrageously eccentric.
Even if you’re not part of the popular crowd, there’s no denying that, like the rest of the school, you avoid him like the plague, cute as he is. You interrupt your monologue as you see him smirk down the central aisle of chairs. Miss George turns around at the sudden interruption. Eddie just hands her the slip.
“Oh my goodness!” she coos, “We have a stage manager.” And he wishes he could have photographed the look on your face. “Stage manager?! Miss George, you can’t be serious!” You exclaim as Eddie takes a seat next to her, kicking his boots up on the back of the chair in front of him.
A smirk ever present on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow at you. “He doesn’t have any experience.” You continue, not about to have your senior year performance ruined by Eddie Munson of all people. “Shouldn't be that hard to keep a diva like yourself in line, hmm?”
Eddie answers before Miss George has a chance to, the theater now going quiet except for a few snickers from the tech crew. “Alright, that’s enough from the both of you. Eddie, I’ll have our ASM get you up to speed. Now, please continue with the monologue.” The male only grins wider as you glare back, before looking back down at your script with a sigh.
He ventures backstage– not sure what ASM stands for and maybe too embarrassed to ask as he sees kids dressed in black moving wooden planks onto the stage, carrying cans of paints and brushes.
He taps a kid on his shoulder, arranging a prop table, he looks at Eddie like he’s seen a ghost.
“I was looking for the ASM?” The kid is looking side to side, still wondering why Eddie Munson is talking to him.
“Uhhh, she’s in the booth.” He mutters, before turning around and going back to his props. What the fuck is a booth?
Eddie just plainly decides to look for it himself, since nobody’s any fucking help in this school. He opens door after door- a storage closet, a closet just for wood, a bathroom. Arrived at the last door, he isn’t exactly sure he’s ever going to find this stupid ASM- and he still doesn’t know what that stands for.
The noise of a door opening startles you, as you try to put on your dress as quickly as you can to avoid flashing someone. It’s only when you see who it is that you start screaming, and with you, Eddie just pops a hand in front of his eyes, screaming a string of sorries, and that he hasn’t seen anything.
“I was just looking for the booth! Stop screaming!” he screeches, worried he’s gonna get himself in trouble with Miss George if she hears you screaming like you’re getting skinned alive. Thankfully, you stop, as Eddie looks away, aware of your exposed back peeking through the zipper. You clutch the fabric against you, struggling to zip up the back of your dress one-handed.
Eddie makes a whistling sound, distracting himself from the way you seem to be teetering between asking for his help and telling him to fuck off.
“The door to the booth is in the audience, by the way. Off to the side, there’s some stairs.” You huff, slightly getting your zipper up. He goes to turn around, but you stop him. He cocks an eyebrow.
You roll your eyes, lips in a thin line as you keep the door open with one hand.
“Can you make yourself useful and help me with my zipper?”
With an annoyed huff he steps fully into the dressing room, shutting the door behind him as you turn your back towards him once more. Carefully clutching the dress, your eyes meeting his in the long row of vanity mirrors in front of you. You can feel his warm breath on your neck as he steps closer, carefully lifting your hair over your shoulder.
Eddie’s fingers follow the seam of the unzipped garment, barely tracing the bare skin of your back. You try to hold off the shiver from passing through you as he slowly begins zipping it up. A hint of a smirk on his mouth as he notices the goosebumps breaking out across your skin. “Anything else princess? Or am I free to go?”
His fingers now fall away from you, clearing your throat as you try to shake off the arousal that was now coursing through your veins. You wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of knowing how frazzled he had just made you.
Instead of answering, you just groan, eyes lifted up, going past him and clocking him in the shoulder as you headed back on stage. God you were fucking insufferable.
Eddie finds out that ASM means Assistant Stage Manager and that said ASM was none other than Max Mayfield, roped into doing theatre tech for extra credit. And that the booth was where they tampered with the lights and shit. All he had to do as Stage Manager for that rehearsal was oversee the light cues, which proved to be a little more complicated than he initially expected.
He messes up most of the cues in the first act before he finally seems to have gotten a grasp of it. All the while you’re tossing glares his way, using the light cues as an excuse for the harsh looks. But really it’s due to your annoyance at how the mere brush of his fingertips left you wanting more. Wanting more of him, despite your better judgment– you were not about to have him ruin your senior show.
And in spite of that, you closely follow Eddie’s actions. In a lull between scenes he stands up, you follow him with your eyes as he enters back into the auditorium, beelining backstage.
Eddie’s not totally sure what shit designer built the theatre, because he might as well have pissed himself on the way between the booth and the only bathroom in the auditorium. Not only that, but he kept missing cue after cue, followed by the dirtiest looks known to man, straight into his eyes. After the encounter you had in the dressing room– fingers caressing the soft skin of your back, feeling you shiver under his touch, he knew he had some kind of leverage over you.
So when he’s done taking a leak and looks down at the door, he’s sure you’re behind it, slipping a little piece of paper in the crack.
Meet me in the booth after rehearsal. XX
Eddie wouldn’t say he was nervous, his curiosity was piqued more than anything. However, he’s antsy the last half of the show, leg bouncing as he tries to listen and follow Max’s instructions. The girl gives him an annoyed lecture in between cues. But his mind’s a little preoccupied, trying to figure out what exactly you want from him.
So when he re-enters the dark light booth once everyone else has left, he doesn’t expect you to shove him up against the door, locking it with a swift click. His breath hitches in his throat, both in confusion, and at the fact that you’re fumbling with his belt, despite the dirty looks you’ve been giving him the whole afternoon.
“What uh- what are you doing?” His tone is alarmed, stammering as he tries to grab onto the door handle for purchase. You’re too busy getting his jeans down to bother.
“Sucking you off. That okay?” You look at him for a reassurance that comes almost immediately with a violent nod of his head.
He’s confused, but he’s not going to turn you down. After all, he felt the way you tensed under his touch while he was pulling up your zipper, “Shit, fine by me.” He shrugs, acting like he isn’t busting at the seams waiting for you to pull down his pants.
Eddie’s belt makes a clinking sound, along with his wallet chain while you pull his pants down to his thighs. You move his trembling body away from the door, against the table with the light console. His knuckles turn white as he grabs the edges on the table for support.
Gripping the hem of his checkered boxers, freeing his hardened length. Your eyes widening slightly at the sight of it, he’s big— a lot bigger than you expected. Even in the dim lighting he notices your shocked expression.
“Ya gonna just stare at it all night sweetheart?” He asks, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks down at you. You shoot another glare his way, before grasping the base of his cock in your fist, licking a long stripe up the shaft. Feeling satisfied as you hear his shaky intake of breath. Eagerly you take him past your lips, as a low groan leaves his own.
“Shit,” he curses as your warm mouth envelops him fully, ringed fingers knotting themselves in your hair. You open your mouth as wide as you can, taking him deeper. Gagging slightly as he hits the back of your throat, tears brimming in the corner of your eyes as you try to adjust to his size. He’s by far the biggest one you’ve had.
“Talked such a big game with that mouth of yours sweetness, am I too much for you?” Your fingers dig into the skin of his thighs, his cock slipping from your lips as you pull back.
“Do you ever shut the fuck up Munson?” You huff, but before he can reply with another snarky remark your tongue is swirling around the tip of his cock. Silencing him for a moment as you take him back into your mouth.
Another string of curses falls from his lips, as his hips begin thrusting into your mouth with an abandon you haven’t seen before. Your cheeks are hollowed and he can feel himself getting embarrassingly close.
“F-fuck where- where’d you learn all of this?” It comes out in broken pants, and he can feel a smirk forming on your lips as you take him out a second time.
“One thing about theatre people is that we’re all gonna fuck each other. You should see how I eat pussy,” you shrug, putting him back in your mouth, and Eddie swears he’s about to bust in less than a minute.
“I’m gonna- fuck.” But he doesn’t get to finish that sentence, as you take him out of your mouth and stand back up.
Eddie’s bewildered expression is easy to read as he looks at you like you shot his dog. But you get close, dangerously close to his lips, your nose almost bumping his.
“That’s for fucking up my light cue, idiot,” it’s a feeble whisper against his lips before you’re gone into the darkness of the theatre. Too shocked to react, Eddie’s left with his pants pulled down for a good two minutes before registering what happened.
So he’s left blue balled in that stupid light booth, fuming and confused. There was no way in hell he would let you treat him like that and walk away the way you did.
Eddie had been scheming all week between rehearsals, attempting to find a good time to get you alone. He wasn’t about to let you get away with leaving him like that, but you were actively avoiding him.
But an opportunity fell into his lap without any effort on his part, Miss George asking you to stay behind to work on some blocking with her. As the stage manager he was required to stay behind too, his mind already reeling with possibilities.
So when you duck behind the curtain to change out of your costume, Eddie is quick to swoop in. Offering to shut down the lights and lock up, and Miss George is more than willing to let him.
By the time you get back on stage the theater is dark, the ghost light shining brightly center stage. “Eddie? Miss George?” You call out into the darkness, getting complete silence in return.
“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding.” You groan, clutching the strap of your book bag tightly. Of course he’d leave you in the dark theater to fend for yourself. “Asshole.” You mumble under your breath, reaching your hand out in front of you as you make your way across the dark stage.
You’ve bumped into multiple set pieces at this point, as you attempted to find the stairs leading down to the audience in complete darkness. Your frustration grows with each passing minute, that is until you hear the shuffling of feet.
“Hello?” You call out again, squinting as if it would help you see any better. Fear stirs in your gut as the theater is silent once more, shadows seeming to come to life in the corner of your eyes.
Once you finally reach the edge of the stage, you grip onto the railing tightly as you fumble your way down the stairs. Sighing in relief as you feel the carpet beneath your feet.
You only make it a few steps further before you feel a hand snaking around your waist, pulling you back into a hard chest. The other hand cupping itself over your mouth to muffle the scream that leaves your lips.
“Screaming for me already sweets? Haven’t even touched you yet.” His voice is mocking, his warm breath fanning across your neck as he laughs. You quickly squirm out of his grasp, a flashlight clicking on to illuminate his stupidly gorgeous features.
“You fucking psychopath! What were you thinking?” you shove him on the shoulder, he laughs as he zeroes in the flashlight on you, red in the face and furious.
“Had to get back at you for how much of a little tease you were the other day,” he croons. You purse your lips together, a deep blush spreading across your cheeks as you try to stabilize your still quickly beating heart.
“Whatever. Fuck you, Eddie.” You spit, but he’s quick to grab your arm and push it behind your back, the flashlight hitting the ground and rolling under one of the seats. His chest is pressed against your shoulder blades as you shudder in his arms.
“You’re not getting away so easily, sweetness.” He breathes against your earlobe as you keen into the warmth of his chest, his nose buried in the crook of your neck as his free hand goes to your waist.
“This okay?” he murmurs, and you nod. A sharp nip to your earlobe makes you hiss.
“I can’t fucking see you nod, can I?” You can tell he’s having too much fun torturing you, feeling his hand travel all across your torso and chest.
“N-No,” you whimper.
“Exactly. Try that again,” his hand rests against the waistband of your jeans, awaiting an answer, teasing the skin behind the fabric. The tips of his fingers brush the skin there, making you whimper in response.
“This is okay.” you breathe out, and it’s the only answer he needs to slip his hand past your jeans, unbuttoning the offending material to push his hand further down into your pants.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispers against your ear as his hand cups your clothed core. You waste no time grinding against the heel of his palm, letting small, breathy moans escape you. Afraid to get caught in the dead of night getting touched and fondled by the town pariah.
“You sound so pretty singing for me, don’t you sweets?” he whispers smugly. His hand feels a little too good against you, your hips grinding back and forth following the rhythm he was creating, “Hmm, but I think you can be a little louder.”
You gasp as he slips his hand inside your panties, his calloused fingers encircling your swollen clit. Your head falls back onto his shoulder, your hand gripping onto his thigh. His digits dip lower, teasing your entrance before slipping one inside and curling them up.
You can’t stop the shaky cry from leaving your lips, the sound now filling the auditorium. A smirk tugs at his mouth, using the heel of his palm to press against your clit. “Listen to that… you’ve got such a pretty voice don’t you?”
You dig your nails into the denim covering his thigh, a low groan sounding in his throat. “Wonder what it sounds like when you beg,” he easily adds another finger inside your wet cunt, thrusting them deeper. “N-Never gonna happen Munson.”
Eddie laughs, pulling another moan from you as his other hand drifts up under your shirt to cup your breast. “We’ll see about that.”
His breath is fanning hot and humid against your neck as you reach around to bring his head closer, needing him to be closer.
Nothing he’s saying is registering in your brain, as his fingers pump in and out of you with a torturous pace, feeling his wolfish grin plastered against the skin of your cheek.
He’s watching your every move, your every breath and whimper, biting his lip at the way your eyes roll to the back of your head every time his fingers curl up in a certain manner. You don’t think you have much time left before you release yourself all over his hand, and he knows it.
From the way you keep twitching and tightening around his fingers, he feels you’re getting close, but much like you did that night in the booth, he won’t let you get it that easily.
“Y’close sweets?” he groans, his own hips now grinding against the swell of your ass.
“Uh-huh,” is all you can manage to say, brain scrambled from his words and ministrations.
“You know what you gotta do now, don’t you, pretty?” he bites at the hinge of your jaw, as you cry out, the noise echoing in the empty theatre.
“You gotta beg for it.” And he hears you gasp at that, a dry chuckle leaves his lips. “You didn’t think I was gonna make you cum that easy did you?”
“Mmm- fuck you, Munson.” you struggle against your brain’s desire to one up him and your body’s desire for release.
“C’mon, don’t you want to cum? I bet you’re so pent up from a whole day of staring at me building sets, aren’t you?” and he’s right, your eyes did wander to his arms in his tight fitting t-shirt, with his hair tied up in a low bun as he hammered nails into wooden boards.
His fingers speed up and you can feel it, you’re so, so close.
“Please, let me,” you whine into his arm, biting at the muscle there. You’re getting so loud.
“That’s right, keep begging for me– good girl gettin’ nice and loud for me,” it’s a growl at this point, a string of please please please follow it. Tears pricking at your eyes with how intensely good he’s making you feel.
So close, so close–
He removes his fingers, jerking you out of that hazy state you were previously in. The male now removes himself from you, retrieving the flashlight from under the seat. Your chest is heaving as you turn to face him, anger now coursing through you as he grins devilishly down at you.
“How cute, you thought I was actually gonna let you cum with how you left me the other day?” Eddie’s laughter fills the theater as he steps closer to you. Your bodies almost touching, lifting his fingers that were just inside you up to your lips.
The brunette carefully drummed the digits against your mouth, “Now, be a good girl and clean up the mess you made.” You glare as you let his fingers slip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them in a teasing manner.
You noticed how his breath hitches, his cock straining uncomfortably in his jeans. But there’s no way that you’re helping him out with his little problem now. You playfully bite his fingers that are still in your mouth, as he utters an annoyed ‘ouch’ before taking them back out.
His fingers make their way to your scalp– yanking at the hair, making you hiss. “You think you’re fucking cute? I’ll see you tomorrow after rehearsal,” his tone makes you tremble, as he takes his hand out of your hair and disappears into the darkness of the theatre, leaving you once again in the dark.
You stumble down the side stairs of the stage and get out of the side door, quickly making your way home.
And it becomes a regular thing, you and Eddie blue balling each other to the point of frustration, like it’s a sick and twisted power game you both play. After rehearsal he offers to lock up for Miss George and you wait for him in one of the dressing rooms, or in the dimly lit booth. He’s become irritable, and you have as well.
If you were insufferable before, now you’re downright hateful as you yell at the light crew to stop messing up your spotlight moment, or that your costume felt too constricting or your prop too flimsy.
Everything has you on edge, but you don’t hesitate to meet Eddie every night that week after rehearsal. Maybe he’ll let you cum this time.
You wait for him backstage, sitting on one of the set pieces, a throne. There’s a dim overhead light shining on you. Eddie’s lip is caught between his teeth as he looks at you on his Dungeon Master throne.
“Get up.” he commands. The shirt he’s wearing is tight, it makes his shoulders look more prominent. You squeeze your legs together.
“Why should I? My legs are tired from being on my feet all rehearsal,” you give him a fake pout as he inches towards you.
“Because that’s my Dungeon Master throne,” it sounds funny coming out of his mouth, voice low and gravelly “It’s mine.”
You chuckle a bit at that, how is this man being territorial over a set piece?
“And what if I said no?” a smile trapped in between your teeth, looking up at him through your lashes.
A dry laugh escapes him as he crosses his arms, “You’re so spoiled huh? Think you can always get your way? Last time I checked, this week it’s been the total opposite, hasn’t it?” and he’s not wrong, he’s given you all but what you want.
“This is my theatre, Munson. I believe you’re on my turf.” and he laughs at that, like you’ve said some kind of joke.
“You do theatre, sweetheart, c’mon you can’t be serious.” he kneels in front of you, grabbing your thighs and moving them apart with ease.
“Don’t be a bitch, Munson.” you hiss, as you feel his lips on your exposed thighs, kissing the skin there.
He whistles, low and sardonic. A wicked smile on his lips “That’s rich coming from you, you’ve had that nasty little attitude this whole week.” he continues with his kisses, while his hand ghosts over your inner thigh. Your breath hitches in your throat.
“I wouldn’t have this nasty little attitude as you call it if you would just let me- fuck.” his free hand ghosts over your panties. Your skin is sensitive, your brain is sensitive. Another touch and you might explode.
“Hmmm, what was that?” he bites at the flesh of your thigh, a high pitched whimper falling from your lips “Need me fuck that little attitude out of you sweetheart?”
And you’ve been wound up so tight for the past week that it doesn’t take you long to rid yourself of your panties. He takes advantage of you standing up, plopping down to take his rightful seat on the throne.
That cocky smirk is adorning his features, but you wanted to smack it off. “As cute as you think you look in this seat… it’s always been my throne sweets.”
Before Eddie has time to mutter another snarky remark you’re climbing into his lap, crashing your mouth against his. You’ve learned throughout the past week that it’s really the only way to shut him up.
His ringed fingers dig into the curve of your hips, eagerly grinding yourself against the bulge in his pants. Eddie moans into your mouth, his tongue licking your lower lip. You part your lips, allowing him entry as your tongues fight for dominance.
He tastes like Twizzlers and cigarettes, a combination you shouldn’t find as delicious as you do. But it only seems to make you needier, the denim becoming damp as you continue to grind yourself onto him.
“Look at you making a fucking mess on my jeans,” he mumbles against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip which causes you to whine as he pulls away. His chest rumbles as he chuckles, grabbing your cheeks in his hand— forcing you to look at him.
“But I’d rather you make a mess on my cock sweetheart.” His words have your head reeling, the male now gripping behind your knees and lifting you up. You squeal in surprise, clutching onto his shoulders to steady yourself. “Eddie, put me down.”
He carefully lets you slide down his front until your feet touch the ground, spinning you around before bending you over the armrest of his throne. His hands travel up your bare thighs, taking his time to appreciate your soft skin.
“Are you going to fuck me or not Munson?” You huff, the male now flipping up your skirt and landing a harsh smack on your ass. “So goddamn impatient aren’t you?”
You hear the sound of his belt clinking open, the zipper being tugged down. It makes you clench your thighs together, something Eddie didn’t miss. His fingers dipping between your legs, teasing you further.
“Trained you well didn’t I baby?” You can’t stop your eyes from rolling, despite how your stomach flipped at the word baby.
And you can feel him then, carefully lining himself at your entrance as you try to grind back into him. A firm hand against your hips stops you. “Ready? I’m gonna go slow,” he mutters, and there’s a gentleness in his words, despite his meanness in how he’s handling you.
You hum in approval and brace yourself. There’s a loud groan coming from behind you as he slips inside your warm heat, reveling in how you almost suck him in, a small gasp leaving you from the stretch.
“Big stretch, huh?” he coos in a cocky lilt, and you almost wanna reach around and punch him, but this idiot has your eyes rolling back from the fullness, and he’s not even all the way in yet.
So you nod, followed by a needy little whine that makes him chuckle low in his chest– you need him that much?
He goes deeper, spurred on by your noises, by how much you need him to fill you up. A sardonic smile on his lips as he bottoms out and slams all the way in, causing you to shriek.
Eddie sets a fast pace, not really giving you any time to adjust, but he’s already nudging that spot deep within you, making you see stars.
You hear him groan, “So fuckin’ tight, aren’t you sweets?” and it’s a rhetorical question, because your tongue feels too big for your mouth and there’s nothing coming out of it besides unintelligible whines and moans as you hold on to the armrest across from you.
Your noises only encourage him to go faster, and it’s almost too much the way he’s hitting that sweet spot inside you. You try to distance yourself from him, just enough to catch your breath, but he grabs your shoulders, using them as leverage to ram deeper into you.
He leans over, his clothed chest against your back, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.
“Goin’ somewhere, baby? Thought you could handle me.” He bites at your earlobe, and there’s just so much going on in your brain that you can’t possibly muster any response to whatever he’s telling you.
“Oh I said that, didn’t I? When we first met. I said I could handle a spoiled little diva like you, and look at that,” he laughs, and you’re sure you’re about to combust. Your fingers reach to grip the cushioned seat of the throne, as another wail leaves your lips.
“Singin’ my praises now aren’t you baby?” The wood of his throne digs into your hips and stomach as he pushes you further into it, a feline movement as he drapes himself off and over you, his hands now gripping the armrest opposite of you for purchase.
Your legs begin to give out, as you beg God or whatever entity up there that he won’t give into his sick little game. That he’ll let you cum this time.
“Shit, sweets, you’re gripping me so tight.” he grunts, a boyish grin on his face as small uh uh uhs fill the room.
“Should we let you cum tonight? We can’t have you being a bitch tomorrow, it’s the end of hell week,” he jokes, and it almost feels humiliating, how he can make fun of you like this and you’re just going to keep fucking yourself back onto him.
“God- Fuck- Please!” you beg, with all the strength you can muster, and he can’t help but let a satisfactory grunt leave his lips.
“Look at you begging, don’t even have to ask now, do I?” and you can feel him twitch inside you. He’s also getting close.
“Ready?” he huffs, with the last little bit of stamina he has, and you can’t brace yourself enough for the wave of pleasure that washes over you with the last few snaps of Eddie’s hips as you come undone with a loud cry, echoing through the dark halls of the theatre.
“Fuck, okay, where should I–” he begins, he’s at his wits end.
“In…side,” is all you can say before he stills himself inside of you, letting his release take over him with a loud groan. His warm cum painting your inner walls, leaving you feeling satiated.
Eddie stabilizes his breath, forehead leaning against your shoulders, days on days of pent up frustration hanging like mist in the air. You’re both able to think clearly for the first time in what felt like forever.
“Jesus Christ,” he huffs, lifting himself off of you as he slowly slips his cock out. You can feel his cum beginning to drip down your thighs, your legs wobble as you attempt to stand. Knees buckling as you try and find your discarded panties.
“Whoa there, I got ya,” he wraps his arm around your waist, holding you against his warm chest. It felt good, leaning against him like that. But you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, “I’m fine Eddie.”
You push yourself off only to nearly fall once more, an annoyed grumble leaving his lips, “Are you always so stubborn?” He reaches down for your panties, guiding you to sit on the edge of the throne so he could help pull them up your thighs.
It was an unusually tender action, and not one that you expected from him. “Thought you didn’t want me sitting here?” You tease, his brown eyes glancing up as he’s kneeling before you.
“I’ll let it slide this one time,” he chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin. A dimple you had never noticed before indenting his cheek, another feature that now found annoyingly attractive.
You roll your eyes at him and stand up, “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow after rehearsal.” You quip, as you try to wobble off the stage, he runs after you.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you walk home like this,” and there’s a tender look in his eyes, something close to genuine concern. “My van is out front, I can drive you.” He points in a general direction behind him, and you want to say no so badly.
But you don’t, and now you find yourself being driven home by Eddie. His dingy van smells like cigarettes and weed and it squeaks every time he goes over a bump. There’s loud music blaring through the stereo speakers and an uncomfortable silence between the two of you.
“So uh, you excited for next week?” Eddie’s the first to break the silence, briefly turning towards you.
“I’m actually kinda nervous,” you admit, sinking into the seat. “It’s a big role, big shoes to fill. I guess I’m just scared I’m not gonna be any good.” You chuckle, almost embarrassed at your admission.
“You? Not good? I’ve seen you, y’know? I’m not just staring at your tits during rehearsal. You’re pretty darn good.” He gives you a half smile at that, pulling up next to your house.
You’re a bit flustered by his compliments, finding yourself not wanting to leave his company just yet.
“Thanks, Eddie. I appreciate it,” you smile at him.
“And hey, if you still feel nervous opening night come find me— I’ll help you,” he winks at you and you can’t help but laugh, as you see him looking at you with a big grin on his face.
You look at him back, and God, maybe it’s the streetlights or the moon, but he’s never been more beautiful. In a leap of courage you lean over the dashboard and peck him on the lips.
As you detach from him and reach for the door handle, he pulls you back in deeper, searing and intense, one of those kisses that have your tummy flipping. Except it’s not in the comfort of the theatre, and without an underlying motive behind it.
Just you and him. In his van.
You let your lips part, give him access to your mouth, but he stops you.
“It’s midnight,” he whispers against your lips. “Dress rehearsal tomorrow, you need to rest.” He smiles as you place another peck on his lips. Pouting as you reach for the door handle. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you until you’re inside, seeing the light of your room turn on.
Once he knows you’re safe, he starts his van back up and pulls away from your house with the cheesiest grin on his face.
Opening night. It’s finally here.
You should feel excited, and yet all you want to do is lock yourself in one of the broom closets and hide. You’ve never felt so nervous before, thinking of all the different outcomes that could occur. What if you forget all your lines? Or you have an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction during a quick change?
Your mind is reeling as you enter the dressing room, the rest of the cast buzzing excitedly around you. You fake a smile and sit at your station, noticing the bouquet of lilies resting on the counter top. You can feel yourself flushing, opening the card that came with it.
Break a leg Juliet xx.
You ask around the rest of the cast but no one knows who left them, and while you hoped they came from a certain metalhead… you couldn’t be so sure. Your little cat and mouse game had suddenly turned into something very real, and part of you was afraid it would be over once the curtains closed.
You get ready for the show in a daze, now staring at yourself in the dressing room mirror as nerves rage through your insides. The rest of the cast had dissipated, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts.
“There’s the leading lady,” Eddie’s voice snaps you out of your haze, meeting his eyes in the mirror’s reflection. He must have noticed the look of panic across your features, as he rushes to your side.
You give him a weak smile in return, letting a heavy exhale escape past your lips.
“So uhhh, did you like the flowers?” He asks, and he can see your eyes light up in the mirror, momentarily forgetting nerves, fear and anxiety.
“So it was you,” he coaxes you to face him, kneeling next to you with a large grin.
“T’was I, fair maiden.” He does a half bow from his kneeling position, making you giggle.
“So you’re in love with me now?” You tease, as Eddie’s hands come to rest on your thighs, spreading them as much as he can in your dress before moving in between them.
“I’m literally going to die from nerves, what if I mess up my lines?” you begin, but Eddie seems to have much different plans.
“There she is….” he murmurs, more to himself.
You feel the heat pool in your middle at his words, squirming a little in your seat. Eddie reaches to cup your chin, tilting it down so you meet his gaze. His brown eyes sparkling with mischief, “You know, my offer still stands Lady Capulet.”
“Here? The doors are literally opening in fifteen minutes, don’t you have stage manager things to take care of?” your tone is alarmed, rather, a mix of alarm and excitement.
“My job as stage manager right now is to make sure Juliet feels comfortable enough to go on stage,” he grins, peppering kisses over your hand and wrist.
“But what if we get caught? Or you make me cum so hard I forget my lines?” The nerves make you ramble, as his chin rests on one of your thighs.
“As good as I am at eating you out sweetheart, I doubt that’ll happen.” He bunches the fabric of your costume up your thighs, beginning to give sweet caresses on the skin of your legs.
You seem unconvinced, still.
“Look, I’ll sweeten the deal. If you get all your lines right, which I don’t doubt you will, I’ll take you out on a date.” His lips are pursed in a coy smile.
Your eyes widen, “Like a date date? You and me?” and your heartbeat picks up.
“Who else, idiot?” Eddie laughs, which makes you smile, “Now,” he begins.
“Do you want me to do something about those jangled nerves of yours?” And you can’t help but bite your lip and nod.
His lips begin trailing up your thighs, a shiver running through you from his tender actions. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” He pauses, shifting closer as he switches sides, now leaving open mouth kisses along your opposite thigh. “It is the East, and Juliet is the sun.”
You feel your breath hitch in your throat as he works his way to your clothed center, his eyes flicking up to look at you. “Arise, fair sun and kill the envious moon… and whatever the fuck else Romeo says.” Eddie chuckles before eagerly pressing his mouth against your clothed pussy, his tongue lapping at the wet spot on the cotton.
A gasp bubbles deep in your throat at the sensation, feeling the bliss of his tongue through the cotton barrier, your body easing up from its nervous state.
He looks up at you, “Good, huh?” He hums through the fabric, and you’re wound up so tight you’re already panting.
He taps the side of your thigh to get you to lift your hips, removing your panties in the process.
A low whistle escapes him as you spread your legs for him again, “Talk about eating in costume, baby, jeez.” He chuckles, and the joke makes you laugh too.
A short lived laugh at that, turning into a breathless gasp when his tongue makes contact as he begins to lap up the length of your pussy.
Your hand immediately goes to tug at his curls, not caring that they’re tied up and out of his face to be able to see the cue sheets. The delicious pull at his scalp makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.
A low moan falls out of your lips, catching yourself, hand flying to your mouth as you hear the rest of the cast clamoring outside.
“Gotta be quiet, Lady Capulet,” he snickers as he goes back to burying his face between your legs. His tongue darting in and out of you as a hand reaches for your mouth, wetting two of his fingers.
You don’t hesitate to open up your mouth for him, a bite at the juncture between your pelvis and your thigh, “Atta girl.” He mumbles against the wet skin, popping his fingers out of your mouth to tease at your entrance.
“That’s it baby, focus on me.” A whine escapes you as you’re now grinding on his tongue, his fingers enter you slowly, head thrown back in pleasure.
“You nervous, baby?” He asks, a cocky smile on his face. His fingers curl upward, your eyes squeeze at the overwhelming sensation.
You shake your head, still sentient. Not too far gone yet.
“You gonna use me to get off, my lady?” His fingers are pumping faster, feeling tears brimming on your waterline, hoping to not spill all over your face, your stage makeup seems to be in precarious conditions.
A familiar warmth, deep in the pool of your tummy, “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop” You know how much he likes to hear you sing for him. His spare hand grabs onto your thigh, rings biting the soft skin there, feeling yourself teetering on the edge.
“Thaaaat’s it, you’re doing so well,” he whispers. One more pump of his fingers and you cum with a silent cry, biting onto your hand, feeling yourself pulsate around his fingers.
Without much warning he slips them out, sucking on his own fingers, tasting your own delicious essence.
“Places!” You hear Miss George say backstage, as Eddie retrieves your panties for you and slips them up your legs.
Eddie fixes his hair in the mirror, tying them back. He places a kiss on your cheek with a hurried, “Good luck— uh fuck I meant break a leg.” Then he furtively leaves the dressing room.
You feel a blush spreading across your body, finally relaxed and ready to begin the show.
You leave the dressing room, joining the rest of the cast, full of excitement. You know all your love monologues are going to be directed towards a certain metalhead tonight.
The show goes smoothly and you don’t forget a single line, you’re surrounded by family and friends, ready to do it all again the day after.
You go back into the dressing rooms to grab your stuff and change, but a long mop of curly hair occupies your chair.
“Eddie, you can’t be here!” you whisper, as he turns around with the biggest smile plastered on his face.
“Just wanted to tell my girl congratulations in private. You smashed it tonight,” you blush at the nickname.
“Since when am I your girl?” you ask, not letting him see how much it affected you.
“Since you kissed me in my van when I dropped you off, gorgeous.” He flirts, bottom lip trapped in between his teeth.
“So, how about that date?”
thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
