#<- that's a stretch but sure i'll tag it as that

[d3arapril]

chama | p.b

no la saques que me vengo, chama me gusta tu acento, no te calles que me vengo

paige bueckers x f!reader word count: 2k warnings/tags: MINORS DNI! porn w zero plot, top!paige, mirror sex (ish), paige the eater returns, fingering (r!receiving), spit, language. i think that's it ᡣ𐭩 everybody say thank you to the anon who planted this seed in my head. also thank you arca and tokischa for this song. i wanted to write a more ~realistic~ switch leaning paige but that clearly didn't go to plan lmao. enjoy :D reblogs & feedback appreciated!

"Come on, look."

Your back is slick with sweat, skin sticking to Paige’s chest as she keeps you pressed against her with a hand on your stomach. She's sat with her back against the wall, pillows haphazardly thrown on the floor and across the bed in a haste to get into position.

You're not sure how you both got here so soon, heated touches quickly turning into something more as soon as you'd entered her room.

"You look good," she'd said, those stupid rizz hands rubbing together as though she was plotting an elaborate plan to get you naked.

Of course, she was successful.

Now, you're forced to be face to face with your dishevelled appearance– eyes blown out wide and chest heaving as you watch Paige's two fingers rub at your clit in slow slow circles which are enough to make your hips shift, ass pressing back into her. Her grip against your stomach tightens, blunt nails digging into your skin.

"Quit moving," her lips are against the shell of your ear, breath fanning over your skin. "Or I'll stop."

You struggle to read if she's teasing or being serious, especially given the fact that you've been sat in the same position for the past 15 minutes. Your gaze flickers up to her face and she's already staring at you, brows furrowed as she focuses on making you feel good.

It's always a struggle to see who'll cave in first– if Paige's head will drop between your legs first or if you'll turn to her, straddling her lap as you whine in her ear that you want to cum for her.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No." it's measly, the way the word leaves you. You feel weak but part of you enjoys it– enjoys the way she can so easily take you apart and put you back together again.

The hand on your stomach trails down to your thigh, pushing your legs apart wider and trapping them underneath her own. You're spread out and it's embarrassing but you find it hard to care when Paige's fingers slip between your folds, soaking wet as she rubs her fingers back and forth, back and forth until you can hear how wet you are, see your pussy practically glistening back at you in the mirror.

"Fuck," her lips part as she breathes out, chest heaving against your back as she watches her fingers working you in the mirror. "You're so fucking sexy."

Before you can stop yourself, you're covering her hand with yours as you push her fingers inside you. The stretch isn't too much but she's not exactly giving you the chance to adjust before she's thrusting, fingers curling as her thumb moves to press against your clit.

"Good, huh?" her voice is low, quiet against the back of your ear.

"Mhm," you nod, fingers digging into her thigh beside you as you struggle to hold yourself together. "so good."

She keeps her gaze focused on your cunt, watching as her fingers slip in and out of you. The sound is wet and messy, her other hand is pressed against your thigh and her touch is like fire, burning into your skin and keeping you held open. You're staring at her in the mirror, eyes so wide you feel like they might pop out of your head.

She's starting to sweat, you feel it against your back and see it beading on her hairline. You know she's getting off on this too, probably soaking through her boxers right now; always the giver.

You start to feel that familiar feeling below your stomach, the cord tightening as Paige fucks into you faster, harder, wet sounds practically now echoing around her room as you whine out into the air. The hand that was on your thigh snaps up to your jaw, clammy fingers pressing hard into your skin.

"Sshhh." her lips press against your cheek, soft kisses left against the heated skin. You feel like you're suffocating, eyes screwed shut as you climb higher and higher.

"Look," she murmurs, and you do, nodding as your eyes open slowly.

Your neck is strained, Paige's grip on your jaw keeping you in place as you do as she says, eyes heavy as you watch your reflections. You flicker between Paige's face and her fingers fucking into you, toes curling at the sheer dirtiness of it all. Her fingers slip out of you entirely to opt for solely rubbing at your clit, fingers sliding around messily from how wet she’d made you.

Your thighs start to tremble and you know Paige notices it because you hear her scoff in the back of her throat, knowing. "Y’wanna cum?"

A wrecked sob leaves you. "Yes, yes—"

"Say please."

"Please make me cum, please."

She doesn't utter another word, just rubs tight circles against your clit harder, faster until you’re panting. You catch her face in the mirror; jaw clenched and cheeks flushed and she’s watching your face, eyes hooded and just like that it's over, legs fighting to shut against her hand as you cry out, voice cracking at the sheer pleasure and pussy clenching around nothing as you fall apart.

The hand on your jaw presses against your mouth, muffling your noises as you sob into her palm. Her nose drags against your cheek and you think she’s talking you through it but you can’t hear her over your own cries. Her other hand doesn’t slow, riding you through it with slow circles until your hips are canting up against her hand.

"P," a trembling hand wraps around her wrist, pulse heavy against your fingertips as you look for a reprieve you’re not even sure you want.

"Wan' me to stop?"

You can't find it in you to say no, not when you look at her in the mirror again and she's looking at you with those eyes. You falter for a second and that's enough for Paige to know you're not done. She slips out from behind you and you whimper at the loss of her warmth behind you.

She settles between your legs, nudging you backwards until your shoulders hit the mattress. Paige spreads you open again, blonde hair falling over her shoulder as she leans down.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, mostly to herself more than anything, hungry gaze roaming over your pussy and the smeared release across your inner thighs. She bites her lip, a low appreciative moan vibrating in her throat. "Look so good.”

You want to say something, respond and tell her she looks good too but the words get stuck in your throat. All you can do is whimper in response, hips shifting restlessly under her gaze.

Then she’s leaning down, body sliding down the bed until she's flat on her stomach. Her hands hook under your thighs and pull you closer, toned arms bracing your thighs open enough for her to dive in.

Her tongue runs flat over you, dipping inside of your pussy and dragging up to your clit, once, twice as though she's licking you clean. she's moaning into you, vibrations running through your body.

You crane your neck up just enough to look ahead in the mirror, almost startled at your own dishevelled appearance. You're soon distracted by the sight of Paige between your legs, blonde hair trailing down her back. You watch her work with hazy eyes, muscles tensing and flexing underneath her skin with the effort of keeping your legs apart.

Your head thuds back against the mattress and you let your eyes slip shut, hands finding home in Paige's hair. "Shit, you're so— fuck."

You feel her chuckle against you more than you hear it and it makes you whimper, hips canting up towards her as she pulls your clit into your mouth and sucks hard, tongue flicking across as she pulls back.

"So wet," she murmurs, more to herself than anything.

"For you." you manage to say, voice shaking.

Good response, she thinks. Her right hand leaves its place on your thigh and slips between your legs, three fingers slipping through your folds and pushing in all the way to the last knuckle. Despite her already having her fingers inside of you earlier it's still a slight stretch, pussy pulsing around her digits.

Paige leans her head on your inner thigh, eyes hooded as she watches herself finger you, pressing and curling inside of you. Your pussy squelches against her with every curl of her fingers.

"Fuck, I love this pussy," Paige's voice cracks as she says it, eyes not leaving the way your pussy swallows her fingers. "So good to me."

Before you can register what she's said she's got her lips wrapped around your clit again, tongue circling the bud as her fingers fuck into you harder.

Your thighs start to quiver again, stomach tightening and toes curling as you pull at Paige's roots in attempt to ground yourself. It feels different this time, like your orgasm is going to swallow you whole. "Oh shit–fuck, Paige," you're patting at her head, not certain if you're trying to pull her off you or push her in closer.

The blonde makes that decision for you. She groans against you, knowing, fingers pumping in and out of you as she massages your clit with her tongue. Her eyes flutter open and you're already staring down at her, your expression enough to make her cum alone.

"Don't stop–fuck," your eyes are shut now, the image of Paige between your legs too much to handle. "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum." the words tumble out of your mouth as though you can't get them out quick enough.

You feel Paige’s mouth pull away and panic surges through your chest, lips parting to protest—Why? Why now?—until you hear it; the distinct ptu of her spit hitting your clit. It trails down, mixing with your arousal, sliding over your folds and further down to where her fingers are buried inside you. It drips lower, toward your ass before soaking into the sheets.

Your breath hitches in your chest but Paige is leaning forward again before you can complain at the loss of her mouth on you, finding your clit again with a hunger that makes your head spin. She’s relentless with it, tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, teasing it as her fingers curl deep inside, pressing against that perfect spot. You think you might actually die, hands tightening in her hair as you pull her in. Her head shakes against your pussy, moaning into you and the chord snaps.

"Fu-uck," it comes out as a cry from the depths of your chest, orgasm pulling you under as your back arches and heels kick against Paige's back as she fights to hold you down. “Yeah, fuck—yes, yes, yes,” you chant breathlessly, voice breaking as the pleasure overwhelms you. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as your muscles spasm, body trembling from the force of your orgasm.

Paige finally pulls back, her mouth and chin slick and glistening, and she stares up at you, nothing short of amazed. You look completely wrecked—head thrown back, chest heaving as you gasp for breath, your body still shaking. She clambers over you, hands wiping against the sheets as she comes face to face with you.

“Damn, you're a mess,” she murmurs softly, almost like she hadn't been the one to do this to you. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the stray tears that streak your hot skin. She's gentle, as though you'll break if she touches you too hard.

Paige leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, but the sensation is slick and sticky. You wince at the feeling, brows furrowing and her lips twitch in a small smile as she pulls back.

“Sorry,” she laughs softly, a breathless sound, before she rubs the residue away with her thumb. “better?”

You nod weakly, still struggling to catch your breath, and a glimmer of amusement dances in her eyes. She licks her lips, a playful smirk forming. “So,” she whispers, voice low and teasing as she holds herself up above you, “out of ten?”

"Maybe a 4?"

"Okay, fuck you!"

[rootedinrevisions]

Unplanned Journeys: Part 3

SUMMARY: You and Jake decide on a name for your son. You take him home from the hospital. And together you survive the first night home together.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to the Anon who sent the request for this in! I hope you enjoy it! Also, as of right now, this is the last part I plan on writing for this story. However, down the road, I may decide to add more to this! I'm kind of undecided on if I want to continue this story or not.

WARNINGS: Fluff.

WORD COUNT: 2.5K

TAG LIST: @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @fanficmom94 I @smoothdogsgirl I @djs8891 

If you would like to be added to my Tag List please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

Later that day, the hospital room felt peaceful, a serene bubble away from the whirlwind of the morning. You had cleaned up, the lingering exhaustion of labor still present but softened by the warmth of your baby cradled in your arms. Jake sat beside you, his presence a steady comfort. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, while his other hand gently stroked the tiny head of your son as if trying to absorb every detail of this new life.

“Can you believe we actually did it?” you murmured, glancing up at Jake, who wore a soft smile, his eyes shining with pride.

“Yeah, we did,” he replied, his voice low and filled with awe. “He’s incredible.”

You looked down at the baby, his tiny features still scrunched from his journey into the world. “I think he looks like a little you,” you joked, grinning. “Maybe we should just call him Jake Jr.”

Jake chuckled, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. “I’m not sure Jake Jr. quite fits,” he replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What about Jameson? You know, after my grandfather? I know we had talked about it before.”

You nodded, considering it. “Jameson has a nice ring to it. We could do Jacob Jameson Seresin or Jameson Jacob Seresin. But what if we gave him a nickname? JJ could work”

“I love it,” Jake said, leaning closer. “JJ it is. That way, he gets the family name, but he can be his own person, too.”

You smiled at the thought of your son being named after such an important figure in Jake’s life. “Jameson Jacob Seresin, but we’ll call him JJ,” you said softly, testing the name on your tongue. “I think it suits him.”

Jake leaned in, brushing a tender kiss on your forehead. “You’re going to be the best mom, you know that?” His voice was filled with warmth, and you could feel the sincerity behind his words.

“And you’re going to be the best dad,” you replied, your heart swelling with love.

You both glanced down at JJ, who had finally settled, his little chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. Jake’s hand moved to cup the back of your head as he pulled you closer, and you felt a wave of contentment wash over you.

“I can’t wait to show him everything,” Jake said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to teach him how to fly, how to be brave. But most of all, I want him to know how much he’s loved.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of his words and the depth of his commitment. “He will know, Jake. You’re already such a good dad,” you replied, feeling the bond between you grow stronger with every heartbeat.

As you settled into the moment, the three of you formed a new little family, bound by love and shared dreams. The outside world faded away, leaving just the two of you and your son, the future stretching ahead like an open sky.

* * * * *

The hospital room felt like a distant memory as you sat in the wheelchair, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration coursing through you. JJ was bundled up in his car seat, the small bundle of joy so new and precious. You watched as Jake walked ahead of you, the epitome of proud fatherhood. He had a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, and in his other hand, he carefully held the car seat, cradling your son like the precious cargo he was.

Jake’s strides were confident, but there was a softness in the way he moved as if he were fully aware of the fragility of the moment. He glanced back at you over his shoulder, and when your eyes met, a smile broke across his face—one filled with joy and determination. In that instant, all your worries melted away.

This is it you thought, your heart swelling as you took in the sight of him. This wasn’t how you had envisioned your life unfolding, but as you watched Jake navigate the bustling hospital corridor, you knew deep down that you wouldn’t change a thing.

“Ready to go home?” he called out, his voice light and teasing, though you could hear the pride lacing his words.

“More than ready,” you replied, your smile widening.

As you made your way toward the exit, the world outside felt like a fresh start. The sun streamed in through the glass doors, illuminating the path ahead. You could see the car waiting, the backseat prepared for JJ, and a wave of excitement washed over you.

Once outside, Jake carefully secured the car seat into the base that he had installed in the backseat of the car a few weeks ago. His focus was intense, and you admired how he took this responsibility so seriously. He maneuvered the car seat with ease, securing the straps with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

“Okay, all set!” he announced, standing back to admire his handiwork.

Jake turned to you with a soft smile. “Let me help you in.”

You nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude. As you transferred from the wheelchair to the backseat, Jake's hands gently guided your waist, ensuring you were comfortable.

“There you go, babe,” he said, helping you settle next to JJ. His presence felt reassuring, and you smiled at him as you adjusted yourself, now sitting close to your son.

He leaned in towards you, checking on JJ with a proud look. “You ready for this, little man?” he murmured, his finger brushing over JJ’s tiny hand.

You leaned forward, watching the scene unfold before you—a proud father, ready to embrace the journey ahead. As he started the engine, he turned to you with that same radiant smile. “You ready for this, babe?”

You nodded, feeling a surge of hope and happiness. “Absolutely. Let’s go.”

With that, you drove off into the unknown, but this time, you felt ready to embrace every moment together as a family.

The drive home was quiet, filled with a mixture of awe and exhaustion. Jake kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror, his eyes soft as you sat beside your newborn son in the backseat. The early spring sunlight poured in through the windows, casting a warm glow over your little family as you pulled into Jake’s driveway.

“Home sweet home,” Jake whispered, his voice filled with a mix of pride and tenderness as he parked the truck.

He quickly got out and came around to help you out of the car, his strong hands gentle as they supported you. You felt the lingering soreness from the delivery, and Jake noticed your wince, instantly shooting you a look of concern.

“Take it slow, babe,” he murmured, his hand never leaving yours as you stepped onto the driveway.

You smiled softly, appreciating his care. “I’m okay. Just still getting used to… everything.”

Jake grinned, leaning in to kiss your temple. “You’ve been amazing. Both of you.”

He carefully removed JJ’s car seat from the base, holding the carrier in one hand while his other remained on your lower back, guiding you gently toward the house. You both stepped inside, the space suddenly feeling so much more meaningful now that your little family had grown.

“Welcome home, little man,” Jake whispered to your son as you crossed the threshold, his voice laced with emotion.

You followed him into the living room, where sunlight filtered in through the windows, casting a soft light over everything. Jake set the carrier down and knelt beside it, unbuckling the tiny straps with a gentleness that made your heart swell. He carefully lifted your son, holding him close against his chest. You could see the nervous pride in Jake’s movements, the careful way he cradled your newborn as if the entire world was in his arms.

Jake settled onto the couch, laying back against the cushions with your son resting on his chest. His hand gently supported the baby’s back as he reached for a soft blanket and draped it over the two of them, making sure your son was comfortable and warm. The sight of Jake like this—tender, protective—made your breath catch in your throat. The somewhat hardened aviator you had once known was now a father, and seeing him like this stirred something entirely new in you.

You stood for a moment, just watching them, the two people you loved most in the world completely at peace together. Jake’s thumb brushed across your son’s tiny back, his eyes fixed on the baby’s small, delicate features.

“He’s so small,” Jake whispered, a mixture of awe and disbelief in his voice.

You smiled, sitting down on the edge of the couch next to them. “He’s perfect.”

Jake looked up at you, his eyes filled with a love that was almost overwhelming. “You did so good, you know that?” he said quietly. “I can’t believe how lucky I am. We are.”

The softness in his words brought tears to your eyes, and you leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jake’s forehead. “We’re a family now.”

Jake’s hand reached out, taking yours and gently squeezing. “Yeah,” he murmured, his eyes full of emotion. “And I’ll always be here, for both of you. I promise.”

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. Watching him with your son, so tender and protective, you felt a surge of love for him that was different than anything you’d felt before. This wasn’t just the man you loved—it was the father of your child. The person who would stand by both of your sides no matter what.

As the afternoon light dimmed, you curled up beside Jake on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, the baby’s soft breathing the only sound in the room. You didn’t need words in that moment. Everything you could possibly want was right here in this quiet, beautiful moment—the love of your life, and the new life you’d created together.

* * * * *

That first night at home felt like stepping into a new world—everything was the same, yet completely different. The house was quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of blankets and the occasional sigh from your newborn, JJ. After a peaceful afternoon, the day began to settle into dusk, and it was time to get JJ ready for bed.

Jake had taken the lead, gently cradling your son as he moved around the nursery, getting him changed and into his little pajamas. You watched from the doorway, a soft smile playing on your lips as Jake spoke in a low, soothing voice to the baby.

“There we go, buddy,” Jake whispered as he fastened the last snap on JJ’s onesie. “All clean and cozy for your first night home.”

He lifted JJ carefully into his arms, cradling him close to his chest as he swayed from side to side, the motion slow and calming. You could see the concentration in Jake’s face, the way he moved with such care and gentleness. It was a side of him that you loved seeing—a side that was still new and yet felt so natural.

Jake carried JJ over to the bassinet, gently lowering him into it as you watched from the bed. Your heart swelled, the sight of Jake as a father stirring up emotions you hadn’t fully anticipated. He leaned down, brushing his lips over the baby’s forehead before whispering, “Goodnight, little man. Sleep tight.”

He turned to you with a soft smile, his eyes filled with love. “Your turn,” he teased quietly, sliding into bed beside you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close as you both lay there, watching your son drift off to sleep.

The room was bathed in soft moonlight, peaceful and quiet. For a moment, it felt like everything might stay that way.

But then, not long after you’d both drifted off, you were startled awake by the sound of JJ’s soft cries filling the room. You stirred, instinctively moving to get up, but Jake was already ahead of you, his hand on your arm as he sat up.

“I’ve got it,” he whispered, his voice low and reassuring. “You rest.”

You nodded sleepily, sinking back into the pillows as Jake quietly climbed out of bed and made his way to the bassinet. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he scooped JJ up, rocking him gently as he whispered calming words. The crying began to ease, and Jake’s rhythmic movements soon lulled your son back to sleep.

Jake settled JJ back into the bassinet, then returned to bed, sliding under the covers and pulling you close again. His warmth enveloped you, and you drifted off once more, comforted by the thought that Jake was right there, taking care of things.

But it wasn’t long before the cries filled the room again. You stirred, but Jake was already on his feet, scooping JJ up with a sigh that was equal parts love and exhaustion.

He cradled your son, pacing the room as he hummed softly, but after a while, the baby’s fussing didn’t let up. You heard Jake sigh again, this time with a bit of frustration as he glanced back at you.

“I think he’s hungry,” Jake said softly, his eyes filled with reluctant defeat. “I tried everything else, but there’s only so much I can do.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling with appreciation as you sat up in bed. “It’s okay,” you said, reaching for JJ as Jake carefully handed him to you.

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the room in a warm, dim light as you settled JJ against you, guiding him as he began to nurse. The fussing quickly subsided, replaced by the quiet, rhythmic sound of your baby feeding. You looked down at him, marveling at how small and perfect he was, his little hands resting on your chest.

Jake sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving you as he watched the quiet, intimate moment unfold. There was a new kind of admiration in his gaze, something deep and tender that hadn’t been there before. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Watching you with him... I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I love you even more.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat, the weight of his words sinking in. You turned your head slightly, catching his eye as he looked at you with a mixture of awe and love that took your breath away.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” you whispered back, your voice just as emotional.

Jake smiled, his hand resting on your leg as he shook his head. “You’re the best mom to him. There’s no one else I’d want to be here with.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you leaned into him, your heart so full it felt like it might burst. The night was far from easy—there would be many more sleepless nights ahead—but in that quiet, dimly lit room, you realized that together, you and Jake had created something truly beautiful. And no matter how hard it got, you knew you’d never have to do it alone.

[seaofreverie]

Ron remembered that he also had a bugsona in the year 2000.

(I'm sorry for this.)

[unproduciblesmackdown]

wwaah ✨

[dovalore]

i like it when the big dog says fuck

[sandymybeloved]

okay, I don't know how much sense this is going to make but its been bugging me so bear with

you know how sometimes when people in a fandom go long enough without going back and rewatching/rereading/relistening to/rewhatever, that they end up with slightly warped ideas about the characters and story that are far more based on fanon than anything in the source material. I think the same thing happens with criticisms of shows, some mild critique people had at the time becomes so pervasive and considered so all consuming that it no longer gels with the source material

what got me thinking about this was reading the tags in the @adventure-showdown tournament. a not uncommon thing I read is saying they only remember a single great moment from an episode, but they remember the other story completely, so the other story must be magnitudes better. and when someone is implying that because they only remember the gallery scene from vincent and the doctor, the surrounding episode wasn't worthwhile or even any good, I can't help but think, when was the last time you watched it? was it in 2010 when it aired, if you don't remember anything other than the scene that is regularly shared, and you're criticising based on your lack of memory alone, that just doesn't end up gelling with the episode, its not really a fair criticism

more broadly, half the criticisms I see of Moffat who are almost nonsensical to me as someone who does rewatch. (I'm not going to go into the sexism stuff, my opinions on that are far too nuanced and complicated to make a good example)

one of the most common criticisms is that it made the doctor too important, which every time I see it I can't help but wonder if the person saying it even watched in the first place. Because the thing is this is an idea the moffat era actively engages in constantly, and its not a late development at all, and the conclusion it constatly comes too is that the doctor's ego is too big, he's not as important and powerful as he, or the companions, or the audience percieve him to be.

in eleven's second episode, his plan for the star whale is wrong, it's amy who concludes the star whale won't run away and wants to help. in the series 5 finale, eleven makes a big speech to all his enemies gathered above about how they're afraid of him, and it doesn't work, it is at best a minor delay in their plan, he still ends the episode trapped in the pandorica, AND it turns out the doctor was not the excistential threat they were trying to stop, its the TARDIS, they're only imprisoning him as they (wrongly) think he's the only one capable of flying her

in series 6, in a good man goes to war, after the doctor is done parading about the place, after he's done with his massive ego trip and thinking he's won the day, it turns out he hasn't, he got amy back, but not her baby, melody is gone, and any reuniting that happens later in the series has nothing to do with him in any meaningful sense. a good man goes to war is the doctor getting cocky and it ends badly for his friends

its only more explicit in the capaldi era whre 12 regularly pushes back against people considering him anything more than a guy pottering about the universe in a box helping where he can. yes he is made president of earth, but he doesn't want that, he doesn't want authority. In fact series 10 has several of his most meaningful loses, in extremis there's nothing he can do but get a message out, in oxygen he loses his sight to save bill, in the pyramid at the end of the world the world enters a state of dystopia because bill wants to save him, in the doctor falls he loses everything, including his life, only the audience knows any differently

'moffat made the doctor too important' is not a criticism that gels when you actually watch the show, because it is something his era grapples with, is the doctor powerful, is he important to the universe, and if he is, is it a problem and who for. but the criticism isn't completely unfounded, not liking the material fact that 12 got made president of earth is fine, but 5 years removed its a criticism thats warped and changed into something unrecognisable as a criticism of the show its from, when the show says at one point, not even as subtext, that 12 is just a guy travelling around in a blue box, dropping in and helping out where he can.

anyway, this is helpful to me in that i don't like assuming people are speaking in bad faith, sometimes people do just haven't rewatched recently

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

devlog for mission one of ieytd3 because im not normal about devlogs, video games, or ieytd

[unopenablebox]

blocking lace is. so difficult [ETA: this is about knitting. thanks cham for reminding me that blocking is an ambiguous word lmao. anyway here's the. passive-aggressive parenthetical from the original post.]

(if we are strangers please don't reply to this post by explaining blocking methods or technique to me, or with encouragement. i am aware of many tips. i read the blogs. but sometimes you are doing a thing for the first time and you do it with knowing compromises and a clear-eyed understanding of one's own limited resources and experience. and i want to complain about it here, in my own blog, despite that, without people who don't know things about me showing up with assumptions that they are simply intrinsically more knowledgeable than me bc if i was as good as them i wouldn't express any frustration ever.

if we're buddies it's cool because i invited you here to hear me complain. the vibes are different)

[mastersoftheair]

apple tv doesnt usually drop trailers until just a month before so might not be a few months until new content! but im still super excited!! maybe some promo pics earlier? i think the mighty 8th museum in georgia might have something planned to and im going to visit if they do!

i wasn't familiar with how apple tv does its trailer roll-outs, so that's good to know. granted, a few months is still a lot sooner than a few years of waiting, so let's celebrate that! and like you said, promo pics might soon come out. and along with that, maybe a more Official looking logo (not my haphazard cleanup from those tote bags), any confirmation about the composer, more interviews, etc. maybe john orloff will be free to share more details lol

i know that the mighty 8th museum is having a 2023 memorial day weekend reunion where they plan on discussing the portrayals of the men and missions as shown in masters of the air (with more info here), so that could be worth looking into!

[killerpancakeburger]

Thinking about a Reader who ends up having Scary Dog Privileges with Ghost without meaning to. It just happened.

Then they have to deal with the fact that this comes with duties too.

Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, a bit suggestive, smug!Ghost, smooth!Ghost. 800 words.

Part 2.

When Ghost is reluctant to getting sutured in Medical after accidentally opening his stitches, grumbling he can do it himself, who does the nurse call for? Yeah, you.

She could stand her ground, after all she's used to dealing with big, whiny men, but it's much more fun to knock on your door and smile at your bewildered gaze and gaping mouth when she explains the situation in two sentences.

"Ghost's being difficult, mind taking over?" "I'm sorry, what the hell does this have to do with me?" "C'm'on, everyone on base knows he's got a soft spot for you. Don't you want to make my job easier?"

You roll your eyes and slam your hands on your desk as you get up. Groaning as you walk past her— "I'm doing this for you, nothing else, got it?"

Mumbling to yourself "you've got to be kidding me" as you barge into the sick bay. Ghost is coolly seated at the end of a bed, large as life, casual clothes as black as his mask and— oh. You weren't told the wound was on his thigh— you weren't warned that he didn’t have pants on. You can’t help it, your eyes go down, down, your lingering gaze and your flustered silence forming a confession louder than words.

A noise — a scoff or a grunt, you’re not sure — emanates from him, breaks your trance, makes you look up. The amusement in his gaze tells you he noticed your oggling— of course he did. Nothing gets past the Ghost, and you've been remarkably unsubtle. Despite the mask, you swear you can make out the smug smirk on his lips. His cockiness reignites your irritation. Annoyance making you bolder than you really are, you charge at him, crossing the distance between you two in a stride, stopping close— too close. He doesn't back off.

"What's wrong with you?" you snarl. "Nothin'," he retorts, imperturbable.

It's actually the first time you’re overlooking him. You may be enjoying it a bit too much. Nevermind the fact that you've had to wedge yourself between his parted legs to get there.

You frown, unconvinced by his answer.

“Did Soap contaminate you?”

Bargaining to be cleared out earlier was the Scotsman's trademark.

“Johnny throws a fit cos he hates feeling useless. That's not what I'm doing.”

A smirk stretches your lips.

“Oh, no? I'm sure your reasons are much more noble.”

“Doesn't matter. Got what I wanted anyway.”

He's way too self-satisfied for a man in his underwear.

You throw an unequivocal look in the direction of his injury.

“What you wanted? A still open wound?”

“You.”

He replied without missing a beat, as confident as usual. It is both alluring and aggravating.

“And your idea of wooing me is making me upset?”

You don't add “because if it is, that's really fucking stupid” out loud, but you’re sure he got the message through your tone.

“Nah. But you're more honest when you’re angry. Gutsier.”

You only realize he slipped his index and middle fingers in your trouser loops when he sharply tugs at them. Off balance, you steady yourself by catching his shoulders.

Taking advantage of the strip of bare skin between your shirt and bottoms, the pads of his thumbs idly stroke your hip bones. The contact sends electricity through you, shivers of pleasure running down your sides.

“Ghost,” you start, severe, trying not to let the effect his touch has on you show in your voice.

“Simon,” he counters, surly. “Told ya it's Simon when we're alone, didn't I?”

He did, but you didn’t think he was serious. If that's what it takes to get him to listen… you’ll play by his rules.

“Simon. What's the rest of your brilliant plan? I'm here, but I can’t stitch you up.”

“How ‘bout a deal. I'll stop resisting… for a price.”

You raise an amused eyebrow.

“What kind of price?”

“A kiss.”

You snort. You didn’t believe him capable of something so… puerile.

“With the mask on?”

He doesn't move a muscle to get rid of it.

“Take it off.”

You usually wouldn’t obey what sounds like an order so easily, but it's the first time you get to touch the skull. Slipping two fingers between skin and cloth, you slowly roll up the mask all the way under his nose.

You gently trace the scars surrounding his lips. Then, the second you feel him relax, grip on your hips slackening and intensity of his gaze waning, you grab the bottom of his mask and drag it back down vigorously, making the holes for the eyes land way too low for him to see anything.

“If you thought you'd get a reward for acting out, you've got another think coming.”

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: IT'S GONNA FEEL SO GOOD, I PROMISE!

.ೃ࿐ he's dreamt about fucking you for months, and now that you're finally in his sheets, he has no intent of letting you go—especially when he finds out that he's your first time. NSFW

contents: fem!reader. virgin!reader. kinda sorta subtle coercion, corruption kink, slight dubcon, fingering, p –> v, lots of praise!!, mentions of prior dirty dreams (about you).

author's note: had this stuck in my drafts for a while so uhhhh. yea enjoy. tagging @mymegumi bc i love selene ꨄ︎

"please, baby, it'll feel so good," satoru cooes, threading his fingers through your hair and pulling your face closer to his. "i promise i'll be gentle."

you shrug, scrunching up your nose at satoru hesitantly. "i don't know..."

your boyfriend presses his lips to yours briefly and smiles tenderly. satoru's soft eyes are fixed on you, only you as he widens them pleadingly. "i wanna teach you how to fuck. please, sweetheart, we can stop anytime. jus' wanna make you feel good, i promise!"

it's only partially a lie—yes, satoru certainly wants to teach you to fuck, but he's not entirely certain that he could just stop anytime. especially because he's well aware that fucking a virgin is such an addicting experience—satoru knows you're gonna be so tight that you'll just suck him in, and he isn't that confident that he'll be able to stop once he's started.

but whatever, that's a problem for later—for now, he's focused on persuading you to spread those legs for him and show him your pretty pussy.

you pause, considering his proposal. after a couple seconds, you nod hesitantly. "you promise you'll be gentle?" you ask meekly, averting your eyes.

satoru nods, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "of course—now c'mon, let's get those clothes off of you, baby." and a couple agonizing minutes later, you're half naked underneath a shirtless satoru, and his fingers trace the inside of your thigh.

"so first, i'm gonna make you cum on my fingers, 'kay?" satoru informs you. "needa loosen you up so you can take my dick."

"o-okay," you whisper, swallowing nervously. "i'm a little scared," you admit, fiddling with the waistband of your lacy underwear. "will it hurt?"

after a moment, satoru nods in response. "at first it will. but then you're gonna feel so good, i promise."

"you promise?"

"i do."

satoru tugs down your panties and grins at the sight of your pussy, untouched and reserved just for him. he's dying to just fuck you then and there, rough and no prep, but he made a promise. and satoru has no intention of breaking it.

"ready?" he breathes, positioning his fingers just outside of your entrance. when you nod, he shakes his head. "i'm gonna need to hear it from you, baby. use your words."

"i'm r-ready," you confirm, inching your thighs farther apart for him.

"good girl."

then satoru slips his fingers inside, and you can't suppress the sudden moan that slips out of your lips. to you, it's embarrassing, but to satoru, it's music to his ears. he steadily pushes his fingers farther and farther into your tight cunt, and satoru can't help but marvel at the way you just suck him in.

"you're so fuckin' tight," satoru mumbles, eyes fixed on your pussy. "and so wet, too. i've barely even touched you, fuck."

it's agonizing, really—the sensation of having someone else's fingers inside of you is so new and so strange that you can almost ignore the pain (which is present but not as throbbing as you had feared). satoru makes sure to be as gentle as he can, which unfortunately isn't quite as gentle as you'd like—but it's not too rough for you to handle.

satoru starts widening his fingers in a scissor-like motion, stretching you farther apart to make room for his already rock-hard dick. you squirm around him and whine about how deep his fingers are, but satoru dismisses your complaints with a laugh. "c'mon, this is barely the beginning. if ya can't take this, how're you gonna take my dick?"

a couple minutes later, when satoru finally deems you loose enough, he pulls out his now-drenched fingers. looking you in the eye with a smug smile, he slips his fingers into his mouth and licks your slick off of them. "mm, you taste so good, pretty. lemme see if you feel as good as you taste, yeah?"

and that's how he convinces you to keep your thighs nice and spread wide open for him as he positions the head of his dick at your entrance, practically trembling from the effort it takes to not just pound into you. you're so compliant and perfect for satoru, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to resist the urge to push you up against the headboard and fuck you until you pass out.

but somehow, he manages to control himself. "alright, baby, this is gonna hurt," satoru warns, touching his reddening tip to your soaked pussy. "you ready?"

"y-yeah," you breathe, distantly noticing the way your hands start to tremble. satoru exhales softly and shakes his hair out of his eyes before gently pushing himself inside of you, and the first thought that enters your head is that he's ridiculously big—it feels like you're getting torn apart every second he goes in farther.

"satoruuu," you whine, starting to paw at his chest when he goes in farther, and it's too much, too fast, but he only grins down at you in response. "it hurts, ow... y're too—"

"uh uh, just shut your pretty mouth n' take it," satoru groans, shifting the angle of his hips and going in a little deeper. you cry out in pain, face scrunching up in an effort to numb the stinging sensation around your waist. satoru dips his head and kisses your forehead, murmuring praises on how well you're doing.

"it'll feel so good soon, i promise, baby," he insists, pressing his lips to the spot in between your eyes. "you're takin' me so good, fuck— agh, you're so damn tight, this one's gonna hurt like hell, but you can take it, yeah? my pretty princess, you'll do anythin' i say, won't ya..."

satoru doesn't give you a chance to respond before he says something about this being the last stretch, but his words don't really sink in until he's two more inches deep into you. his last thrust is so sudden and jarring that it makes you cry out his name, over and over and over until the pain evident on your face starts to turn into something that looks a lot like... pleasure?

a self-assured smile grows on satoru's flushed face when he sees the chance, and a thousand more words of praise fall from his lips. your vision's a little fuzzy in the corners, and your mind is all but gone—it's hard to focus on anything but the slowly fading pain.

satoru starts to move his hips back and forth, easing your loosening cunt into him and nodding at the way you slowly start to show signs of wanting more. your eyes brighten up a little and you seem more alert the longer satoru opens you up.

"startin' to feel good now?" he asks, smiling smugly when you nod your head. "yeah, told you so." the prominent blush on his face starts to creep down his neck, and when you reach up and tentatively touch his cheek, that's when he loses it.

it takes every drop of self-restraint in his body to not flip you over, face-down and ass-up and fuck your tight cunt the way he's dreamed about for months. satoru's imagined it for so long that it's practically a reality for him—the way you would whimper his name and claw at the sheets, the way you would cum all over him too many times to count, all of it. he's seen it a thousand times in his head, but having his fantasy so close and yet so far drives him insane.

but as you smile up at him, the almost unnoticeable tremble in your bottom lip assures him that this probably isn't the time. after all, you're not leaving him anytime soon, so he might as well train you first before even attempting any of that on your perfect, untouched body.

"what do i do now?" you ask, and the simplicity of the question is almost childish. especially when satoru almost laughs in response, soft blue eyes glinting with amusement.

"jus' lie there and stay pretty f'me. and keep your legs spread wiiide open," satoru cooes, shaking his hair out of his eyes only for it to fall right back in.

"yeah, you're doin' so good that i don't even buy that you were a virgin—or are you just naturally made for me, huh? maybe that's it, 'cause i swear on my life that i've never fucked a cunt this fuckin' pretty, heh."

[orcelito]

I think im gonna cave & tag Midvalley in my fanfiction

I still don't know just how longterm he'll be around (it'll depend on how things shake out & whether he ends up liking Vash enough to stick around) but Even Tho he's mostly been long-distance present, he's been important to the story and So It Shall Remain for at least a while.

So. Midvalley 4th most major character I guess?

[sluttywonwoo]

as someone who lives with chronic back pain, this audio i stumbled across reminded me of this fantasy i have and i think san fits the script (a little too) perfectly

(heed the tags on the audio— it includes some kinks i stray away from in my writing that might be a turn off for some)

nsfw 18+ // mdni

“hi, baby.”

you dog-ear the page you’re on and set your book on the bedside table to give your boyfriend your full attention. “hi. good shower?”

“mhm,” san answers cheerfully. “i’m sorry i didn’t greet you properly when i first got home. i just needed to wash the day off of me first.”

“it’s okay, i know the feeling,” you assure him, stretching your arm out across the sheets for his hand.

he approaches the bed and takes your hand, squeezing comfortingly. “speaking of feelings, how are you feeling, my love? any better?”

you nod. “a little. still sore.”

san pouts. “i figured. i’m sorry, baby. is there anything i can do? do you want some tea? want me to get your other heating pad?”

“well….”

san perks up as you trail off. you almost never ask him for anything, even when you have these longer bouts of consistent pain, even though he’s always so eager to help.

“what is it? whatever it is, i’ll do it.”

you doubt he’ll feel that way when you tell him but-

“fuck me?”

your boyfriend’s smile falters but you swear you see his cock twitch traitorously beneath his towel. “except for that.”

“but you said-”

“you know we can’t,” san chides. “not when you’re hurting.”

“it’s not even that bad,” you insist.

“you’re lying.”

“but i want you.”

“so let me get you off like we’ve been doing,” he says, settling on the bed next to you.

he reaches between your knees to part them but you hold them together so that he can’t, even though it puts a strain on your back. san could easily overpower you if he wanted to, he often does when you’re feeling more like yourself, but when you’re like this… he’s overly gentle. it’s sweet, the way he treats you so delicately, but it gets frustrating when all you want him to do is the exact opposite.

san frowns. “baby…” you don’t budge. “you’re not going to let me?”

“i want your dick.”

“i know but it isn’t a good idea.”

“you don’t even have to go hard, you could just stick it in-”

“you’re unbelievable,” san mumbles, leaning forward to kiss your knee.

“is that a yes?”

he sighs, “we really shouldn’t…”

“you don’t want to?”

“it’s not about wanting to, baby. of course i want to. i always want to.”

“it doesn’t seem like it,” you mutter.

san pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. “that’s because i’m trying to think about what’s best for you. i… i know myself and i know that if i’m not careful i could make your pain worse.”

your expression softens and you release the tension from your legs, allowing san to spread them. he looks up at you in surprise.

“i don’t deserve you,” you say pitifully, then before san can deny it, "i just miss you. it's been so long."

he rubs your thigh soothingly. "i know, baby. i miss you too. do you know how hard it is to sit here and not give you what you want? especially when what you want is..." he gulps, "me... inside of you. god, even just saying it is making me hard."

"you were already hard," you point out.

"it's making me harder," he clarifies.

"you know what would help with that?"

san glares at you. "a cold shower?"

"no-"

"yeah, i know," he sighs, defeated.

"can we try?" you ask, bringing his hand further up your thigh.

his fingers flex against the plush of your inner thigh in restraint, lips pursed in thought.

"you just want me to put it in?"

"well, i want you to fuck me but i'll settle for that."

san scoffs. "promise you'll tell me if it hurts?"

"promise."

"want me to grab a condom?"

"no, just take the towel off."

"such a romantic," he teases as he slips it from his waist.

he helps you get your panties off, making you sit all the way up instead of simply arching your back so he can pull the fabric from underneath you.

"you're sure you don't want me to just eat you out?" he asks, swallowing thickly, gaze fixed between your legs.

"you can eat your cum out of me if you really want to."

"don't threaten me with a good time," san murmurs as he positions himself on top of you, pressing a kiss to your cheek as thanks. he takes your hand in one of his and lines himself up with the other. "remember, you promised to tell me if it hurts."

"i know, i promise."

"like, if it hurts at all. even just a little bit."

"i will!"

"and i mean it-"

"babe! don't you trust me?"

san sighs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. "i do, of course i do. but i also know you, and i know you won't say anything if it means i get to feel good." you make a face. he had you there. "see? i know you, baby."

"ok, but i promise i'll tell you. pinky promise." you even offer him your pinky, which he loops around his own and kisses to seal. "so can you please put your cock inside of me?"

"so impatient," san mutters to himself. he pushes in the tiniest bit, though, just the head to shut you up. "shit, you're so wet- jesus fucking christ."

"keep going," you beg, "please, more."

"yeah baby, i will, i will... but we're not fucking, alright? just putting it in. f-fuck, i don't think i could last if we did fuck. i don't know if i can last just doing this, it's been so long since i felt you..."

it's also been so long that he feels bigger than you remember and you start to tear up as soon as he's more than an inch inside. you can tell it's taking all of his self control to go this slow. his hips stutter when you clench around him for the first time and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and then stare at the ceiling for a few seconds to gather himself.

but then he looks back down at you and sees you crying and immediately panics.

"oh my god, it hurts, doesn't it? i knew this was a bad idea. i'm so sorry, baby-"

"no! no, it feels good, sannie. i promise. it feels good."

he looks like he doesn't fully believe you but then you tighten around him again and he gives in, cursing as bottoms out.

you lay like that together for a few moments before you start to get impatient again. you really thought you could handle just cockwarming him but being full of him only made you needier. shocking.

"how is it, baby?" san whispers, likely to try and hide the shakiness in his voice. "this what you needed?"

you sniffle and nod. "but i want more," you admit.

san mumbles your name in warning but you're already too far gone.

"please? please fuck me, please fuck me," you're begging and it's a little pathetic but you can't bring yourself to care. "please just a little bit, just a tiny bit."

"we agreed," he reminds you.

"i know but i need more," you whine, "i know you need more too, i can feel you pulsing inside of me... please, baby, i want to cum on your cock so bad."

your boyfriend hangs his head. "i don't know if i can," he confesses.

"you won't hurt me."

"no, i mean, i'm already so close that i don't know if i'll be able to make you cum first if i start moving- fuck, why did me admitting that make you wetter?"

"because i love you?" you try.

"you love that i'm weak for you," he amends.

"two things can be true."

san tightens his jaw and shakes his head down at you as he draws his hips back a fraction of what he normally would and pushes them forward again, building an agonizingly slow but steady pace. "you're lucky i love you too."

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 5

in which spencer reid and fem!reader are reunited, but the worst kind of sparks are flying. you meet a man named randall. derek morgan buys you a drink (sort of). it seems that some things can't be unsaid.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: r goes to a bar but doesn't drink alcohol, gets hit on by weird men, dramatic, angst, sorry in advance a/n: surprise! i'll see myself out. love you! lmk your thoughts on this bad boy! i KNOW you'll have some! i'm locking all my doors and the cops are on speed dial after posting this. stay tuned for part six tho

You don’t call Spencer for four days. 

Spencer doesn’t call you for four days. 

It’s scary. 

There’s some texting—mostly him giving you updates on how things are going and when he expects to be back. Mostly you giving the messages a thumbs up and saying nothing else. 

Finally, on Thursday afternoon, his ringtone (the Bill Nye theme) makes you jump as you’re sitting on your bed staring into space. 

His caller ID photo—which is simply his passport photo, because you’d thought it was adorable—stares at you. You stare back. Contemplate not picking up. 

But you’re not quite there yet. 

And you cannot keep listening to Bill Nye the Science Guy. 

The answer button is cold under your thumb, but not as cold as your greeting. 

“Hi.”

You barely recognize your own voice. 

It seems to send Spencer for a loop as well, because his reply is halting. 

“Hey! Hi, um—how are you? I feel like we’ve barely talked this week.”

That would be because you told me my feelings for you are stronger than your feelings for me and I don’t know how to stop making every single word I say secretly mean I love you. We can’t have a conversation without me loving you. It will always be in the room or on the phone with us. To ignore the presence of it is impossible, and I don’t know if I can ignore the absence of yours, either. 

“Uh… yeah. I’m fine. What’s up?”

There’s a pause. 

“We wrapped up this morning. We’re getting on the jet here in a few minutes, and, um—I know it’s not ideal, but we missed Derek’s birthday and Penelope is insisting we all go to his favorite bar tonight. And he told me that for his birthday he wants to meet you. So… would you be up for that?”

“You want… to take me to a bar?”

“No. I mean—I know it’s not really your thing, but we missed Derek’s birthday three years in a row, and—and I understand if you don’t want to meet him tonight, but we wouldn’t have to stay very long and I really, really shouldn’t skip it. Derek has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“You could go without me.”

More silence. Every second hurts, but you don’t understand why he wants you to come meet his best friend if he thinks the two of you are in different places emotionally. 

But maybe he’s not going to break up with you just yet. Maybe he’s going to keep inviting you to bars and foreign film festivals and bookshops. Maybe he’s going to treat you exactly the same as he always has but with this new added layer of knowledge that the way he treats you isn’t actually love, and it never was, and you’re not sure if it has the potential to ever become love. Because if it did—wouldn’t it have already? What more do you have to offer than what you’ve already given him?

Breakup or no breakup, you feel sick. 

When he speaks his tone is similarly chilly. It’s welcome. You want him mad. If he can’t reciprocate your adoration, then the very least he can do is have the decency to reciprocate your reproach. 

“I could. Is that what you want?”

No. I don’t want any of this. I need you to know me well enough to know that. And if you can’t love me then at least get angry. At least show me you feel something other than passive contentment. 

“Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.”

A pause stretches so long your heart pounds. You watch the elapsed time of the call tick by, second by second, and you wait for the anticipation to crack under the weight of silence, to give way to some terrible jump scare or to give way at all. 

But the words that end the conversation (if you can even call it that) aren’t any great relief. They’re just sad, and chalk full of defeat. 

“Alright. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

You feel like you’ve swallowed an ice cube. All the words you’d like to say are frozen in your stinging throat. 

“Okay. Um… I’ll let you board now.”

“The jet’s not…” but he trails off. When he speaks again he sounds just as hurt as you’d wanted—and it doesn’t make you feel better at all. “Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead, and your face is burning as tears fill your eyes for the hundredth time this week. That call was terrible and poisonous and you don’t feel like yourself. 

Things have gone so wrong so quickly, and all you know how to do is ice him out so he can’t do it to you first. But it’s not going to make this better. No matter how mean you are to him, at the root of it all you feel unloved and scared and alone and Spencer knows things about love and relationships that you don’t. He’s confusing you with all this talk of feeling differently about each other and I’ll be home tomorrow I miss you and things get complicated when one person likes the other more and let’s talk in person and will you come meet my best friend tonight. All of it leaves you motion sick and ugly crying in the fetal position. 

All you have to get through this is who you’ve always been, a little of the person you’ve become, and the love you harbor for Spencer which rattles around in your chest like a nail in an empty toolbox. At the moment it hardly seems helpful. It mocks you, pointing out the pathetic hilarity of your paradox. The only person who can comfort you, the person you want more than anything, is the reason you’re so upset in the first place. But you can’t help being drawn to him. 

Maybe the love you have for Spencer is more like a magnet in a compass. 

Even if he doesn’t feel it for you, you do love Spencer. And that goes beyond just loving the parts of him that like you. To hide from that love would be a gross disservice to yourself and all the work you’ve done to get here. It’s not as if you suddenly know exactly what the answer is—but you’re sure that hiding is the most childish, cowardly thing you could do and the furthest you could get from a resolution. Even if you can’t make him love you back, you refuse to allow yourself to fizzle quietly out of his life. This relationship deserves something more than that. 

So maybe you don’t have a plan when you wipe your eyes and pick up your phone. Maybe there’s no strategy behind your actions as you text Garcia for the bar location. But if you keep running from everything you’ll never get anywhere. All you can do is show up. It seems like the next best step. 

------

The pub isn’t too crowded—but for a Thursday night, you suppose it’s a bit busy. 

Boot heels hooked onto the metal foot-beam of the stool you’re sitting on, elbows resting on the polished mahogany surface of the bar, you’re staring into an untouched mixed drink. Then you glance down the bar to your right, at the man who’d bought it for you. 

Maybe your ensemble gave him the wrong idea. 

Coming to this gathering had required bravery, and you came armored. Your ensemble projects significantly more confidence than you’re currently feeling. It was intentional, a form of self-protection—but now you’re wondering if it’s projecting a little too much confidence. 

All done up, clearly still a little rough around the edges, and sitting alone at a bar was bound to draw the wrong pairs of eyes. 

“Hey, darlin’,” the gruff man says, approaching when you inadvertently catch his gaze. “Are you gonna drink that, or should I? Otherwise I’m lookin’ at eleven dollars right down the drain.”

You avert your eyes, scanning the groups dotted here and there. 

“I’m waiting for friends.”

“Does that make a free drink less appealing?”

He takes the stool next to you, off-gassing the scent of cigarettes and leather. 

“I’m not drinking.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a girl who looks as sad as you do come sit at the bar to stay sober.”

You frown, looking back up at the man next to you. He seems like the Hell’s Angels type—tattooed knuckles, leather jacket, grey beard, and a weathered face that’s clearly spent decades with the sun. Fifties, maybe younger and just looks more rugged. What does it say about how I look tonight that this is the kind of man I’m attracting, you wonder. Maybe you look desperate and just as lonely as you feel. As he claims you do. 

“I’m not sad.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. But a happier girl wouldn’t be all alone.”

“I’m waiting for friends,” you repeat, letting the words drip like venom from your tongue. 

“I’m Randall. See? Now we're friends.”

“I don’t need more friends. I like the ones I have.”

Something catches Randall’s attention long enough to catch yours. He raises his bottle vaguely, gesturing beyond your shoulder. 

“Are those angry lookin’ guys in the suits marching right over here the friends you’re talking about?”

You turn your head, brows furrowed, and immediately see the gentlemen to whom your new pal is pointing out. 

Spencer is storming across the bar looking close to furious (which for him, means an expression so placid it gives you chills) followed by Derek Morgan—a man who you’ve only seen pictures of and is even more impressive in person. 

You hate how your breath catches, how your heart is already beating a little faster than usual at the sight of him even though you’re not exactly pleased with each other right now. 

Suddenly the bubbles in your cocktail are once again fascinating.

“Those are the ones.”

“And why are they dressed for church?”

Church?

“They’re FBI.”

“Ah. My lucky fuckin’ day.”

You almost snort. 

“Hey,” Spencer says sternly, hand settling on your back as he partially fills the small space between you and the strange man. “Who’s this?”

You shrug, sit up a little straighter, and take a shallow breath—not because you’re scared of this man but because Spencer is suddenly so close to you and you can feel his warmth and the air bending around him and the scent of him is genuinely dizzying to you. 

“Randall,” you exhale unenthusiastically. But the odd thing is that you’re rather grateful for Randall’s presence. Because now Spencer is here and you have no idea what you’re going to say to him. 

“Oh,” Randall says, sipping his beer unhurriedly before using it to gesture to Spencer. “You’re the boyfriend. You know, that’s funny, because she didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t mention anything. We weren’t having a real conversation.”

Randy holds his hands up defensively, fingers still wrapped around the neck of a sweating bottle. 

“I’m just saying it’s in-ter-esting. Not trying to start anything.” He stands, pauses for another sip—Spencer obviously isn’t sure what to make of this man because he says nothing. “But listen, man to man—you better buy her some flowers or a real pretty fuckin’ necklace or somethin’ because a happy girl in a happy relationship does not come pout at the bar all by herself.”

“Get out of here, man,” Derek finally speaks up. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sets his empty bottle down and fishes in his pocket for a cigarette, sticking it between his lips. “But—just for the record—I have a wife. I wasn’t gonna do anything weird. Sometimes when you’re my age you just gotta live a little. Buy a pretty girl a drink. Piss off some Mormons, or whatever the fuck you are.”

This guy sounds like a bad Bruce Springsteen song. But part of you would almost rather hang out with Randall than be forced into a conversation you’re not prepared for with Spencer. 

And whose fault is that, you remind yourself. You decided to come be mature. Suck it up. 

“Goodnight,” Derek emphasizes. 

Spencer doesn’t say a word. You can feel his eyes boring smoking holes into the side of your face, and you look anywhere else.  

“I’ll be here next week after physical therapy like clockwork,” the stranger waves as he ambles away—but not before pointing at you. “You enjoy that drink, friend. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

What a weird man. 

There’s silence for a moment—in which Spencer refuses to stop watching you and you refuse to acknowledge that. 

“And here I was thinking Spencer made you up.” Derek has a beautiful smile and a warm, charming cadence as he holds out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Derek.”

You take the proffered hand and shake, offering him a shy smile and introducing yourself in kind. 

“Happy birthday, by the way. Sorry for crashing your party.”

Really, he’s stunning. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. And you’re not crashing anything. I told pretty boy here I wanted to meet you the second he started talking about a friend. But nah, he just wanted to talk and talk and talk about you—” 

“Alright,” Spencer mumbles, blushing, eyes finally torn from your profile. You smile slightly, brows knitting as Derek magically melts some of the terrible tension.

“Pretty boy?”

Before either of them can explain, someone shrieks in your general direction. You startle backward in your seat, and Spencer steps closer, hand sliding up your back as Penelope, JJ, and Emily join your little huddle. For only a second you allow yourself to shrink into him—before you’re straightening your posture like your spine is a metal rod and his touch burns. It’s a knee-jerk defensive reaction for which you have no explanation. You can’t see him, but you don’t feel his hand on you again. 

“Oh my god! Look at this beautiful person who I love!” Penelope exclaims, pushing past Derek to grab your face and kiss both of your cheeks. “Oh my god,” she says again, wiping sticky lipgloss away with her thumbs, “I totally meant to ask before I did that. But your face is just so kissable. I’m so glad you decided to come!”

“Hi, Penelope,” you smile half-heartedly, incapable of reciprocating her cheery mood. Fortunately, she’s cheery enough for a standard commercial flight’s worth of people, and probably thinks of Derek’s birthday as a national holiday—so she doesn’t pick up on this. 

Emily and JJ offer you tamer although perfectly kind greetings. 

“Ooh, what are you drinking?” Emily asks, leaning closer to examine the forgotten beverage in front of you. 

“Not that,” Spencer mutters, grabbing the glass and sliding it away from you. You give him an affronted look—and immediately wish you hadn’t, since you’re meeting his eyes for the first time since he left. His words stall for just a moment as his eyes dart between yours before he’s saying, “you shouldn’t accept a drink if you didn’t watch someone make it.”

The audacity of him to be acting protective makes you scoff. 

“That guy didn’t spike my drink. He was harmless.”

“People thought Ted Bundy was harmless, too.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that you don’t even have a response—your eyes simply narrow and you shake your head. A claustrophobic silence falls over the small group. 

“Okay…” JJ murmurs. “Um, do you guys want to go check out the jukebox with me? We have to play all of the birthday boy’s favorites.”

Several enthusiastic yeses go around, but you’re too busy having a stand off with your boyfriend to take much notice. 

Soon, it’s just the two of you. 

“Controlling isn’t a good look for you,” you finally say, spinning to rest your elbows on the bar once more and studying the bottles of liquor on the shelves beyond. 

“Evasive and avoidant isn’t particularly flattering, either. I was under the impression that you had no intention of coming after that phone call earlier.” 

You scoff again as your blood heats. Already the conversation is going worse than you’d expected—and your expectations were not high. 

“Do you think the cab driver was a serial killer, too? Or maybe the bartender?”

He’s still behind you and slightly to the side—but he leans down, resting his own fists on the bar right next to you and speaking lowly, directly over your shoulder. 

“Why don’t you try speaking to me like we’re adults instead of starting meaningless arguments in order to get under my skin?”

From him, that hurts. 

It’s a branch on the tree of your greatest insecurity—the fear that you’re too inexperienced with relationships and that makes you too immature and he’s been lying every time he says it’s not an issue. Because of course it’s an issue. It’s why you fell in love with him, it’s why you don’t know how to fix it, and it’s why you’re incapable of actually expressing any of your feelings to him.

“Why do you think I’m here right now?” you whisper—as sharp and stinging as a poison dart. “I’m trying to be a fucking adult. I don’t want to be here.”

Silence. 

“Then why did you come?”

His voice is so calm it burns like dry ice. 

“Because! Because you asked me to, because—”

You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud. 

Because I’m obviously still in love with you and I can’t just turn that off. I tried to do the right thing. 

Instead you bury your face in your hands and let it hang in the air, unspoken. You know he knows. You just don’t know why he’s acting like you’re so unreasonable for being upset. 

“Let me make this very clear to you,” Spencer murmurs, brushing your hair away from your ear so tenderly, speaking so softly you could convince yourself that he’ll say something kind. It’s the closest he’s been in days and now that he’s here you feel how much you missed him in your bones. And even though you sense a trap, you can’t help but sit up straighter. You’ll be complicit in your own undoing if it means you can have him close. His breath shakes slightly as he inhales and you brace as best you can. “Nobody is forcing you to be here. You told me you weren’t coming and then you decided to show up. I was ready to give you the space that you were too scared to ask me for. But I can only take responsibility for so much of what is ultimately your bad behavior and your adolescent volatility. You can only blame so much of your bad behavior on inexperience before I run out of patience because I don’t find thoughtlessness and emotional immaturity compelling. I told you that if there is a disparity in the way we feel for each other, that was fine, and I meant it. But if you can’t cope with how I feel about you then don’t let me hold you back. I am not holding you hostage. You can leave whenever you want. So don’t waste your time punishing me because you don’t want to be here. And if you do want to be here, good. I want that too. But act like an adult and make a decision. My leniency has limits, even for you. I am asking that you do not push it any further than you already have.”

You don’t know how long it’s been since your last breath by the time he finishes his address.

Long enough that you’re dizzy when you push away from the bar and shoulder through the throng of patrons as quickly as you reasonably can without outright running. 

Long enough that when you burst out the door into the biting-cold night air, and finally take a deep, gasping breath, it burns and stings and aches and so does your head and your eyes as they well with hot, furious, heartbroken tears. 

You speed-walk to the end of the block, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries and all the curse words you’d love to scream. 

Part of you knows you walked away from the bar in case he decided to try and follow you—but when you look over your shoulder the sidewalk is empty. You should’ve known better than to think he’d follow you after that. But at least it means you can have your breakdown by the relative safety of the bar, leaning your back against the dirty brick facade next to the entrance alcove and sliding down until your butt hits the cold concrete and you don’t even care. 

Who the fuck was that man in the bar who looked like Spencer and sounded like Spencer but spoke to you like this is all your fault, like it’s your fault you love him and he doesn’t love you back, like it’s ridiculous that you’d be upset, like you’re cruel and petty for having feelings about it, about him—for having any fucking feelings at all? And to think that was the man who you let know you more intimately than anyone ever has. Every insecurity you’d ever admitted to him was hurled back in your face like it was nothing. Hell—he even handed you the ones you’d never mentioned. He proved every terrible thought you’ve been having about yourself right. 

How could he be so unabashedly mean to you?

Spencer doesn’t have to love you. It seems clearer now than ever that he doesn’t. But part of you wonders if he suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury because that’s the only explanation for why he could go from treating you how he did before to treating you like he doesn’t even like you. 

You feel like you might throw up. 

“Called it,” a rasping, grumbling voice says from a few feet away. 

You look up, and spot fucking Randall standing under a street light ten feet away, still smoking. 

You go back to studying the tar spots on the sidewalk through bleary eyes. Pebbles sting as they press into your palms. Another one of the universe’s terrible jokes, you suppose. Just earlier you’d thought that you’d rather talk to Randall than Spencer and now here you are and here he is. 

“That kid as much of a dipshit punk as I thought he was?”

Hearing Spencer described as a kid and a dipshit punk is so jarring you almost stop crying. 

“He’s not a dipshit,” you sniff, voice thick with tears as you find yourself explaining Spencer Reid to this stranger for no reason at all. “He has an IQ of 187. He’s a genius.”

“Ah,” he scoffs dismissively, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Dipshit-ism don’t discriminate. Anyone can be one. Even your genius punk boyfriend. As a recovering dipshit myself I know what the work of a fellow dipshit looks like. And this has dipshit written all over it.”

You sob harder. 

Randall speaks calmly around his cigarette. 

“You know, I’m sorry for whatever you got goin’ on. But I’ve never not been the asshole when I got a hysterical woman in front of me. It’s nice that I can confidently say this time it is not my fault.”

The bar door opens, letting a warm burst of jovial music and chatter into the otherwise still night. Steps that are too heavy to be Spencer’s hit the concrete next to you—you look to your left and see Derek Morgan before he looks down and sees you. 

“Hey—you okay out here?”

“Why don’t you go ask your Jehovah’s Witness buddy? He did this.”

Derek makes a face, locating the source of this interjection. 

“Sir, I asked you to leave her alone once and I don’t appreciate being made to repeat myself. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, whatever. Fuck me for making friendly conversation, I guess. Gonna have to call my wife and tell her to pick me up down the street. I don’t want her on the damn phone while she’s driving.”

Randall wanders away again, still muttering to himself and smoking. Derek watches him go, staring daggers into his back until he turns his gaze to you. 

Goodbye, Randall, you think. Great. Now I have neither of them. 

“Hey,” he softens, crouching down to your level. “You okay?”

You sniff, wiping your cheeks and attempting not to smudge your makeup. It’s impossible not to feel awkward—you just met this guy and now he’s here trying to do emotional labor for you on his birthday. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything for you? Do you want some food? A drink?”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know, I know. But look—Reid is always talking about you. You’re important to him, and he’s important to me. I’ve never seen him this happy and I’ve known that kid a long time. It is in my best interest that someone maintain you, and if it’s not him, it’ll be me. Call it a favor to him, if that makes you feel better.” Derek is sporting a slightly more modest Cheshire grin again by the end of his sentence. Listening to him speak that way about Spencer speaking about you, it’s impossible not to feel a teeny bit lighter. Even if you’re not entirely sure where you stand on all things Spencer related at the moment. “So I’ll ask you again. Is there anything I can do for you?”

You sniff again. 

“Sure. A ginger ale or something might be good.”

“Got it. I’ll be back. And come inside if Randall tries to run up on you again, okay?”

Despite yourself you manage a laugh at the way he says the name. His warm smile flickers warmer at this.  

“Will do.”

When Derek returns a few minutes later, the plastic cup he’s holding looks decidedly not like ginger ale. 

“Penelope insisted that this is what you would want. I don’t even know.”

You smile slightly as you take the cup, full to the brim with bubbles and thick red syrup. A cherry bobs underneath the layer of cubed ice. 

“Shirley temple,” you chuckle. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, flashing that brilliant smile again, and you look into your cup as you drink. Maybe your face warms just a bit. You’re still shy around men, you realize. Especially attractive ones. And Derek Morgan definitely qualifies as attractive. 

“So,” he begins, and to your surprise, crouches down in front of you. “I have to be honest—I came out here in the first place because Reid sent me to check on you. But now I’m wondering what the hell he did.”

Spencer sent him. A considerate action that would theoretically signal his care for your feelings. You take another sip, staring into space and trying to digest this information, but it only jumbles with the rest to confuse you more. 

Of course, you don’t know how to convey this to Derek in a way that’s not overly-familiar for just having met the man, so you go with an old standby. 

“I’m probably just overreacting.”

“Uh-huh. I have sisters. I know what an overreaction looks like and if you were overreacting you wouldn’t be out here hiding. What’d he do?”

You can only keep up the facade of emotional stability for so long. Your chin wobbles in a horribly embarrassing way and you look down again. 

“I’m not sure—I’m not sure if he really did anything or if I’m just being dramatic and I don’t want to make him seem—”

“Why don’t you stop defending him and just tell me what he did?” Derek urges. “Trust me—I love that kid to death. But I also know he can be a dick sometimes. You don’t need to worry about making him look bad in front of me.”

Part of you is glad Spencer has such a good friend on his side. And Derek is right—Spencer is an adult. You don’t need to worry about besmirching his reputation. So you take a shuddering sigh, staring into the red of your drink. 

“He just doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Which isn’t his fault, like I said, but—he’s being such an asshole about it.”

Derek pulls a face, strong eyebrows making an impression as they knit.  

“Did he tell you that?”

“Over the phone,” you nod emphatically. “And just now he gave me this whole fucking speech about how immature and horrible I am for not being 100% happy about it. And maybe he’s partially right, I mean—I know people feel things differently and maybe he just was asking for more time. I worry I fucked it up so bad because I couldn’t handle that—but at the same time he didn’t say he wanted more time. He was really fucking unclear and vague about what he wanted, and he asked me to come to this bar like it was nothing when I’ve been worried he was going to break up with me all week. So yeah, I guess he’s right and I have been a bitch about it because I was upset that he didn’t… like me as much. And I wanted him to feel bad because I was so embarrassed, and I also didn’t want to act like everything was normal if he was just going to dump me, I…” you realize you’ve been hardcore rambling and your face heats. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, and you worry you’ve done exactly the thing you didn’t want to, which was overshare to this man who seems like he’s significantly more normal and well-adjusted than you. You drink deeply, swallowing sugar and the rest of your words. 

“That’s… bizarre. I don’t mean to invalidate your feelings, but… that just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, projecting annoyance so you won’t start crying again. “I was confused too. I thought he really liked me.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m saying—that doesn’t make sense because he does really like you. Really, really likes you, more than I’ve ever seen him like someone before. I mean, last week I finally finished that Tesla biography he’s been on my ass about for months and when I told him, all he wanted to do was talk about your thoughts on it. And then it wasn’t even about the book anymore. I have never, ever seen Reid pass up an opportunity to talk about Nikola Tesla. I’m talking never in my life. He finds a way to make every conversation about you. I can’t even follow the connections sometimes but he always finds a way.”

Your nose wrinkles. 

“Sorry you’ve had to hear so much about me,” you mumble. Though you’re not really sorry. It feels good. A twinge of joy in all the murk. 

“I’m not. Like I said, I’ve known Spencer for a long time and I’ve never seen him this happy. I’m not about to let him fuck it up.”

“If I make him so happy then why did he tell me we don’t feel the same?” you whisper, reaching into the puddle of syrup and ice at the bottom of your now empty cup. 

“Is that exactly what he said?” Derek asks, after a long pause. You bite the maraschino cherry off the stem and nod morosely, grinding a long-gone stranger’s cigarette butt with your boot just to crush something. There’s another beat of silence. “Alright. You know what I think?”

You raise your head to meet his gaze, your own wide-eyed and expectant. 

“I think you two need to have an honest conversation. You’re both confused and hurting—I promise Spencer is feeling it too. If you talk to him he won’t be unkind to you.”

“He already was,” you admit. 

“I apologize if I’m out of line here, but you just told me you’ve been icing him out all week because you want him to feel bad. I’m willing to bet you don’t realize how sharp these claws are.” Derek grabs your hand as he says it and you marvel at how much he is the opposite of you. Everything he does and says seems so natural and reasonable and charming even if it would piss you off from anyone else—and you just met the guy. You can see why Spencer and Penelope speak so highly of him. “I think you’ve probably both had your moments these past few days. But that doesn’t mean neither of you deserve any more chances.”

He puts your hand back on your knee and pats it. 

“Besides, Spencer‘s not good at mean. I bet he’s inside worrying himself sick over whatever dumb shit he said to you. He’s probably hyperventilating as we speak.”

“It was really out of character for him,” you concede. 

“Yeah. He’ll be apologizing for a long while. It will get annoying. But he sure as hell won’t be doing it again, I can tell you that much. If he does, let me know. Emily and I will whoop his ass and call it a fitness evaluation.”

“I think that’ll be unnecessary,” you laugh thickly, pulling your sleeve over your hand and wiping away the few tears that haven’t quite dried. “But thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, it’s my birthday, and as a grown man I should not be getting involved in someone else’s relationship drama. I was supposed to be on the dance floor a while ago.” His tone is so warm and sugary by the time he finishes it could rot his perfect grin. It’s futile to hide the way your mouth twists into a reluctant smile as you look down and fix your hair—praying he can’t tell how fazed you are by his kindness. “You’re going to talk to him, right?”

“I’ll—yeah. Right,” you say quietly. But the sinking feeling in your stomach knows it’s a thing easier said than done. 

“Good,” Derek grunts, taking your empty cup before pushing himself back up to his feet and offering you a hand. “Do you want me to send him out here or do you want to come find him inside?”

You balk.

“Like—right now? I have to talk to him now?”

Before he can give you an answer you think you’d rather not have, the bar door is opening. From your spot you can’t see who it is right away, but Derek turns over his shoulder and does a double take before looking back at you. 

Spencer steps out onto the sidewalk, eyes scanning for until he realizes you’re a few feet shorter than usual. Sitting on a filthy public walkway is probably his worst nightmare, you realize, as you scramble to your feet and dust the crumbs of concrete from your palms against the back of your cold jeans. He begins to say your name, and it sounds like relief and regret, but you stop him. 

“I have to go wash my hands.”

It’s monotonous and mumbled and comes out too quickly but you don’t have time to worry about that as you brush past both of the men on your way back into the bar, making an immediate beeline for the bathroom. 

Your face burns with anxiety as you shut the door behind you, immediately drowning in the yellowish lighting which is so harsh but seems to illuminate almost nothing. Who paints a bathroom red? It’s suffocating. You feel like you’re inside an aorta. 

Water runs cool over your hands as you sniffle, rinsing the bits of dirt from red indents made by pebbles and things, and the soap is too floral and powdery but you wash twice anyway. Maybe you’ll just stay in here and wash your hands forever. 

There’s a light knock on the shiny wooden door and it makes you jump. Your name is muffled from the other side. 

“You in there?” 

Quickly you wipe under your reddened eyes in the mirror, trying to fix the slightly smudged makeup. 

The door opens when you don’t respond, and there’s Spencer, looking weary and tense all at once. Is that your fault?

“Hey,” you sniff, trying to effect casualness, but it comes out too quickly and your posture is too stiff. Under his all-seeing gaze you cross and uncross your arms, look at him and look away. Your hands end up in your pockets. He’d say crossed arms are a sign of self-soothing. 

“Hey.” His is more measured, and of course makes you feel embarrassed in comparison. The door swings shut behind him as he enters the small room and makes it feel that much smaller. “Are you… hiding from me in here?”

Yes. 

The graffitied toilet stalls to your left suddenly look fascinating. 

“Nope. Just washing my hands.”

This is not what Derek told you to do, you scold yourself internally. Stop being so scared. Be honest with him. 

Silence rings. All the brutally honest things you’d like to say choke you until your throat hurts and your eyes get hot. Yet again you feel like a stupid little girl who’s too emotional to communicate. 

You cross your arms. It’s an indulgence you feel you’re owed. 

Spencer says your name again and it’s too much. He never says it this often. When he does it feels good but now it’s too formal, makes you too aware of your own inadequacy, and how he must be seeing you—a wraith of a girl in a dingy bar bathroom with clammy hands and smudged eyeliner, practically shaking with fear under an unforgiving light. Someone who is too scared and much too sensitive. 

Spencer attempts to speak again. 

“What I said before, it was—”

“Can you just take me home?” 

It comes out on one exhalation and seems to stall him with all the effectiveness of a slap to the face. 

You don’t know where it comes from, either. 

Easier said than done, you’d thought a few moments ago. All the bravery Derek had tried to instill in you is gone, swallowed down the drain like soap scum. And now you’re choosing to let your fear win—because at least that’s a known quantity. The fear will never reject you. It will always be waiting with open arms. 

Too scared. 

The end feels imminent. You try to press yourself back together, fingernails biting into palms, trying to make something feel more tangible than the terrible knowingness that you’re careening toward an end which was supposed to be a beginning. It’s stifling and you wonder if Spencer is breathing it too. 

You can’t look at his face, but you watch him pocket his hands in his pants and there is so much impossible space between you in such a tiny room. 

“Yeah. I can.”

Something breaks. It’s small, and without fanfare. But it feels final. 

It’s just a ride home. Just a ride home. 

That’s all you have left, and you don’t know how you know it but you do. 

Something so important is being left in this stupid, dingy bathroom. Something that was at one point beautiful and shiny and so arrogant in its newness that it seemed it would never become ugly. And now you’re abandoning it without dignity on the chipped tile floor and in the cobwebs on the walls. It was bigger than you, it was you—and now it’s going to be nothing. 

A vehicle honks on the street. A boisterous group laugh explodes somewhere beyond the door. Water drips from a faucet. 

“I’ll… I’ll bring my car around.”

“Okay.”

But he just stands there for another moment. Like he can’t get himself to move. 

If only time would freeze before he could walk away. 

But it doesn’t. 

He sucks in a decisive breath. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. 

It’s that fucking phone call all over again. 

Then he spins on his heels and leaves you there.

Your time is up. 

-

part 5.5

[fairysluna]

To cure your writer‘s block: Maegor Targaryen + breeding his niece to get an heir 🤭

I wrote this on a rush, and this is my first attempt to write for Maegor after months. I hope you like this, my maegor queen 👑. Ily🤍

TW: smut, breeding kink, targcest, targ!fem!reader.

His whole weight was pressing you down, caging you between his broad body and the mattress beneath you. His hand was around your neck, squeezing it tight as his hips kept snapping against your arse over and over. You were sobbing, gasping and mewling as he ripped another orgasm out of you; you had lost count on how many times he had made you peak, too drunk in pleasure to even think straight. His cock would stretch you out so deliciously that it made you drool onto the sheets, your tightness wrapping him so good it made his body shake.

The sticky mess between your legs grew bigger when your release washed over you; his seed oozed out of you and he grunted in disapproval, hating to see it go to waste. You were so full already, yet it wasn't enough for him. “Keep it in or I'll have to fill you up again,” he groaned.

“I c-can’t…” you managed to mumble between loud sobs, feeling his cock emptying itself inside of you for what you thought was the third time. Your spongy walls clamped down his shaft, making him tremble as he was accidentally overstimulating himself. “I’m… I'm so full, p-please…”

“Uh, uh…” Maegor hummed, hissing as he pulled out of you. He turned you around, noticing the mess he had made out of you; your platinum hair sticking in your face due to the sweat and tears that had fallen down your cheeks. The bruises on your skin as a sign of his roughness, the one you loved so much. He hummed, pleased with what he was seeing. “You should not let it go to waste.”

You yelped when he lifted your hips, wrapping his arms around your belly and placing your legs on his shoulders. It was an uncomfortable position for you, but seeing the bewitched glint on his eyes, how pussydrunk he looked for you, made it all worth it. He spat on your cunt, and with his fingers he collected the seed that had tried to escape from you and put it back, burying his fingers deep inside of you. You squirmed, already feeling achy and sore, yet he didn't seem to care. “Stubborn little girl,” he murmured, seeing how you clenched around his fingers. Pearly drops escaped from your weeping entrance. “Guess I will have to fill you up one more time, just to make sure.”

“Maegor…” you begged him, not sure if you were going to be able to handle another one. However, the way you uttered his name lightened something primal within him, making it impossible to resist you. He let go of your hips, only to spread your legs as wide as possible. The coldness of the winter breeze reached your reddened flesh and made you cry out louder than it should.

“Shh… be a good girl for your king and take what I'm giving you.” Before you could answer, his thick head made its way inside of you, stretching you once more and making you squeal.

It was going to be a long night.

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GENERAL TAG LIST — @islandfantasydream @arcielee @bucknastysbabe @zaldritzosrose @rafeism @valeskafics

MAEGOR TAG LIST — @targaryen-dynasty @hypocritic-trash-baby @mariahossain

[leonsgfpost]

note: sorry if this isn't very good, and sorry too if there are any mistakes. Just make sure to enjoy, you know haha 💞

tags: smut, oral (m!receiving), exhibitionism (?), Leon RE2 x f!reader.

The dates with Leon are always the best. Like now, when he smiles at you in the sweetest way and you walk hand in hand through the crowd that also gathered to enjoy the annual amusement park in Raccoon City.

And he's so attentive, buying you cotton candy, winning the stuffed animals on display at the little fairground rides and buying everything you look at for more than two seconds. Because he thinks you're the prettiest girl and deserve to be spoiled.

And so, that's how Leon completely empties his wallet on you. But he doesn't care, because he works hard to always spoil you, even if you complain that it's too much. It's never too much for him.

After clinging to his arm in the gentlest way, saying your legs hurt and you wanted to go home you both walked to his truck. You with your arms full of silly stuffed animals and shiny treats, and him with the thing he loves most in the whole world, you.

But quickly, you can't help but put your hands on him, putting aside all his gifts because Leon was cuter anyway. And you just wanted to thank him, so.... What better than to suck your boyfriend's dick in his truck parked behind the fair?

"Baby, wait..." Leon murmured, his face red and his head bobbing from side to side from the pleasure of feeling your pretty little mouth stretching around his cock. Wet sounds beginning to fill the space.

His fingers moved through your hair, gripping it gently to help you. Your eyes lifted to him, as you choked on every inch of his length. Your saliva dripping down to his balls, it was a sight worthy of those porn cassettes at the end of stores.

"S-Slow down." Leon groaned, struggling to keep his eyes open so he could watch you suck his cock like one of those ice cream sundaes you loved to eat so much. His hands wouldn't stay still, struggling not to sink his head deeper and fuck your throat. But he fails pathetically when he starts lifting his hips to chase your movements.

And when you pull away so you can breathe, he lets out a pained moan lamenting the loss. You wrap your hand around him as you take a break, maintaining eye contact. Your eyelashes wet from exertion swinging in his direction, the cute summer dress you put on was crumpled and the straps falling down your shoulders, your pretty little face inches from his raging cock and Leon can't keep his feet on the ground.

His hand rests behind your head, trying to persuade you and draw you closer once again.

And how could you say no to that cute expression on his face? Eyes heavy with pleasure, lips half-open and his blonde hair misaligned from swiping so many times. Your tongue cleans the pre cum from his tip and you let out a soft hum, sinking deeper to the base relaxing your throat around it. Leon's hips can no longer stay still, desperately trying to fuck your throat because he loved the disgusting sounds coming out of your mouth. His fingers run through your now tousled hair and his moans start to get louder, feeling the sensation forming in his belly.

"God, baby... Don't stop, D-Don't stop-" He begged desperately, losing the thread of his words. His delicate grip became strong, forcing you down and up on him.

"I'd marry you and your pretty little mouth..." And you know he's close by the way he starts to ramble, his words coming out clumsily and slurred. His brain short-circuited, feeling his cock begin to throb and writhe in your wet mouth.

"L-Let's get married, I'll put a nice ring on your finger." He stated, and you couldn't help but let out a chuckle around him rolling your eyes. He would definitely go silly if you sucked his cock as well as you knew how to do.

"Do you like the idea? Y-Yeah? Baby, please." He asked, turning his head back in the seat. And you could answer, if you weren't gagging on every inch of his cock and drooling around it shamelessly. His hips buck hard and you dig your fingers into his thighs hard trying to support him, breathing through your nose as small tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

Leon opens his eyes for a few seconds, to appreciate the view in front of him. And he curses a few counts, plunging your head all the way down to the base and lifting his hips to completely empty his balls down your throat. He lets out a loud groan, arching his back and finally lets go of your head, listening to you cough.

He looks up at you with tears in his eyes, admiring how little strands of his fluids leak from your shiny lips and his thumb lifts up to wipe it away with an idiotic grin on his face.

"My pretty girl, look at you." He mumbled, still dazed. His hand rested on his cheek and he pulls you close to kiss you messily, pushing his tongue into your mouth even though you were choking around him seconds ago.

Yes, you two were disgusting. But you were disgusting in love.

hey, thank u so much for reading! Let me know if you liked it! 🎀

(💌) bye, bye !