#Palm reader In Virginia

[thinkingimages]

West Virginia County Fair 1938

Alfred Eisenstaedt/Life Pictures/Shutterstock

[gghostwriter]

Wanted: A Gentleman

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Part 2 || Future take Summary: Your lovely group of friends, Penelope, JJ, and Emily, set you up with your perfect match Trope: Fluff! Just fluff! w.c: 1.3k a/n: Back at it again with something miss Sabrina Carpenter inspired. The fluff idea has finally struck and I love how this ended up, even without any editing! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

“I’m serious!” You clarified, wiggling to get comfy on Penelope’s sofa. “It was the worst date I’ve ever been on!”

All the three girls laughed. It was Friday night, girl’s night, and you found yourself surrounded by the baddest girls Virginia could ever offer. The Powerpuff girls of the BAU as you once jokingly dubbed them—JJ being Blossom, Penelope being Bubbles, and Emily being Buttercup. Witty thinking on your part, if you say so yourself. 

Having just moved into the state just a few months ago, you were grateful for the ray of sunshine that Penelope was for taking you under her wing and introducing you to a great set of girlfriends.

“It can’t be that bad—” JJ giggled as she took a sip of her newly refilled glass wine. “Can it?”

Bringing out your phone, you swiped to the screenshot Bumble profile of your date the night before. He wasn’t bad looking, not at all. He was cute in a very American boy next door type of way but then again, his profile being filled with gym pictures should have clued you in.

“We had dinner at that newly opened restaurant, Palm & Pine, which is a great place by the way, but all he ever did was talk about himself—”

Emily nodded along. “Typical macho male behavior.”

“—that wasn’t even the worst part! He brought out a scale, a portable weighing scale, to log his macro calories in a fitness app!”

Penelope chose the wrong time to take a sip of her drink causing her cough violently while the two remaining girls threw back their heads and laughed hysterically. All you could hear were gasps of weighing scale and calories between them.

“I’m all for being healthy but really? On a first date?” You crossed your arms to your chest. “At this point, I might as well get a cat or two to keep me company.”

Penelope snatched your phone and clicked to open the dating app. “Oh no no, sweetheart. You’re too beautiful and nice to end up alone. We can find you a perfect man to love and take home with!”

“Yeah, we’re profilers. Trust us to pick for you,” Emily slyly added as she peeked behind Garcia’s shoulder.

Reaching out for the opened bottle of alcohol, you sighed in defeat and let the girls do their thing. “I’m going to need copious amounts of alcohol in my system for this.”

———

It was bad. Based on all their comments and numerous swipes to the left, the dating pool was atrocious, hell on earth. 

“He looks cute—” Penelope continue to scroll on his profile before making a face. “Never mind, look at that horrible grammar.”

JJ leaned in and read the poor man’s bio. “Theirs a million reasons why I’m your future boyfriend—Jesus, it’s really hard out there, huh?”

“I’d take any man who’s nice and breathes,” you laugh in despair. 

Emily’s eyes twinkle from a sudden idea. Everyone had been drinking continuously and the filter had been turned off by the time the third bottle was opened. Any thought made beyond just screamed bad idea. “You know, we could just set you up with Reid.”

“Reid?” you tilted your head to the side. What kind of a name is that? Its very…unique. “You have a co-worker named Reid? As in that’s his first name?”

“No, no, no. His name is Spencer, Reid is just his last name,” JJ clarified, leaning forward with a sweet smile on her face. Oh no, you knew that look. She was very much into this.

Penelope slides your phone to you and promptly claps her hands in glee. “You’re so right! Why didn’t I think of that!”

“Right,” Emily turned to face the other two. “They’d be great for each other. Now we just have to get him to agree. JJ—” the blonde raised her eyebrows. “—can you talk to Reid about it?”

She shrugged. “I could but you know how stubborn he is.”

“I’ll blackmail him if I have to,” Penelope interjected. “Boy genius needs to meet our own girl genius. They’ll be perfect for each other, he just doesn’t know it.”

Your eyes volleyed in between the three. “Don’t I have a say in this?”

Emily tsk’ed as she turned her inquisitive dark eyes on you. “I’ll cash in on that prize I won last time.”

“No,” you breathed out, remembering how you badly lost last poker night and vowed to do any dare the winner would tell you to do.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” her smile growing wider and wider with each denial. 

Your shoulders slumped forward. “Fine but he better be the love of my life or you owe me big time.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head. He will be,” Penelope laughed, pouring more wine in all of the glasses. “Cheers!”

———

It took three weeks before the girls were finally able to wear the mysterious Dr. Spencer Reid down and in the midst of waiting (and stubbornly hoping that he would never give in), you learned more about the boy genius than you ever wished for. How he has an IQ of 187, graduated high school at the age of 12, has 3 PhDs under his belt, and an avid reader—like yourself. 

You begrudgingly admitted that he spiked your interest and having someone to talk to about books would be lovely but beyond that, you were slightly intimidated by his background which made yours, a literature degree graduate and publishing editor, seem insignificant. Penelope tried to squash that negative thought once you aired it out in the open by saying that Spencer wasn’t the type to judge anyone based on their societal standing. If anything, he’d find you interesting, she urged.

But there was one information you weren’t privy to, how he looks like. The girls didn’t want to show any photos, stating it’s best to see him face to face rather than through an image, which in turn made you imagine the worst. 

You looked around, standing on the second step of the museum as you try to spot any curly, hazel haired man walking your way. He wasn’t late, you were just too anxious to be fashionably late. 

Someone stopped in front of you at the bottom of the steps. 

“Are you—” the doe eyed stranger cleared his throat. “Y/N? Penelope’s friend?”

Oh damn. He was beautiful.

“Yes, are you Dr. Spencer Reid?” You squeaked. 

He smiled, stunning you into even more into awe. “Hi, yes. Yes, Spencer is fine.”

“Should we go inside?” You breathed out as you watched his cheeks reddened, no doubt matching the color of your own.

He nodded before slightly touching your arm to stop you in place and bending down like he was some kind of knight and shining armor and for all you knew, he could be. “Your shoelace is undone. Did you know that there’s more than 1,000 cases related to loss of footing each year and 67% of these falls were attribute to untied shoelaces?”

“We wouldn’t want to contribute to that, do we?” You quipped back as you studied how the sunlight hit his wavy locks, turning some into gold, and his doe expressive eyes with specs of green in them. Your favorite color as of today.

He laughed, his high pitched chuckle further capturing your heart. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” 

Your thoughts thanking the three women for setting you up with what seemed to be a perfect gentleman. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[chervbs]

Hiii can I get a spencer x reader smut where spencer just goes feral for reader when he sees her in a skimpy two piece swimsuit

this was supposed to be just a little drabble to get me used to writing for criminal minds, but here we are at 1k+ words so enjoy 🫶🏻

warnings: SMUT (18+), MDNI, sub!spencer, fem!reader, reader wears a bikini but there’s no body descriptors, heavy petting, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, spencer doesn’t understand the concept of a quickie

-

You didn’t know what had gotten into Spencer, and to be completely honest, Spencer didn’t either.

The relationship between you two was still fairly new, but you’ve had the opportunity to explore each other before. Maybe that’s what drove Spencer insane so quickly–knowing exactly what was under the triangles of fabric barely covering your most precious parts.

A pool day at Rossi’s seemed like the perfect solution to the sweltering Virginia heat, but even the water was doing little to cool Spencer down.

He’s just glad the depth of the pool was hiding his lower half, because the second you stepped onto the patio, every inch of bare skin glowing in the sun, his poor swim trunks were no match for the size his cock grew to in record time.

Spencer feel like he blacked out, trying to play it cool enough to make it out of the pool without anyone noticing his issue one second, and the next you were both in one of Rossi’s guest bathrooms, his large hands pawing and at your body like an animal.

“Spencer!” You gasp, trying to keep him at bay, which is difficult when his tongue is down your throat and you can feel his erection against you.

The man whines into your mouth, letting his hands slip under your top. His palms against your hardened nipples almost made you forget what you were going to say, a choked moan escaping your lips.

You’re finally able to get your hands on his cheeks, forcing his face away from yours. “Baby,” You pant, paired with a breathless giggle. “What’s gotten into you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, to busy pressing kisses against your neck, his hands still fondling your chest like it was his first time all over again. “I’m sorry,” He whines. You feel him rut against your leg, and you can feel the arousal pool into your bottoms. “I can’t help it. You just look so beautiful.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “Aw, is that right? You got so hard just looking at me in a bikini, you had to take me right now?” The condescending tone you adapt goes straight to Spencer’s cock. You two hadn’t yet explore different roles in the bedroom, but he had a feeling these would stick. He moans into your neck, his hands switching from fondling to twisting your nipped between his fingers.

“Yeah, yes,” He nods enthusiastically, only growing harder at the signs of pleasure you display.

You press your lips against his, this time more in control now that you’re not caught off guard. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll give you what you want. But we have to be quick okay? Before anyone comes looking for us.” Your voice is low and sultry as you speak, your own hands sliding down to mess with the band of his shorts.

Your friends are all profilers, they probably already know exactly what you’re doing. You just hope they don’t tease Spencer too much after this.

“Okay, yes ma’am,” Spencer pants, wasting no time as he dives into your chest. His lips wrap around your nipples, sending your head falling back in pleasure.

You use this time to shove your hand into his trunks, pulling out his throbbing length, pumping your hand lazily. If you hadn’t stripped him of his innocence yourself, you’d have thought he was still a virgin with how he thrusted into your fist.

“C’mon, baby,” You feel yourself growing impatient and you wouldn’t be surprised if you were dropping down your legs. “We gotta speed this up.”

As if reading your mind, Spencer pulls at the strings keeping your bottoms on, letting them fall to the floor where your top had landed. He doesn’t bother stripping his own, helping you up onto the sink and spreading your legs.

He whimpers at the sight of your pussy, glistening with arousal that seems to be inviting him in. He can’t help but ask. “Can I taste you? Please? Just really quick?”

You can’t exactly deny him the privilege when you know from experience how good he is with his mouth. So you agree, “Quickly.”

His mouth is on you in less than a second, slurping up your juices like a man starved. You clamp a hand over your mouth when his tongue finds your clit, flicking back and forth before it’s being sucked between his lips. You can’t help your hips rutting up, chasing the feeling of his mouth even when he hasn’t detached from you yet.

You have a second of clarify where you realize you’ve been gone longer than five minutes already, and you know you don’t have long before Morgan or Emily start banging on the door.

Reluctantly, your fingers lace themselves into the mop of brown curls on Spencer’s head, using the strands to yank him away from your heat. He’s breathless, pouting like you’ve taken away his lollipop.

“I’m sorry, my love. But you need to be inside me, now.” You demand. Spencer can’t be too upset so he nods, hurrying to line his cock up at your entrance.

He pushes himself in slowly, a whimper falling from his lips at the delicious feeling of you surrounding him. “Oh–my god.” Your arms rest on his shoulders, fingers finding his locks once again. Your eyes practically roll into the back of your head, releasing a moan as he sinks into you.

Suddenly it’s like he’s feral, hips thrusting into you so quickly you almost fall off the counter. Hushed moans are shared between you, your lips meeting to hopefully muffle the sounds of pleasure.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Spencer mumbles, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries not to come so fast. It’s difficult when it feels like his head is clouded with ecstasy, the ridges of your walls massaging his shaft just right.

You pull his head back by his hair, relishing in the little moans escaping him with every thrust. “Is it that good, baby? Is my pussy that good that your big brain doesn’t work anymore?”

His eyes screw shut, mouth falling open as his thrusts become so hard, his balls begin to slap against your ass. Your words effectively turn his brain to mush, the only thing left on his mind is being able to come.

“P-please, please–let me come. Can I? I need to, I need to–” He whimpers, his pubic bone snapping against you so violently you think you may have bruises tomorrow.

The tip of his cock hits the spongy spot inside of you, your mouth falling open. It’s hard to formulate words when it feels like Spencer’s cock is splitting you in half. You reach blindly for his hand, directing it down to your clit. “Yeah, baby, you’re gonna come with me, okay?”

Spencer doesn’t bother to nod, first using his thumb then his middle three fingers to swipe across your clit with eagerness. The action combined with him hitting the spot sends you hurdling towards the edge, you hips spasming as stars flood your vision.

Your walls clamping down on him send Spencer off right behind you, the rhythm of his hips becoming erratic as he spills his load inside you. You’ve both forgotten to muffle your noises at this point, whines and whimpers spilling from you both as you come down from your highs.

He ruts into you a few more times before the stimulation becomes too much, and he gasps as he forces himself from the warmth of your walls. You moan at the loss of him filling you, still trying to catch your breath.

Spencer and you are silent for a minute, minds finally wrapping around what just happened. He’s still breathing a little heavy when he takes a piece of toilet paper and cleans up the mess between your legs.

“This was…eye opening.” He chuckles, making you giggle as well.

“I’ll say.” You pull him in for another kiss, this one much softer than what you’d shared just moments ago.

Spencer sighs, letting his forehead fall onto your shoulder. “We’re never gonna hear the end of this, are we?”

“No,” You scoff, “Not by a long shot.”

[junkpuppet225]

Noticing You

DarylxF!Reader

**summary: Daryl notices you.

**setting: Alexandria Safe Zone, prob S5… maybe later

**word count: 2K+

**warnings: smut, swearing, age gap, brief m!masterbating, p in v, no protection - pull out game strong, at first, mentions of oral f!receiving - 18+, minors DO NOT interact, NSFW

**a/n: I do not own anything related to The Walking Dead nor am I making any money from the writing of this fanfic. This is just something that came to me in the middle of the night. I hope you enjoy!

*****

Daryl noticed you - despite being twice your age. Every time you stepped into his line of sight his gaze washed over you - you were the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

You noticed Daryl too - the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when your eyes met - his fingers tightening into fists at his sides when you were lucky enough to be able to idly touch him. The brush of your hand against his when you reach for the same dusty item on a supply run, your palm on his shoulder in passing.

You were Alexandria’s best scavenger - smart, quiet and a native to Northern Virginia. You accompanied Rick’s group on supply runs often - impressed with their skill set, especially the archers.

One particular quest found you trapped in a small supply closet with Daryl while the dead marched through - your back pressed against his front as you tried to steady your breathing - panic washing over you from the surrounding dead and the warmth radiating from your company. Daryl stood like a statue behind you, holding his breath until he worried he’d pass out to keep from breathing in your delicious scent. He didn’t know if he’d survive it again.

After that he tried to avoid you. You were too young, too sweet for someone like him and he didn’t deserve these feelings that bloomed in his chest whenever he saw you so he kept his head down whenever you were around, much to your dismay.

“Jesus.” Abraham muttered before returning his attention to sharpening his knife with a shake of his head as you made your way down the quiet street with a coy smile on your face. Curiosity got the best of the archer who stood leaned against the porch railing, bringing his eyes up to yours as a muffled groan escaped his throat.

In your defense it was late summer causing beads of sweat to roll down your neck as you stopped to say hello, hands on your hips and hair pulled up high on your head - little wisps blowing around your face with the too warm breeze. Your thin white camisole of a shirt and cut off jean shorts left almost nothing for the imagination and Abraham kept his eyes on his blade as the man standing behind him began to growl deep in his chest.

In his defense Daryl tried to look away, weakness wasn’t easy for him but you were just to god damn beautiful not to soak it all in so he looked - eyes falling from your neck to your collarbone then over your scraps of clothes to appreciate your legs from the very tops of your exposed thighs all the way to your calf’s.

When you continued on your way his eyes were glued to your perfect ass, barely contained by the scraps of denim you tried to pass off as shorts. “That girl knows exactly what she’s doing.” Abraham muttered with another shake of his head as Daryl grunted a response before jerking the front door open on their gifted home and storming off through the quiet house. He didn’t stop moving until he was standing under a steady stream of cold water with his cock in his hand, working himself into a frenzy with his other palm pressed hard against the shower wall. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt the need to relieve himself from all this sexual tension but you were driving him fucking crazy.

How old even were ya? Too young to have someone like him jerking off to the thought of you wrapped around his cock as he pumped himself deep inside of you over and over. God, the sounds he knew you could make - soft gasps and desperate groans as he fucked you into oblivion and the way you’d look after - cock drunk and gazing up at him with those beautiful fucking eyes. A quiet groan escaped him as he tightened his grip, cock jerking with release as he imagined filling your sweet fucking cunt.

Daryl lifted his face to the stream of water, slinging his hair from his eyes and breathing hard as he placed his other hand against the wall and groaned at the thought of you - trying to steady the heavy thumping in his chest.

When he sees you again he can’t look you in the eye no matter how much he wants to - standing across from you with his bow high on his shoulder as Rick and Michonne study the map to determine where to scavenge today. Your eyebrow lifts in concern as you watch a deep blush creep up Daryl’s neck and into his cheeks as his eyes dart to everything around you.

“Daryl?”

You both turn your attention to Rick’s deep voice as he repeats his request - that the two of you take the bike and head west to a small independent pharmacy located just off the highway while they return to the shopping mall you visited a few days ago. You’re just about to protest - being that close to him? No good will come from it but the quick alright he gives widens your gaze. Alright? Daryl just shrugs and nods to his bike as you wish the others safe travels and watch him straddle the seat waiting for you to join him.

There’s no denying the tension in his body as you place his bow on your back and slide your fingers across his shoulders, gripping the coiled muscles softly as you throw your leg over the seat and sink your chest into his back - listening to his breath catch in his throat. “Is this okay?” You whisper against his ear as you slide your arm around his waist - almost missing the slight nod of his head. “Hold on.” He mutters and guns the motorcycle out of Alexandria without another word.

You ride in silence as Daryl eventually relaxes his weight into your chest and you grip his shirt with your fingers - enjoying the breeze and the scenery as you roll down the highway with just the sound of the motorcycle roaring beneath you. You’re thankful Daryl agreed to let you ride with him - this is better than being in that stuffy Honda with Rick and Michonne who have their own sexual frustrations radiating off them every second of the day.

Your thoughts return to the sexy archer as he speeds down the highway sending a surge of excitement to your core - giving you the courage to lower your hold on him just an inch and splay your fingers across his tight stomach as the tension returns to his back. The thought of releasing some of his tension brings a smile to your lips as you grip him tighter and he slows the bike a notch - afraid he’s frightening you or worse, hoping it will make you loosen your hold on him.

No chance in hell, Dixon. If anything you push yourself closer, tightening your thighs around his hips and running your hand up his chest - gripping him just below his throat. The bike falters again but this time you don’t think it has anything to do with his concern for you and his back expands with a deep needed breath.

When you make it to your destination neither of you move at first and Daryl is breathing hard, your hands still clinging to his chest. “Daryl… I…” You listen to his breath catch as his name slips from your lips and then he’s angry, pushing you back before leaping from the motorcycle and glaring at you.

You’re still straddling his bike with wide eyes as he paces before you like a caged animal, grunting and everything. “Daryl.”

“Stop!”

“Stop what?” You just said his name. “Whatever the fuck this is - jus’, stop. Please…” He’s not yelling - he’s pleading with you and the sound only makes you want him more. You spread your legs slightly, allowing those damn barely there shorts to ride up your thighs even further. Daryl looks up from your legs slowly with a storm brewing in his blue eyes and the next thing you know he’s crossed the short distance and sunk a hand into the back of your hair - bringing you to his parted lips roughly as he kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before.

Teeth scraping and tongues demanding - his other hand grasps your jaw as his tongue savors every inch of your mouth leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls away. His eyes are searching yours and then he’s mumbling something about you being so fucking sweet before he’s kissing you again.

After that second kiss there was no going back, that second kiss had you bent over his motorcycle with your chest pressed to the seat and his rough hands on your waist - thrusting into your soaked cunt so deep it had you seeing stars. “D-Daryl…” Even the slow shuffle of a nearby walker didn’t stop his pace as he lifted his bow and sunk a bolt deep into its brain before tossing it back to the ground and gripping the soft curve of your ass as you tightened around him. “F-fuck, that’s it…” That’s everything he knew this would be, gripping him so fucking tight - your soft pleas for more filling his head as your pussy suddenly gushed around him and he lost all sense of control - slamming into you so fucking hard he silently prayed you’d feel him inside of you for weeks.

“M’gonna come.” Daryl announced to the empty street as he gripped your hip with one hand and jerked his dick from deep inside of you with the other - covering your swollen cunt with ropes of white as a deep groan fell from his throat. “F-fuck.”

His desperation melts away as Daryl wraps his strong hands around you and lifts you from the motorcycle, breathing hard against your throat as he sweetly asks if you’re okay. You nod and assure him you’re better than okay before pulling your shorts up your thighs with a grin.

The look on Daryl’s face when you mentioned you never bothered with panties was one that would be burned into your memory for a long time and you knew he was thinking of all those days he silently watched you walk through Alexandria in just a dress. He thought about it so much that the next time you walked past him in town with that bright knowing smile on your lips and the soft material of your dress barely brushing against your thighs he followed you home and buried his face between your legs - staying on his knees before you until your entire body was shaking with pleasure and when he finally fucked you it was something else entirely - something soft and sweet and left a foreign emotion blooming in both of you.

An emotion that scared the shit out of Daryl and kept him away after that - away from you, from Alexandria. He spent his time in the woods after the night he fucked into you slowly and desperately and whispered how beautiful you were against your throat. Then when it all got to be to much and you were gripping him so fucking tight he lost himself inside of you - sending a panic between you both despite your assurance it would be okay.

That time had been okay but by the fourth time he returned to your door step and fucked you into oblivion your son was born nine months later, then your daughter a year after that. You’d given Daryl everything he’d ever wanted - a family, something worth protecting and the night he asked you to marry him - quietly with his son asleep across his chest and his daughter nuzzled in your arms tears filled your eyes as you kissed him until he carried the kids to their beds and returned to your waiting mouth, climbing over your perfect body as he ran his lips over every inch of you while you assured him you’d marry him right now if he wanted but right now all he wanted was to be buried deep inside of you again.

*****

[lokisgoodgirl]

Open Skies [Loki x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki's first time flying the Quinjet is a memorable one. Warnings: 18+ Only Minors DNI. Smut. Loki x Female Reader. Silly things. Mutual pining. Oral (M). (w/c 2.2k)

Tony dangled the key between his thumb and forefinger. The fob swung in front of Loki’s smirking face. “To Virginia, and back again,” Tony said. He was not in the mood for games. Loki’s eyebrows shot up. He pressed his fingers to his chest in mock-hurt before extending the cup of his palm out, fingers unfolding with a graceful flourish. “I need to learn, Stark..." he postured innocently. “The simulations only go so far. You know that.”

“And you’ll behave?” Loki rolled his eyes. “What egregious sin could I possibly commit with your garish vessel while under the watchful eye of our trustworthy Agent here?” he said, flicking a finger towards you. “Is that not why she has been chosen for this farce? To keep me in line? To make sure I don’t damage this metal substitute for masculinity?” Tony’s eyes darted in an aborted eye-roll. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, observing Loki with suspicion. “It should only take you twenty minutes- if that,” he said, tossing the fob in the air. The god caught it. Loki let you walk ahead up the ramp. The weight of his stare clung to your ass like wet paint as you made your way to the front of the craft and slid into the passenger seat. He paused, giving both headrests a squeeze as he observed the screens. You watched his profile stiffen, a swallow working his neck. For all his breezy pomposity, he was nervous. “Just like the simulator,” you said, “you’ll be fine.” Loki's face remained unchanged by your re-assurance. He cleared his throat, tugging at the sleeves of his sweater; the one with the Avengers logo that he swore the first time he saw it that he would never wear.

He manoeuvred himself into the driver’s seat. “Is he watching?” he asked quietly. You pressed the screen, making the rear camera pop up. Tony stood below the under-hang of the landing area, arms folded. “Right..." Loki said, lips pursing.

He ran his palms down the tight chinos creased to his thighs. One long finger tentatively pressed against the central screen.

In a matter of seconds, the Quinjet’s engines fired to life. Loki flinched. His fingers flexed before their length curled around the lever sitting between you. He pushed it into elevate. "Thirty-five-thousand feet..." Loki murmured to himself, pressing a series of buttons on the screen.

He reached up, pressing an intercom above his head.

"This is Loki Laufeyson, Avengers Unit, Stark Tower," he said, gazing out the huge window at the skyscrapers.

His voice made goose-bumps ripple on your skin. It massaged over the syllables like crude oil over glass, thick and utterly erotic in its uniform sincerity. “Lifting off - flightpath expected from New York City to above Richmond, Virginia. No target, no landing. Training exercise, thirty-five thousand feet. Copy?”

He released the button. Static hummed. Loki’s fingers readjusted around the lever. “Copy, Mr Laufeyson." the radio crackled. "Clear for take-off. Route mapped. Any changes, let us know.”

Loki let out a small, satisfied sigh. He shot you a weak smile. “Good?” he asked. You nodded. His hair was tied back in a messy bun, delicate strands falling around his face. It framed his cheekbones perfectly. “Try not to be too aroused by my piloting-skills, Agent,” Loki goaded, turning his attention to the thrusters. “I have been practising very hard to make it seem effortless.” He pressed several more buttons without a pause.

You and Loki had hooked up for several weeks just before his most recent mission. But whether it was clarity during the absence, or simply lack of interest; when he had come back no moves were made on either side. On your part, it was simple terror. Being with Loki in that way was unbelievable the first time that it had happened, never mind the seventh, eighth, ninth. Part of you didn’t want to push your luck. It had crossed your mind that he had actually forgotten. And if that was true, then you didn’t want to know.

The force of the ascent pushed you back into your seat, facing forwards. Out the corner of your eye you saw a grin stretch over the god’s face as the New York skyline became mere dots below. He yanked the lever a few more times into position, setting it in cruise. The beep of buttons and the hum of the engines were the only sounds. Ahead, there was nothing but open skies. “Well done, I’m very impressed,” you said with a smile, shifting to face him. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder. Without realising, you had set a hand to rest on his thigh. The two of you looked at it, eyes rising to meet. One of Loki’s brows cocked. “Agent?” he growled. “Are you trying to seduce the captain?”

You were about to deny it. But he was the god of lies, after all. In which case there was no getting around it. And even if there was – did you want to? “Yes.” you said. Loki barked a small laugh of disbelief, turning his eyes back to the wide windows. “It will take more than that, Agent.” he said, offering a small nod to the hand resting mid-way up his thigh. “Especially after giving me the cold-shoulder on my return.” Your stomach dropped. “I did no such thing-” you started, but Loki had begun to tut. It’s slow methodical click ticked over the air between you. His eyes never left the blue sky out the front of the Quinjet. “On the contrary. On my return, I came to your rooms. I left a note, and quite a suggestive one at that. I made myself quite vulnerable, actually.” You frowned. “Loki, I moved rooms like three weeks ago.” Loki pressed a finger to his forehead. “Who’s in your old one?” “Scott.” “Ah,” Loki said, grimacing. “I was wondering why he had been particularly familiar of late.” The god shot you a sheepish smile. “I may have gone into great detail about oral sex in my correspondence.” “Giving or Receiving?” “Receiving.” The two of your burst into raucous laughter.

Loki took his hands from the steering wheel, wiping a tear of mirth. “In defence of my uncouth written request, you do give the most glorious blowjobs,” he muttered, offering a tilt of his head. “And it was a very long mission. I was in desperate need of attention.” “Did you ever get it?” “No. Although in hindsight, Lang did attempt to ease my disposition.”

You and Loki exchanged a restrained smirk before bursting into laughter again. “I feel terrible,” you said, starting to feel giddy. “I thought you weren’t into me anymore, so I just…” “Gave up without a fight?” Loki said, pressing a button and shifting the stick. “Understandable. I am rather intimidating.”

Your hand began to dance up his thigh, following the rise of his insane quad muscle. You squeezed. The fingers slid inward, brushing the growing bulge in his crotch. Loki shifted in his seat, chinos rustling. “Agent…” he warned. But his eyes sparkled.

The god’s legs widened in the generous seat. Creases ran thick across his spread thighs, the outline of his cock stark against the light fabric. It stretched up to his hip by the side of the zipper. You bit your lip as he thrust gently into your cupped hand. “We shouldn’t…” you said, tracing the length of his cock with one light finger. “No,” Loki breathed. “But we will.” The click of your seatbelt and the resulting flurry of your fingers at his buttons was instant. Loki raised one arm to let you work, lowering the tight zipper and setting his cock free with a bounce into your waiting hand. “Fuck,” he choked through ragged breaths, “Agent you don’t have to-” You looked up at him, head pressed back against the rest and the veins in his throat tightening. He had that stoic, regal set upon his features, cheekbones hard and unwavering, mouth closed as he stared at your with hungry eyes. The only thing that gave him away was the sound of small puffs of air flaring in rapid succession from his nostrils. Without looking, you could tell his knuckles were white on the wheel. One of his forearms rested on the nape of your neck.

“If you don’t think I want to suck your cock, Laufeyson,” you whispered, pausing to place a kiss on the leaking tip, “then you’re even crazier than I thought.” Loki inhaled sharply as you swallowed him. The breath caught in his throat, forcing its way back through a series of stuttering breaks that made desire thrash deep in your cunt. Fingers wrapped around the base of him, you worked slowly back and forth until his manhood was slippery with spit. Your face lowered on to the bottom of Loki’s sweatshirt with every dip of your head. Sucking wet and hot as the vein that ran the length of his cock throbbed against your tongue. There it was, that sweet saltiness pearling at the cracked creases of your lips. God, how you’d missed that. The taste of him. There was nothing like it.

Loki’s placid moans filled the cockpit. It was polite, in a way. Gentlemanly, while his slender fingers grasped delicately against your hair. You lingered at the crown, running your tongue against the sensitive underside.

Loki jolted in his seat. The Quinjet took a dive, and you froze - cushioning his glory with your tongue as the god corrected the flightpath. He chuckled, hissing as you tightened the grip of the fingers around his root and began to pump in time with your mouth. “We’ve reached-uh...g-gods, Richmond,” he stammered. His fingers grasped at your hair, knees beginning to tremble. “I’m carrying out a soft turn, bringing us one hundred and sixty degrees before returning to the original..f..f-fuckk-flightpath.” Humming approval through a mouthful of his cock, you lost yourself in the warm musk of his public hair. The metal zipper caught against your chin, grazing with every deep dive of the god into your throat. But you didn’t care. Loki’s gentle whines were all you could hear over the engines, panting praises and murmurs of lustful promises that you would hold him to when this thing landed. If it landed.

“Gods-” Loki choked, punctuated with a thump as his skull fell against the headrest. "How can you do this to me, Agent?” he gasped, rubbing your back as you quickened the pace. “You’re the best…” he moaned, hips rising to meet the bob of your jaw, “you’re the b-best I’ve ever had..I- uhh...”

The god’s fingertips dragged down your back, fist clenching and unfurling. He let out a primal grumble. “I’m going to cum, darling-” he growled. “Has anything c-changed?” You shook your head, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth and pooling in a wet patch on his chinos. Swallowing all the spit you could, you pressed your lips tighter around his girth, sucking furiously. Loki flinched with pleasure; and although you couldn’t see him, you knew his eyes were rolling back. You’d bet a few more of those slutty little curls had come loose too. Loki’s bucks were quicker now. He was trying to be restrained, but still his hips shuddered against the seat trying not to fuck your mouth with all his might. The Quinjet thrashed to the side, immediately correcting.

The god’s breaths were heavy, unintelligible filth falling from his lips and slithering into your ear as you worked him. "Good girl," he gasped, palm flying to the window my his side, "oh, f-fuck yes...good girl-vakker... just like, u-uh-" His palm slid down the window with an obscene squeak.

With a curse-littered groan, both of his arms went flying up behind the headrest. He pulled it forwards, the force of his abdomen’s clench pressing against your forehead. Loki’s hot cum hit the back of your tongue, filling your mouth with the sweet tang you craved. It kept coming, spreading into every pocket of space not occupied by his meat. His groans of pleasure filled the cockpit while you swallowed - pretty little moans snaking from his throat as he rode higher than the clouds.

Your lips left the tip of his flushed member with a slurp. Loki looked at you, dazed and slut-drunk. His seed glistened at the corners of your mouth as you squeezed his cock from the base a final time. A thick ream of cum blossomed at the opening. With one finger, you scooped it off, placing it carefully on the tip of your tongue.

“How I’ve missed you,” Loki slurred before his mouth was on yours.

You could feel his tongue search your own, tasting himself on each caress, swallowing the mess that you had made of him. Breaking apart, you took a moment to appreciate just how fucked-out Loki looked. The god’s cheeks were flushed, his lips raw and pink from rough kisses; his tied-up hair was askew, one side falling down in inky tendrils across his shoulder. The sweatshirt was rumpled, and there was a spreading wet patch on those lovely cream chinos. “How long do we have?” you asked, realising that you probably didn’t look much better. Loki’s eyes flickered to the screen. “Three minutes.” he said, disappointed. As Loki nailed a perfect landing, you made a final check of yourself in the window’s reflection. His knuckles trailed gently down your bicep. “I’ll see you inside?” he asked quietly. His pupils were still bottomless pools. “At your rooms,” you smiled, fighting to contain a laugh. “Not Scott’s.” Loki nodded agreement, lips curling. “I really did wait, you know.” he said. “I know.” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. The two of you disembarked and Tony was waiting for the debrief exactly where you'd left him. He seemed happy with everything, by and large. But his arms remained folded. You began to make your way into the Tower. “Laufeyson. A word.” Tony barked. Loki rolled his eyes, subtly gesturing for you to go on ahead. “How’d you like her then? State of the art?” Stark hummed, gesturing to the Quinjet. Loki raised a brow. “It was perfectly fine.” Loki said. “Not ‘the best you’ve ever had’?” Tony slipped his sunglasses down his nose. Loki’s brow furrowed. “Cameras?” “Cameras,” Tony replied, tossing Loki the key-fob. “I’ll delete my evidence if you hop on back and delete your evidence with some of that magic-bleach. Deal?” “Deal.” Loki sighed.

Tags (cont in comments) @lokischambermaid @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @fandxmslxt69 @marygoddessofmischief @thevillainswhore @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @brittbax @smolvenger @liminalpebble @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @icytrickster17 @buttercupcookies-blog

[boopsiesdaisies]

knitted sweaters

Spencer Reid x Reader | 1,000 words | Fluff | GN!Reader

A little suggestive towards the end

Master List

A/N: Okay so am I down bad? Maybe… But I want comfy Spencer sweaterssssss

Silence surrounded you and you occasionally interrupted with the press of your knife through the onion. The soft sound as you pushed through the flesh of the vegetable and hitting the plastic cutting board. You paused for a moment and glanced over at the sofa, watching Spencer. One arm thrown over his eyes, the other carelessly hanging off the couch. His long legs curled and bent at the knee to help accommodate his height. The blanket you had haphazardly thrown over him wrapped now only around his waist. You smiled softly. The calmness in the air was exactly what he needed. You never understood why their missions got more frequent during the holiday season and as much as Spencer explained it; it frustrated you. Really you just wanted him home. Maybe the holidays made you more sentimental, or maybe you just had more time to think with the extended time off. 

You shivered slightly and nuzzled further into Spencer’s sweater. You were going to have to steal this one from him, with the Virginia weather getting colder and snowier by the day, the oversized sweater brought you reprieve. It also smelled perfectly like Spencer. A mix of his citrusy after-shave and earthiness of his skin, not to mention the cotton yarn he used to knit it. 

You did your best to brush off the thinking but a voice interrupted your thoughts for you, “you’re really thinking about that onion.” 

You turned to look, Spencer sat upright on the couch and lightly started rubbing his eyes. There was a level of domestic bliss that surrounded you in that moment that felt better than any holiday gift.

“I was thinking about you,” you sighed.

“Me?” Spencer responded, a slight shock lacing the word.

“Yes handsome, you. I was thinking about how much you needed that nap.” You said as you put the knife down and stepped over to the kitchen sink to wash your hands.

“You could have woken me up, I told you I would help with dinner tonight.” Spencer seemed to pout.

You laughed as you padded over to him in your fluffy socks, stood in front of him, lightly pulling your fingers through his hair. Running your fingers through his hair was one of the most soothing actions you could ever need, and plus the sigh of content from him solidified the action in your mind.

“You’re going to mess up my hair, I put a lot of work into that,” Spencer said as he shifted his head up to look at you, lighting pushing chin on your stomach.

“No offense but it was already a mess, the couch saw to that,” you laughed.

Spencer puffed a small breath and lightly wrapped his long arms around your waist. He nuzzled into your stomach and breathed in your smell.

“Hey, is this my sweater?” He asked.

“No,” you responded, a small smile spreading across your cheeks.

“This is 100% my sweater, I know because I made it,” he pulled at the bottom of the sweater. 

“I know you made it, but it’s my sweater,” the light teasing lacing throughout the words.

“I never gave it to you,” Spencer looked up at you.

“You didn’t have it because I knew deep down you wanted to give it to me,” you laughed.

Spencer laughed as well, seemingly understanding that you were not letting him win this one.

“This was the first one I got right,” he laughed, admiring the work.

The sweater in question was a deep burgundy resembling the color of red wine. The cuffs of the sleeves usually cover your palms, just allowing two knuckles of your fingers to peek out, but you have the sleeves pushed up to your elbows when you’re cooking. It was slouchy and hit your mid thigh. Spencer still had no concept of sizing while he was knitting, so the sweater was large on him and even larger on you. 

“I should make you one,” Spencer lightly traced the columns up and down your front. It was perfectly intimate, watching his fingers tracing up your front and then back down.

“I already have this one,” you said.

“I mean one that fits you,” Spencer said as he pulled his face away. 

“This one is perfect,” you went to walk away to go back to your cooking, but Spencer's hands were quicker.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you down with him on the couch. You let out a small yelp as Spencer practically giggled behind you. He pulled you down on his lap, sitting across his legs. You laughed at his antics and pulled yourself around to straddle his lap.

“I thought you said you want to help with dinner,” you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Well, I can help in a few minutes, but right now I need my sweater back.” He replied.

“You already have one! This one is mine, and it’s cold,” you whined.

“It’s my sweater and I’ll turn the heat up,” he said, tugging on the bottom of the sweater.

“What if I told you I had nothing on under the sweater and you’re basically undressing me right now?” You asked.

“Well no wonder you’re cold,” Spencer grabbed both of your hands trying to warm them. “Go grab one of your’s from my closet.” 

“I don’t have any sweaters here,” you lied.

“Yes you do, it was in the box you brought over last week of stuff you’re leaving here and it was on your packing list two weeks ago when you texted it to me.” 

“Okay Mr. Memory,” you pouted and began pulling the sweater over your head.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Spencer yelled and pulled the sweater back down.

“What?” You asked.

“You said you had nothing under it,” he said.

“I don’t,” you replied.

“So you can’t just strip in my living room,” he stuttered.

“Why not?” You asked.

“Because–cause… You can’t, you just can’t,” Spencer frantically looked around the room for some excuse, but what he couldn’t hide was the redness spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down his neck. “Look! The blinds are open! Someone could see you!”

He pointed to the blinds and you turned to look at the spot. The blinds were barely open, someone would have to completely press their face against the window to see anything. 

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, getting up off his lap.

As you went to round the corner of the hallway, walking towards Spencer’s bedroom, Spencer cleared his throat.

“What’s up?” You asked as you turned around.

“Well I said, I would help with dinner, but I uh – maybe I could help with that?” He asked.

[littleslaywrites]

dreaming of a white christmas | spencer reid x reader 

summary: you’re with spencer when you see snow for the first time

word count: 0.9k

cw: f!reader, pure fluff

Moving to Virginia has been an adjustment for you. You’d left all that you’d known to go to grad school here, as it offered the best scholarship. Luckily, you’d met Spencer soon after you’d arrived. He’d offered to show you around when he saw you looking lost in front of the metro one day. From there, your relationship had blossomed. Three months later, the two of you spent all the time together that you could.

Another adjustment had been the weather. All seasons were felt to the extremes. Spencer had teased you at the start of the winter as you had underestimated the chill. Your lack of proper clothing had led you to steal some of Spencer’s sweatshirts, so there was an upside. 

You two were sitting in a coffee shop, enjoying some time together before he went off to work. It was a freezing morning, so you opted to sit together on the same side of the booth. He was still a bit awkward with you, and you can tell he was trying to figure out if he should reach for your hand or not. You’d like to think you were bolder, but you were also fighting with yourself about acting on the brushes of your hands. 

“Did you know that coffee houses were places of discussion during the scientific revolution?” he says, grabbing at his cup with both hands. Your hands are cold even with the heater in the cafe on, so you assume his are, too. 

You go to look at him, but the view outside of the window catches your attention. You had been so caught up in your conversation that you hadn’t realized it began snowing. 

You feel bad interrupting, but you can’t help but tell him “Spencer, it’s snowing!”

He turns his head to look outside. “It is. As I was saying—“

“We have to go see it,” you say excitedly.

He looks at you, surprised at your interest in the weather. You had lived on the west coast your whole life, never seeing snow before. 

Spencer would not have chosen to run out in the cold if it were up to him, but, seeing your excitement, he stands up. 

“Come on,” he says, your eagerness rubbing off on him. He finally reaches his hand out, and you take it, sliding out of the booth. 

Leading you outside, you zip up your jacket, anticipating the cold. The chill hits you right as Spencer opens the door for you, wind blowing tiny snowflakes around. The ground had been covered slightly in the time you’d been in the 90 minutes your breakfast took. Not enough to make more than a small snowball, but still enough for you to be impressed. 

Taking a glove off, you hold your hand out to capture a flake as it falls. It’s temperature nips where it landed on your palm. You hold it up to your eye, almost able to see the pattern. It melts, becoming a drop of water that you wipe off on your pants. 

“You should put your gloves back on before you get too cold,” Spencer says, pulling you out of your observations. You do what he says before he can recite some fact about hypothermia. You rub your hands together, still slightly cold despite your layers. 

Spencer sandwiches your hands in his, your cold breath mingling. You feel the snow falling lightly on your hair, watching one land on Spencer’s eyelash. You smile, and brush it away, making Spencer close his eyes and smile in response. 

“You look cute when your cheeks are all red,” you say, noticing the way he’s blushing from the cold. 

He blushes even more, wrapping his arms around you. “I guess you’ll just have to warm me up.”

You laugh, placing your head on his chest. You're grateful it’s still early in the morning, before the morning rush, feeling shy from the displays of affection. 

“Do you think it’ll be snowing for Christmas?” you ask, imagining the blankets of white greeting you on the holiday morning. 

“Maybe. I could check for you. The Farmer’s Almanac—“ 

“Just say yes,” you tease him. He leans down, kissing the side of your mouth. 

Suddenly, he pulls away, leaning down to gather snow in his hands. You try to dodge his throw, but the snowball hits you right in the shoulder. 

You spring into action, gathering your own snowball and throwing it at him. He slides to the side just in time, so you gather all the snow you can in your hands and run toward him. You grab him, hugging him with the snow in your hands. 

You both break into giggles, him squirming as you grip onto him in a bear hug. He eventually pulls you in as close as he can, both of you conserving whatever warmth you have left. 

“I was thinking,” Spencer starts, your back pulled to his front, “I know that you don’t have anywhere to go for Christmas…” He trails off, suddenly shy.

“Yeah?” you encourage him.

“I was wondering if you’d want to spend it with me,” he says, slightly hesitant to ask.  

You smile, turning to face him and linking his fingers in yours. “I would love that,” you say. 

Spencer smiles, any nervousness dissipating. He’s not afraid to show you how excited he is that you said yes. 

You’re holding his hands probably too tight, feeling colder than you probably ever have in your life. 

“I should probably head to work now,” he says, regretfully. 

“Thank god. I’m dying to get in the car and turn on the heater.”

“I thought you wanted a white Christmas?” he jokes. 

“I do,” you say. “I’ll watch from inside, though.”

He giggles, pulling you close as you walk to the heated oasis of your car. 

author's note- hey everyone i promise i will work on requests soon 🙏 pls keep requesting tho I need ideas and i love all of your guy's suggestions (I'm flying home on thursday so perhaps i'll get thru them on the plane who knows tho) anyway I've never seen snow or been to virginia so hopefully i did it justice. ALSO i took my bio final today and got above what i need to pass and it was the last final i was stressing abt so i will be sleeping like a baby tonight. good luck to anyone else going thru finals week i 🫶 u guys and THANK U FOR READING

[moonstruckme]

CONGRATS ON 7K MAE!!!!

Please could I request an apple pie with Spencer reid and ²⁾ a switchblade shining under streetlamps

Thank you lovely!! Sorry I held onto this for so long, I didn't feel like writing violence and couldn't come up with any ideas and then when I finally did write it this is what came out

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 416 words

Your hand is cold in Spencer’s. He can feel your heartbeat pittering against the base of his palm. He knows walking on empty streets like this, this late at night, makes you nervous. He wishes walking with him would make you less nervous, but he can’t fault your logic in thinking that Spencer might not look like the most deterring figure for any antagonists waiting in the shadows. 

He squeezes your hand from time to time. It’s not his best attempt at comfort, but you seem to appreciate it anyway. You’ll cast a glance over your shoulder to smile at him, then return to scanning the street like a police dog on patrol. At least he doesn’t have to worry about you not being vigilant. 

You’re nearly to your block when a gate opens out in front of you. You squeak and jump back, and Spencer’s arm comes around your middle, trying to get you behind him. His heart drops. 

A teenage boy steps out with a dog on a leash. He gives the two of you an odd look and a wide berth, taking it to the grass bordering the road to do its business. 

“Oh my god.” Your breath whooshes out of you, caught up at the end by a stilted laugh. “Fuck, I thought we were done for.” 

“Me too,” Spencer admits. “Well, I think we would have had a chance, but I was scared.” He hadn’t given the contagion of your anxiety enough credit. He’d been just as on edge as you had. 

Something flashes in the light of the streetlamp, and Spencer looks down to see you folding a blade back into its handle. 

He blinks. “Do you have a switchblade?” 

You hum casually. 

“You know those are illegal in D.C.?” 

You hum again. “Not in Virginia, though.” 

Spencer’s laugh is short and quiet, more of an appalled exhale than anything. “Why do you have one?” 

“I’m hoping it’ll make someone think twice.” You look up at him, smiling with some mixture of sheepishness and teasing. “Are you gonna rat me out?” 

“No.” Spencer wants to seem reluctant, but your smile is even more contagious than your nerves. It gets worse when you peck him on the cheek. He takes your hand again, your switchblade stored safely in your pocket. “But tomorrow, I’m going to go get you pepper spray to use instead.” 

“Whatever makes you feel better.” 

“You’ll use it, won’t you?” 

“I’ll keep it around as an option.” 

[alottiegoingon]

who's afraid of virginia woolf?

jackie taylor x fem!reader

summary: the one where you and jackie secretly love each other while struggling with your sexuality.

warnings: jackie and reader are best friends, everyone is 21+, alcohol, heavy mentions of r and j dealing with their sexuality, homophobia mentions?, lesbians in denial, angst but fluff and happy ending, not proofread, slightly based on good luck, babe by chappell roan!!

making plans of going to college together became a regular thing when you and jackie entered high school. it was only natural that the two of you shared the typical teenager dream of living with your best friend and being roomates in uni, ditching classes and getting drunk instead of studying for exams.

"hey, don't worry." jackie tried to comfort you when you got a terrible score at your finals in senior year. she was fidgeting with the heart necklace she wore on her neck, gently spinning it around between her fingers.

regardless her impressive and actually sad capacity to pretend to be just a silly popular girl with pretty face and shiny hair, jackie was actually smart. you knew that all that effort to act all clueless and giggly around weird teenage boys in high school was fake. you never saw jackie studying during the weekends but, somehow, she would always get the perfect grade but would be the first one to hide it from boys. everyone knew that being too smart was bad. boys would easily get intimidated and that wasn't good for jackie taylor.

"we are gonna get through this together. i promise. i'll help you." jackie gives you that same old sweet looking smile that always get you freaking out inside while putting on your best show to act casual.

one more thing about jackie taylor; she had your heart in the palm of her hands since you two met. you weren't certain about how your friendship actually started, but you were sure that it was almost instantly.

jackie was actually quite popular by the age of eleven. she had the charisma of those late night show hosts you used to watch on tv with your parents, the prettiest and softest hair ever and a sweet perfume that would ling around for days.

jackie was also a natural leader. if any kid needed to complain about a classmate stealing their favorite glitter pen or their favorite sticker, jackie would be in charge of comforting them and helping them with whatever they needed. it wasn't rare for the teachers to have a talk with her after class to compliment her for being such a role model. everyone loved jackie.

you loved jackie, maybe too much.

it didn’t take long for you to realize that. you had the worst time of your life every single day while having lunch in the cafeteria with jackie and other girls from your class. you felt like ripping your ears off when all they could talk about was boys. they weren't even being discreet about it, you thought at yourself as you watched them stare at a couple of losers that were treated like gods with their weird stiff hair full of gel and a mustache that consisted on a tiny clump of facial hair.

while every girl at your table was so mesmerized by them, dreaming about how their lives would be so perfect if they ever liked them back, you were captivated by someone else; jackie.

you could watch her for hours, even if she was too busy looking at boys. you would think that her hazel eyes were even prettier that day, but that was a daily thing. you loved to hear her voice and to see her big beautiful smile adorning her face when she was excited about something and, with her, you didn't mind hearing about boys.

eventually, you and jackie got to live the dream. sharing a small bedroom with your best friend would sound like heaven to any girl but to you, it could be scary as well.

not only you were going to see her face every second at the day but it would also be hard to hear her constant speech about how you had to be more friendly and outgoing and stop studying so much. in another words, she wanted you to date guys.

that was a common debate between you two in high school. her persistent need to find the perfect boyfriend for you even though you were always ready to deny it. maybe she was trying to get rid of you?

"come onnn! all you do is study. remember last year when i had to drag you to mari's birthday party and you spent the whole night hidden in the corner?" jackie made fun of you during your first night together while doing her usual skin care routine.

even with her hair pulled back by a headband and with her face covered in cream, she looked fucking stunning.

"i wasn't hiding! i was just watching everyone from a safe distance..."

"that's actually worse." she giggled. you watch her leave the bathroom with a face mask and wearing nothing but a soft robe that had you on your knees.

“i’m not telling you to go crazy. all i’m saying is that you need to relax, okay?”

you weren’t exactly proud of it but you had to admit that is was too hard to focus on anything else besides her. it was impossible to deny her anything anyway but now? you were in tight shoes.

you could already feel your face heating up while you stood there like a coward with eyes growing wide and fighting for your life to not drool over your straight best friend.

“so? what do you think?” she insists, giving you an impatient glance.

“yes.” you immediately said the first thing that popped into your head.

“what?” you watch jackie’s eyebrows knitting.

“i-i mean, yes! i agree. i should relax more.” you trip over your own words but, thankfully, jackie didn’t seem to notice. maybe you were just stressed with the entire change of routine.

“great! we can start tomorrow!” she clapped her hands excitedly as her smile grew from one ear to another, probably surprised and relieved that you didn��t disagree this time.

[📚]

the first weeks weren’t nearly as good as you thought they would be. you managed to make some friends and actually met nice people, but so did jackie.

every friday night was a new suffocating experience. after a long week, jackie would drag you to the closest bar that most of the students would go to and, for the first half of the night, her duty was to play the matchmaker.

ever since you had agreed with her that night, you would force yourself to look happy in front of jackie at every god damn time she introduced you to a guy.

“i think you have so much in common!” she would say to all of the men before giving you a wink and leaving you two alone in a noisy bar, disappearing into the drunk pool of people.

it was always awkward and uncomfortable, of course. some of the guys ended up being actually acceptable and some were even sweet. but no matter how hard you tried to focus on the conversation, you would eventually find yourself looking for jackie in the crowd just to get your heart shattered by the view of a drunk jackie taylor with her pretty dress, messy hair, and with one of her hands tightly wrapped around the heart shaped necklace, eagerly kissing a stranger.

seeing this at pretty much every friday night didn’t make your daily need to fight against your feelings the easiest. you were drowning so deeply into your own thoughts that, one day, you woke up decided to forget about it.

maybe all of that was just a phase. you didn’t have feelings for your best friend and you definitely didn’t feel like throwing up every time you saw a boy since you were a kid. and, obviously, you wouldn’t fail biology or calculus on purpose just to be tutored by jackie so you could spend even more time with her and listen to her voice.

and absolutely, without a doubt, you weren’t scared of the big bad wolf called truth banging on your door and calling you a wimpy liar.

fuck.

[📚]

everyone know that famous saying “you are what you eat”, but what about you are what you desire?

jackie stopped complaining about you being stuck on your dorm studying on a friday night or during the weekends cause you stopped doing it. now, she wasn’t the only one to frequently visit the closest bar.

most of the time, you were the one to invite her first and at that point, it became a tradition.

you and jackie had different classes during the day and would barely spend any time together until you two met again at night. you, too scared to even look at her, would find an excuse to sleep early or spend the night at some random guy’s dorm that you met the other night. spoiler alert; you didn’t even remember his name.

you noticed the visible disappointment in jackie’s eyes and how deeply hurt she seemed every time you left, too desperate to silence your own thoughts and numb your feelings with good old alcohol.

during the bar nights that you two shared, jackie wasn’t as energetic as before. sometimes, while feeling like you were kissing a fish as your lips awkwardly melded with some other guy’s, you would open your eyes right in the middle of it to find jackie on the other side of the bar, sitting by herself with a filled glass of something strong.

you felt sick to your stomach at the idea of being touched by anyone else except for her, especially a man. but it was worth it if it meant that you could forget her entire existence for the night and wake up at someone else’s bed in the morning (and probably be late for class).

the year was flying by and everything stayed the same, except that the two of you didn’t share a word for the past few months and you avoided each other at all costs.

“i was wondering that, maybe now that finals are over, we could-“

“sorry, i got plans with travis. i’ll see you later!” jackie said while rushing to the door of your shared dormitory. you were a liar but so was she. you knew that “later” was a synonym to “tomorrow if you’re lucky”.

and just like that, everyday was the day to hear a different name. kevin, josh, steve, randy, sam. you even thought about making a list with all those names. you tried to leave the dorm during that nights as well but you were too worried about her safety. it would be much better to just wait for her and pretend to be asleep when the door opens.

you couldn’t blame her, you were the one who started it.

[📚]

in a typical night at the bar, you feel a stranger’s arm wrapped around your waist. you were already dizzy thanks to the couple of shots you took and could barely feel your mouth attached to his. however, you were kind of thankful for that.

jackie wasn’t in a very different situation but she knew how to be pettier than you. she knew you and how you were acting for the past months. how you would look for her with the corner of your eyes just to make sure that she was okay or not too drunk.

you weren’t the most cautious person, jackie perceived your multiple stares and she would make the best of it. while having your attention, she was hiding behind her best mask and flirting with the first man she saw. it was the performance of her life, consisting of a fake smile followed by a loud and high pitched giggle and an exaggerated hair twirling.

you, watching from across the room, felt your blood boil as your hands curl into fists. how dare jackie to do this right in front of you? didn’t she know how badly you wanted her?

retaliating her behavior, you would mimic her actions just to get under her skin. until it worked too well.

you carefully watched jackie leave the bar in quick steps and your first idea was to ignore her. she started the entire jealous thing and she was being childish. but so were you.

you immediately ditched the person who you were talking to and placed the shot glass on the wooden table so you could follow her.

you immediately stopped walking as soon as you put your feet outside, finding her sitting on the sidewalk. you would usually approach her in seconds, ready to go for a hug, but neither of you were in proper speaking terms now.

cautiously, you get closer. she doesn’t look up to meet you but you know that she can feel you there. you sit by her side and hug your legs. the silence gets so loud that you would be able to hear crickets if it wasn’t for the muffled noise coming from the bar.

“what happened to us?” jackie’s breathy and insecure voice finally breaks through the silence after a while.

you finally feel brave enough to look at her. not just look, to see her. to acknowledge her presence. to not ignore her.

“i don’t know.” you whisper. but you did.

“are we even friends?”

“we used to be best friends.” she looks at you and, for the first time in what felt like forever, you could see all of the details in her face again. of course, she was prettier than you could remember.

“you remember when you gave me this?” jackie grabs the shiny heart pendant, rubbing it between her fingertips. there was a small hint of a smile trying to make its way to her lips.

“yeah. you were scared to try for the soccer team.”

“scared? i was terrified.” she adds and you let a whispery chuckle out. “i couldn’t sleep for days, thinking if i would be good enough to even make it to the bench.”

“you gave me this before the first trial and said that if i was feeling too scared, i could squeeze it and it would be just like holding your hand.”

“i guess it worked, right?” you try to lighten the mood, lips curling up into a subtle smirk. jackie ended up being part of the team and, over time, the team captain.

she nods in silence.

“i didn’t even like soccer.”

“what? but you were so good. why did you join the team?” your eyes narrow as you speak and your heart starts to beat faster when jackie takes longer to say something.

“you were part of the team. i wanted to be around you.”

you find yourself looking away from her to hide the sudden heat and the pinkish tone of your cheeks. jackie went through a stressful week that year, practicing and learning the basics without actually liking it just because of you.

the sound of your voices is replaced by a loud nothing once again. the air was growing thicker and even the slightest touch of your shoulders accidentally brushing against each other was a reason to make you unconsciously hold your breath.

“i think i’m a lesbian.” your feel yourself getting struck by a sharp surge of disbelief and in a blink of an eye, she has your attention again. you feel the palm of your hands getting sweaty, going against the cold weather.

“what? why?” you manage to say a few words and, if it wasn’t for the delicate moment, jackie would have laughed at your frantic gaze.

“because.” jackie sighs, not being able to stop playing with the heart hanging on her neck. “i felt absolutely nothing when i had to pretend to care about boys in middle school but i felt the entire world when you were looking at me.”

not only she knew that you were always staring at her in the cafeteria but she liked it. she liked having your attention.

“you were never good at hiding it, by the way.” she snorts but you were sure that she was just as nervous as you.

“i thought i was pretty good…” you whisper, grinning. she was absolutely right, though.

“really? i found a biology test of yours hidden under your bed once. you were even better than me but you said that you were failing it and needed help.” the red color on your face gets more intense as you share a loud laugh. your hands momentarily cover your face.

“i think i just wanted to be around you.” you shrug, defending yourself by echoing her words.

“you still do?” jackie asks and, slowly, the lighthearted smile fades away from your face.

your gaze was lingering on her eyes and wouldn’t dare to leave. not even when you gently leaned closer and your fingers fixed her hair by carefully hiding a small section behind her ear. the entire world felt like it had stopped and you could hear a feather hitting the ground. it was quite adorable how jackie was the one to held her breath now just before swallowing the lump on her throat.

“i think i’ll always want to be around you.” you whisper. there was nothing but love and adoration inside your eyes as you felt completely hypnotized by her. you allowed your gaze to drift down to meet her lips and the hand that was hanging around her ear just a second ago found its way to her face. the palm of your hand fit perfectly on her cheek and you took the opportunity to guide her closer to you.

the first thing you feel the second after closing your eyes is jackie’s soft lips touching yours and how tenderly they were dancing together. it was almost like you and jackie were made of glass and you didn’t want to break each other.

jackie’s hand imitated yours but she used her thumb to caress your cheek. you feel her pulling away from your lips and you feel faint when your eyes open and she is smiling like she had just won the lottery.

“fuck. you are so pretty.” you groan in a dramatic way. with watery eyes and rosy cheeks, jackie nestle her face into your neck and gives your skin a small kiss, causing you to shiver and hug her body tightly, closer to you.

maybe the big bad wolf on your door wasn’t so scary now.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Wanna Make Purple?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: After one woman takes a look into your studio, she suggests hosting a class so others may enjoy the art of finger painting. Youn thought she wanted to know about the class so she could join. No, it’s her son who walks through the door and turns your world upside down.

Square Filled: diana reid for @spencerreidbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Your small studio in the bustling city of Quantico is insignificant but you love it. You’re an aspiring artist who wishes to be featured in museums and have galleries open all over the country. If you work hard enough, you’ll get there one day. If you’re not in your apartment, you’re spending time in your studio that’s completely filled with art supplies, half-finished paintings, sculptures that you never finished, and furniture that’s paint-covered. You’re not a sculptor but you’re taking some classes to get better at it and broaden your artistic scope.

The curtains are open allowing natural sunlight to shine through the windows, and it gives your studio a homely feel to it. Even your apartment has bigger windows than it should because you love letting in natural light. The sun is setting which means it’s time for you to pack up and head back home for the night. You’re cleaning up the supplies you used when you notice someone standing outside the floor-length windows at the front.

The woman immediately leaves when she notices you looking but you don’t think much of it. Many people walk by when you’re in here to admire what you do so you’re not fazed by the woman. However, someone knocks on your door seconds after she leaves. You wipe your hands on your apron and open the door to see the same woman now standing right in front of you.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Sorry for bothering you but I couldn’t help but notice what beautiful art you have.”

You look back at your art and smile at the compliment. You like to do a lot of things to stay relevant but you feel happiest when you fingerpaint. You love getting down and dirty with the art and using what you have instead of what you can buy to create timeless pieces. Finger painting is more than just putting paint on your finger and making lines. It’s precision and knowing when you use your pinkie instead of your thumb or when you use a knuckle or your palm. You’re in control of every little thing so in the end, you can truly say you gave it all.

“Thank you. I have a lot of fun finger painting. I think more people should do it.”

“Do you offer classes?”

“I never thought about it.”

“Well, I’m here in Virginia for a little while so if you reconsider, I know someone who would be eager to take a class.”

“Thank you. I will think about it.”

The woman leaves shortly after but her suggestion stays in your head long after she is gone. Teaching a class? Do you even have time for that? With school and your own business, you’re not sure if you have the energy to teach a dozen students. If you can, how old should they be? Children or adults? No, don’t be silly. Yeah, adults are going to be a lot easier to work with. Hosting a class whether that be once a week or a few times a week is a huge commitment, but you always said more people should be finger painting.

A few weeks go by until you’ve convinced yourself that teaching a small class would be beneficial for you. If you can put that on your resume, it shows commitment and willingness to work with a team. Thousands of people are following you on social media, so that’s how you reach out to everyone that you will be teaching a small class on a trial basis. If it works, great. If not, then you won’t lose any sleep over it.

Dozens of people around the country wish they could be in Virginia to attend your class. If all goes well, you might be able to visit other places and teach more people. One thing at a time, Y/N. The ones that are local have expressed interest but none of the people online look like the woman who met you that evening in your studio. You’re not sure how to get ahold of her or if she has social media and thankfully, you don’t need to deal with it.

The woman walks past your studio while looking at her phone, and you leave to catch up to her before she is gone forever.

“Ma’am?” She turns and stares at you as if she’s trying to remember who you are. “Hi, you stopped by my studio a few weeks ago. You asked me if I was teaching any classes.”

“I did?” Something crosses her eyes and she smiles immediately. “Of course, I did! Have you reconsidered?”

“Yeah. I’m actually putting together a class this weekend.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic!”

“It’s at my studio at two in the afternoon on Saturday.”

“Perfect. Thank you for telling me.”

“Sure. I hope to see you there.”

You two part ways shortly after that, and you go back to prepping your studio to fit at least half a dozen people. You want them to have their own space so you spread out the canvases evenly throughout with a side table for them to keep their paints. Saturday comes quicker than you think and before you know it, your studio is filled with everyone who signed up for it. The woman you met isn’t here and you’ve been trying to find something to do to stall time, however, you’re already running ten minutes past two.

It sucks but you’ll have to start without her.

“Alright, thank you all for coming. I appreciate your eagerness to finger paint. No, I promise you that this isn’t like most finger painting is.” The door opens and a very tall and lean man walks in wearing jeans, a white shirt, a sweater vest over that, and a tie tucked between them. “Hi.”

“Sorry to interrupt but my mother signed me up for this class. Are you Y/N?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Spencer Reid.”

“Well, Spencer, take a seat. There’s one in the back.”

“Thanks. Sorry for being late.”

Spencer scurries to the back of the class and takes a seat, and you continue what you are saying.

“As I was saying, finger painting is so much more than putting paint on your fingers. I’ll have another class next week to go more into it but I want you guys to get used to the feel of paint on your fingers. I want you to create lines, and connect them if you want, but for the first ten minutes or so, I want you to really get used to the idea of not using paintbrushes. Use any color you like and begin.”

Everyone chooses the color they want and squirts the paint onto the palette on the small desk next to the easels. Two girls in the front giggle like schoolgirls at getting down and dirty with the paint while two men are apprehensive about getting their fingers dirty.

“Don’t worry about getting paint everywhere. It’s washable.”

Everyone seems to be in good spirits and you give encouraging words where you can. You approach Spencer who is having a hard time keeping paint long enough on his fingers to create a straight line.

“Having trouble?”

“A little, I guess. I just…”

“Just what?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s okay if you don’t like finger painting. It’s not for everyone.”

“No, it’s not that. I don’t get the point of finger painting. It’s messy and unpredictable and it’s hard to control what the paint is going to do.”

“Really? You think finger painting is childish?”

“Yeah.”

“Clean your hand. Let me show you something.”

Spencer does as he’s told while you squirt green, blue, and pink paint onto the palette. You grab Spencer’s hand and barely dip two of his fingers into the blue and two into the pink. You press his fingers to the canvas lightly, creating little dots that will represent the petals on a lavender flower. Once done, you have him clean his hand so you can create the stems of the flower.

“See? Finger painting is more than just putting paint on the canvas. It’s about manipulating the art as a whole and controlling every aspect of it. Brushes are different. They might have benefits that this way doesn’t but I’ve always found it harder to control a brush than it is my own fingers.”

“Impressive,” he says, looking deep into your eyes.

Spencer is in awe of your work. He doesn’t know what to say to this. He doesn’t mind being proven wrong. In fact, he finds it very attractive when someone can outsmart him. Someone calls your name and you leave Spencer’s side to help her out, but Spencer can’t take his eyes off you.

Throughout the entire class, Spencer has a hard time focusing on painting because he can’t help but notice you. He keeps asking for help knowing he can do it but he really wants to feel you right next to him holding his hand. You don’t mind. Spencer is the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

It doesn’t hurt to play a bit.

After the hour is over, everyone clears out of your studio, eager for the next one. If all classes are like this, you might consider doing this more often. Spencer is the last one out but instead of leaving like he should, he closes the door so that it’s only you and Spencer alone.

“Good job today. With a few more classes, you’ll be an expert.”

“You’re the expert, not me.”

He gathers everyone’s paint tubes and places them in the box at the front of the class while you grab the palettes that you’ll clean later. You and Spencer meet at the last easel but neither of you pick anything up.

“You got a little something…” He gestures to his own lips. “You got red paint on your lips.”

“Like I said, it’s washable. It’ll come off with a shower. Plus, it’s non-toxic so it can get in your mouth and it won’t hurt you.”

“Good to know.”

He takes two steps closer to you and you’re suddenly aware of how tall and handsome he is. Your eyes shift down to his lips and you smirk slightly.

“You got blue on your lips.”

“Wanna make purple?”

You don’t have to answer him. Pulling him in and pressing your lips to his is a good enough answer in and of itself. Spencer pulls you closer by your hips and you wrap your arms around his neck. Damn, he’s even a good kisser. Whoever his mom is, you gotta thank her for bringing her son to your class.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[eleu22]

Sweaty Palms - Chapter One “The Skeptic”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x f!reader

tags: brief description of injury

masterlist

——————

“What? I think we could do with’a bit of a feminine touch, ay LT?” Soap smirks, turning to nudge the lieutenant with his elbow.

Ghost doesn’t reply, but the unimpressed look he fixes Soap with says enough. The briefing room is quiet, besides the scot’s incessant chatter, a few quips from Gaz and the rhythmic hum of the projector. The cool winter air slips through the poorly insulated window, but to Ghost the room couldn’t feel warmer.

There is undeniably an air of… excitement? Maybe that’s not the right word, it’s anticipatory, like the bit before a roller coaster drops, or the moment before a bomb detonates. Either way, Ghost isn’t thrilled.

The masked man tunes out the sargeants as he stares at the door, as if he could telepathically explode the next person who dared to enter with his glare alone.

When Price broke the news to them, they could all practically feel the blood clot forming in the lieutenant’s forehead.

The first thought to the man’s mind was simply, why? We are doing just fine without anyone else’s help, I’ve stitched myself more times than I can bloody count.

Secondly, how? Ghost would trust Price’s judgement with his life, he has, literally, but this? How could he allow this? Price knows better than anyone: one wrong element could throw everything off. A stranger in their ranks is a liability waiting to happen. What if she’s an enemy undercover? What if worse she’s incompetent? What would they-

Ghost’s thoughts are abruptly interrupted by the click of the door handle. Any lingering conversation is brought to an abrupt stop as the team’s eyes snap to the front of the room.

In walks Price, followed closely behind by Honey. The sound of their boots echoed sharply in the quiet briefing room. Honey walked in with a steady confident stride- not cocky, but assured. Her millitary-issued white compression shirt clung to her frame, the camo pants snug around her hips, emphasising her- okay enough. Ghost’s jaw tightens as he forces his gaze upward. She was shorter than the rest of them, shorter than him by a good head, Ghost feels his boots shift in irritation, how is she going to keep up?

They both stand at the front of the room, their figures cast in the faint blue glow of the projector. Price didn’t waste time, his voice cuts through the silence like the crack of a whip, listing off information Ghost already knew.

The lieutenant had all but demanded to read her file, Price (albiet hesitantly seeing the man’s less than cheerful disposition) handed over her file. Ghost had read it more times than he’d care to admit, trying to pick apart every line and word for some sign of… well he’s not sure what, but something. He could recite the information like a parishioner knew the words of the liturgy.

Sargeant Honey, Jesus what kind of name is that?

Green Beret, American.

Combat Medic, Useless.

grew up in Lynchburg, Virginia, oh, really, American.

SERE training, Tactical Emergency Medical Support, cross training in close quarters combat and weapons proficiency…

Even Ghost had to admit, at some level she was impressive, especially for a woman. Regardless, none of this brought the man any comfort, if anything, this was going to make her harder to shake.

As Price continued to speak, a light tap on his thigh yet again interrupted his inner hate-monologuing. Ghost doesn’t move, but he can already imagine the expression on the scot’s face. Soap was really the only one who didn’t have any reservations about Honey coming along, in fact he seemed a little too pleased at the idea of her addition.

Fuckin’ hell, Ghost internally sighs, the man acts like women are some rare commodity. Ghost looks at Soap out of the corner of his eye, who, as expected, has a toothy grin sat on his face. Well no wonder, Ghost muses the mohawk must definitely not be doing him any favours in the dating scene. The man is a fucking dog, one look at him and you’d be able to see it. This makes him a good soldier and (though you couldn’t waterboard this information out of Ghost) a good friend. But this makes Honey’s inclusion all the more a liability.

Ghost turns his attention back onto Honey. Price has finally finished and turned to her. In contrast to her entrance she gives the team a sheepish smile, her arm rubs up and down the length of the other behind her back.

Honey’s soft lips part, as she turns her eyes to the rest of the room.

“It’s a pleasure to able to work with you all… I’ve heard great things.”

Her voice drips down the back of his throat, warm freshly stirred honey. There’s something slightly awkward about the way she speaks too, like that sharp little aftertaste left behind, but warm, it's undeniably warm.

Huh, I guess her callsign makes sense.

There is something so sickly sweet about the woman, something you don’t come across in the army.

Trying to imagine her in active duty, bullets cutting through her saccharine voice, blood dripping down her soft fingertips, as she shoves the innards of some poor fuck recruit back inside of them. It’s unnerving.

Ghost suddenly feels his balaclava all too tight around his neck, his sleeves rub up against his wrists as he shifts them uncomfortably. The man simply stares ahead, ignoring the flirty wave Soap returns to her. Under the table he begins to pick at his fingernails through his gloves, as if he needed something to stop him from shoving her up against the wall and demanding her to spill, to hear her voice break, to look directly into her eyes and to disembowel every tightlipped secret she’s ever held.

Ghost bristles at the thought, weirdly, he hopes he gets the opportunity.

——————

okokok this is the first chapter!!!!!! lmk what yall thinkkkkk

the next one is gonna be another expositiony one shes gonna be really ethel cain core so be excited xxxxxxx

taglist: @creepingeva @identity2212 @brokenghostgirl1 @honestlymassivetrash @ang3lc

[mymindcreatedthis]

Bonmati 18+

Aitana Bonmati x Reader

I apologize if there’s any mistakes I didn’t have to time proofread it.

Word count: 2,320

Warning: Smut, Teasing, Leg trapping Unprotected sex, Creampies, blow job, Throat pie, hair pulling, squirting, cumshot, Daddy kink, rough sex. positions: Doggy, Cowgirl, Missionary.

*Y/n's pov*

I sit next to my phone sweating bullets as I wait for a certain phone call. Coach paid me a visit during one of my college soccer games. She told me that I had some serious skill and wanted to invite me to their next camp.

After an hour of waiting my phone starts ringing. I grab my phone and click accept.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Hi, may I speak to Y/n?" They ask.

"This is her." I say.

"Hi Y/n this is The coach of the Women's Barcoelona Femeni team.” They say.

"Hi coach, how are you?" I say.

"Good, thank you." Coach says.

"I wanted to call you and inform you that you've been selected to join us at our next camp next week." Coach says.

"Thank you so much coach! I won't let you down." I say.

"Good. I'm hoping you keep that promise. Your flight is August 12th at 3 am. You'll go to the closest airport to you, someone from the team will pick you up. I'll give you more info once you get to camp. See you then, enjoy the rest of your night." Coach says.

"Thank you coach. See you then." I say.

Coach hangs up the phone ending the call.

My phone pings letting me know that I have a new text message. I see that it's a text message from Aitana Bonmoti.

Aitana: Hi Y/n! I just wanted to reach out and let you know that I will be picking you up from the airport. We'll also be roommates this camp, can't wait to meet you in person.

Me: Hey Aitana! Thank you for the information, can't wait to meet you in person along with the rest of the team.

Aitana: Can't wait to meet you either. The girls are excited to meet you too.

Me: Same! But hey I'm gonna finish packing and go to bed so I'll text you later.

Aitana: Okay, good night. Talk to you later.

I turn off my phone, and put it on the charger. I get ready for bed, I brush my teeth and lay down in bed. Immediately falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

*Day of Camp*

My alarm goes off, I turn off my alarm and get up. I go into the bathroom, I do my business and start the shower. I shower and get changed into new clothes. I brush my teeth and hair, once I'm done in the bathroom I come back into the room.

I grab my things, I put on my shoes. I leave my house and lock up on mg way out the door and get a cab to the airport. We get to the airport, I thank the driver and pay them.

I grab my things and go into the airport. I get through security etc, and get to my gate. I hand the lady my ticket, and board my flight. Once everyone is boarded we take off.

Me and Aitana have been texting back and forth a lot and have gotten to know each other really well. I know a lot about her and she knows that I'm intersex.

I'm not a transgender, I was born a girl but instead of being born with a Virginia I was born with a dick. The plane lands, I grab my carry on and get off the plane.

I get my suit case and go outside. I get outside and wait for Aitana to come and pick me up. A van pulls up and Aitana steps out, she waves me over. She helps me put my things in the trunk.

We hug each other. "It's so good to finally meet you in person." Aitana says.

"You too." I say smiling.

We get in the van, I get in the drivers seat. Aitana was in the passenger seat, I type the address to the hotel In the gps and start driving. It was 4 am so it was dark out.

Aitana places her hand on my inner thigh. I bite my lip as she slightly squeezes my inner thigh, I moan.

"F-Fuck Aitana S-Stop teasing." I moan.

Aitana smirks. She raises her hand and rubs my dick over my sweat pants, making me moan more.

"Is someone hard?" Aitana asks smirking as she continues to rub my dick over my pants.

I moan and nod, Aitana smirks. Aitana fiddles with my sweat pants teasing me a bit. Aitana licks her palm her hand goes into my boxers. Aitana slowly strokes my dick.

I moan as Aitana slowly strokes my dick. Aitana stops, she taps my thigh, I get the hint and lift my thighs. Aitana slides my sweat pants and boxers down my legs.

My massive boner springs out once it's freed from its confinement. She spits on my dick, she covers it in spit and starts stroking my dick a bit faster.

"F-Fuck." I moan.

I keep my eyes on the road as Aitana continues to give me a hand job.

"Shit baby, you're so big." Aitana says admiring the size of my dick.

"T-Thanks." I moan.

Once my dick is hard Aitana leans over and takes my dick in her mouth. Aitana slowly bobs her head, she chokes and gags a bit as the tip of my dick hits the back of her throat.

Aitana bobs her head a bit faster. I moan in pleasure as I feel myself getting closer to cumming.

"Ah F-Fuck, I'm close." I moan.

Aitana hums against my dick, I moan in pleasure as she bobs her head faster. She reaches down and plays with my balls as she continues to give me head and suck the soul out of my dick.

"Aitana baby. I'm gon-"

Throat pie:

I can't take it anymore, I bust my load in her mouth. Aitana chokes and gags a bit as I cum in her mouth, Aitana swallows my load and sucks me dry.

We get to the hotel, Aitana helps me pull my boxers and sweat pants back up. I park the van, we grab my things and go into the hotel and head up to our room. We get to the room and go inside, I close the door behind us and lock it.

Luckily we had the day off tomorrow so we can sleep in. Aitana puts my stuff to the side, I take off my shoes and set them to the side. Aitana grabs my hand and leads me to the bed, Aitana pushes me back onto the bed making me sit in the edge of the bed.

Aitana looks at me and smirks. "We started something that we didn't finish."

Aitana takes off her shirt and bra and tosses them to the side. Aitana takes off her sweat pants and panties and tosses them to the side leaving her fully naked.

Aitana helps me strip off all my clothes and pushes me back onto the bed. Aitana climbs on top of me, she pushes my tip in and slowly sinks down on my dick taking my dick deep inside her.

We both moan as her walls immediately clench around my dick. "Fuck your so tight and wet."

"All for you baby." Aitana moans.

We both moan in pleasure as I'm inside her. I let Aitana adjust to my size.

"Fuck I thought you were big in my mouth. I feel full with you deep inside me." Aitana moans.

Aitana places her hands on my boobs and slowly slides up and down on my dick. I moan and place my hands in her hips, as she starts to slide up and down on my dick.

I moan in pleasure. "Fuck, you feel so good wrapped around me."

Aitana smirks and goes a bit faster. Aitana moves up and down on my dick faster and faster. We both moan in pleasure as she slides up and down on my dick a bit faster.

I moan as I feel myself getting close to cumming.

"I'm close." I moan.

"Me too baby. Fill me up, fill me up with your load." Aitana moans and goes faster and harder.

I moan as I feel my balls tighten.

Creampie #1:

I can't take it anymore, I bust my load deep inside her. Aitana moans and cums all over my dick, we both moan as I shoot ropes of thick sticky cum inside her and paint her walls white.

I help her ride out her high, once we both come down from our highs Aitana slowly gets off my dick. Cum oozes out of her pussy and drips onto my lap, my dick and onto the sheets.

Aitana moves to the middle of the bed and gets in doggy position. She shakes her ass a bit. "Is that all you got daddy? Or do you wanna keep going?"

I smirk and get behind her. I slide my dick back inside her cum filled pussy. We both moan once my dick is back inside her. I grab her hip and reach up and pull her hair with one hand, we both moan as I slowly thrust in and out of her.

"Faster daddy, faster." Aitana moans.

I pull her hair a bit more and grip her hip as I thrust in and out of her faster and faster.

My balls slap against her skin as our moans fill the room. Aitana screams in pleasure as I go at an angle and pound her g spot.

"F-Fuck I'm squirting." Aitana screams in pleasure.

Aitana screams in pleasure and squirts all over my abs, thighs and dick and all over the sheets. I moan and continue to pound her g spot going faster and faster than before.

"Fuck baby right there! Don't stop in close." Aitana screams in pleasure.

"Me too." I moan in pleasure as I pound into her faster and harder.

My balls slapping against her skin as our moans fill the room. I moan and go at an angle, we both moan as I pound her g spot. I moan as I feel myself getting close.

"F-Fuck I'm close." I moan.

"Me too, Don't stop. Fill me up, drain your balls in me." Aitana moans.

I pound her g spot as fast and as hard as I can go. Aitana screams in pleasure and cums all over my dick and the bed.

Creampie #2:

I can't take it anymore, I bust my load inside her. Aitana moans and cums all over my dick. We both moan as I shoot ropes of thick cum inside her and paint her walls white.

I help Aitana ride out her high, once we both finish cumming I pull out of her. Cum drips out of her and oozes down her thighs and drips onto my dick and onto the bed.

"Get up." Aitana says.

I do as she says, I get off the bed. Aitana scoots closer to the edge of the bed and lays in her back. She spreads her legs and holds them up. I rub my dick through her folds then slowly push my dick back inside her cum filled pussy.

We both moan as her walls immediately clench around me.

"Ahh so wet and warm." I moan.

I help Aitana hold her legs up as I slowly thrust in and out of her. I pick up the pace and go a bit faster.

Aitana pulls me down towards her and wraps her arms and legs around me holding me close to her. Leg trapping me so I can’t pull out, She makes out with me as I continue to fuck the day light out of her going faster and faster.

My balls continue to slap against her skin as I make out with her and pound her pussy. Aitana moans in the kiss, I rest my head against hers and look deep into her eyes as I continue to fuck her faster and harder.

"Does this feel good baby?" I moan.

"So fucking good. I love when you stretch out my walls with your dick." Aitana moans.

"You're such a slut for daddy's cock and cum aren't you?" I ask teasing her.

"Such a slut, make me your cum dumpster." Aitana moans.

I pound into her g spot faster and harder.

"Right there! Right there! I'm gonna squirt!" Aitana screams in pleasure.

I go faster and harder, Aitana screams in pleasure and squirts all over my dick and on the floor. I moan as I feel myself getting closer to cumming.

"S-Shit I'm close." I moan.

"Me too, don't stop." Aitana moans.

I keep going as I pick up the pace faster and harder. I moan in pleasure as I feel myself getting closer to cumming.

After 5 more seconds I feel my balls tighten letting me know I'm about to cum at any second.

Cumshot:

I quickly pull out, I stroke my dick fast and bust my load all over Aitana’s pussy, stomach, abs, tits and some goes on her face.

I moan as I continue I continue to shoot ropes of thick sticky cum on her. I moan and stroke my dick slowly coming down from my high the last of my cum oozing onto her.

"Ahh fuck." I mutter, my legs shake and buckle in pleasure as the last of my cum oozes on her.

"Fuck that was amazing." Aitana moans.

"Fuck you aren't lying. Your pussy was too tight for me to handle. I emptied my balls in you." I say panting.

Aitana giggles and kisses me. "You have amazing dick game baby."

Aitana gets up and goes into the bathroom and starts the shower leaving me to catch my breath and gather my thoughts trying to figure out what just happened.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Burn for you ❞

post-s6!Stiles Stilinski x werewolf!male!reader | nsfw, smut | sub.bttm. reader (AMAB) | not proofread | wc: 4k

warnings: omegaverse dynamics (r!), praise kink, biting, scratching, spanking

req: can I ask for a stiles fic, like reader(m) is a werewolf n went into heat and the only person he actually trusts from the pack is stiles so he just bursts into his room in the middle of the night all hot and sweaty and stiles is just dumbfounded until he realised what was wrong and he helps him all night 😋😋 anyway and like end it with some cuddles n stuff if you can, oh and like a shit ton of praise just like mass amounts, plus like biting, scratching maybe a few smacks here and there and that's it! (bottom amab reader pls)

"This is insane," by all accounts he was right. Stupid, cunning, frantic and witty Stiles Stilinski was right. This was insane. "Stiles," but here you are — countering his factual statement. "Stiles, please..." The hands in his hair stop and he looks at the state you're in. Actually looks. His eyes take in the wildness in your eyes that, once upon a time, would've made him flinch as they glow in the dim lighting of his dorm room. Yet at this moment, they're anything but frightening, instead they're desperate.

There's a startling realization that the werewolf before him was desperate for him that makes Stiles choke on his own spit. The hands in his hair travel down to cover his mouth but you know it's still in that annoyingly slacked-jaw pose. Why were you sneaking into his dormitory room through a window!? "Stiles!" You land on your feet and now Stiles has a werewolf in his dormitory room. The carpet silences the thudding your shoes make as you reach for the collar of his shirt. It's new. Sheriff Stilinski probably bought some new clothes for Stiles for Christmas —that's not the point. The point is, his shirt is new and you're stretching the round collar wider at the front, claws teasing the fabric as you grit your teeth together to stop your fangs from making an appearance. "Hey, easy, easy!" His palms rest on your face. Stiles squeezes your cheeks together when he feels fur attempting to sprout. He shushes, twisting his head on a swivel around his tiny room. His roommate said he'd be out but the lights from underneath Stiles door is on and he sees shadows moving. He can handle a werewolf in distress but handling that whilst keeping the secret of the supernatural away is a juggling act he'd rather not attempt. He's had his fill from his high school days. He'd rather not repeat it again in college.

What were you even doing here? Last time you two called you'd been in Beacon Hills, California helping his father out with some rogue werewolves. What the hell were you doing in Quantico, Virginia!? "(Y/N)," his eyes are set in a determined squint. Yours are furrowed, eyebrows meeting in the centre that makes a slideshow of memories appear behind Stiles eyes with every blink. The second time he says your name it's softer. As if he recalls who you are and you squeeze your eyes shut at the warmth in his voice. Shoulders sagging and grip loosening, you lean forward to bury your face in the crook of Stile's neck.

Everything is fuzzy. There's someone else nearby — two someone's, to be exact, but everything beyond Stiles' door is irrelevant.

Everything beyond Stiles is irrelevant.

Stiles wraps his arms around you. You swear you can feel every scar on his palms and finger pads despite the jacket you wore. It's mindboggling how amplified Stiles is right now.

He eyes the shadows from his door. They pause and Stiles grip on you tightens. It elicits a gasp from you as you clutch the front of his shirt again. Stiles ignores how hot his ears feel as your lips brush against his skin and how he can feel the tips of your teeth (not fangs, thankfully) whisper along the thickest junction between his neck and shoulder — or he tries to. His pulse quickens and you're so close too him you can feel it, see it, hear it. Your hands are flat against his sternum. With your eyes aglow you tilt your head down to spread your fingers across his chest. "Shh, shh, my roommates asleep," Stiles would thank Tom (his roommate) for being considerate but a few giggles escape the girl he's brought over and Tom is pushed against the door. The sound is decidedly too loud for an already sensitive werewolf so you lips curl in distaste. Your growl only cut short by Stiles hands smacking itself over your mouth so hard your head tilts back.

"Stiles — !" "(Y/N)" his whisper is sharper than you're used to. The frown etched onto his face is so familiar but so...grown. It had only been a year since graduation. Since that mess with the Wild Hunt and everything in between. Stiles looks so adult now. Oh, there's still mischief written all over his face but everything that was soft-edged was sharper and there was this hint of a stubble along his jaw and chin. The bags under his eyes were probably because of wild nights roaming Beacon Hills woods for dead bodies but it seemed college exacerbated it tenfold. It reminded you of the Nogitsune when it had Stiles but he wasn't pale and he was still familiar. You're staring. You realize that you are but Stiles just looks so handsome and the memories are flooding in faster than you can stop them. His hands smell like energy drinks, spilled pen ink, dusty cold-case files Stiles definitely had no authority to be snooping through and home. Stiles flinches, chest concaving away from you when you whimper and tug at his shirt.

No, not whimper.

Moan.

"...Your roommate has company too," Tom's girl whispers barely reach his ears through the door. Their shadows stumble away with a few 'hushed' giggles but Stiles only tears his eyes away when he hears his roommates door shut.

"What the - Are you hurt? (Y/N), it's 2 am — You-You're supposed to be in Beacon Hills!"

Why is he so far away from you? He's pacing again, combing through his hair again and he's rambling again.

"Stiles," he doesn't pause as you call for him. He's too frantic to see the way you're panting or the way your cheeks are heated. "You know you're supposed to call me first when things happen!" He gasps and spins to looks at you. "Is it an emergency? Does Peter have another kid running around or something? Hunters? Are you —"

You're breathing too hard. He inches closer again. It feels like he's teasing you. Moving to-and-fro like a sly fox teasing a wolf.

"You're hurt?" "Stiles," the whine is high in your throat. A keening almost. It makes Stiles hands hover over your shoulders when he'd been gripping you so tightly minutes before. "Stiles, I need you"

"Need? Need...Need me to - For what exactly?" Your jacket is shrugged off. He can see the way your shirt is sticking to your skin. To his relief he sees no wounds, no blackened veins bulging and spreading across your skin because a hunter gave you a dose of Wolfsbane poisoning. It leaves him more confused. More flustered. "Somethings happening to me," you take steps forward. Stiles lets you. "What's wrong, (Y/N)?" He wants to turn on the lights in his room. Moonlight looks wonderful on you and the table lamp is less headache inducing to work in during these times but he's frozen with concern.

What if you were cut by a tiny blade covered in Yellow Wolfsbane? Or some other type of poison — a Kanima maybe? No, you weren't paralyzed. You weren't dying, if you were dying he' be sure you'd be more panicky but goddammit what if you were and you didn't realize it!?

"Derek...Derek said it happens to werewolves wuh-when we've...matured," Stiles wasn't there to witness the chaos the pack went through with the other wolves. Blissfully unaware of the embarrassment that lasted for days and it wasn't as though Scott was going to tell Stiles about the time he was so painfully horny after his 18th birthday that Malia and him effectively traumatized Melissa. "Matured...?" "Stiles, my birthday just passed," you don't want to say it. It kills you every time you even think about it so why would you want to say it out loud? "Happy...birthday?" But Stiles wasn't catching on. Derek had advised you about holing up somewhere. Said something about finding someone to partner up with. Preferably a pack mate and not some stranger in a bar. The notion was far too embarrassing. Scott was like an older brother to you and he was dating Malia who you think would probably not mind if you decided to spend your heat with the two of them. You minded though. So, no. Derek was a definitive no. Too much angst, too broody and too old for you and Lydia didn't deserve to be subjected to anymore werewolf biology nonsense then she already had. There were more pack mates but they were all a no but, Stiles...? He made you feel so safe. His brilliance was blinding (sarcastic quips included) and his valor in deathly situations were enough to make you swoon. Such kindness despite the torments life had thrown his way. Even now, he's showing it. He's holding you, tender and sweet, and his eyes are scanning you for injuries. "Stiles..." Your eyes meet. His brow furrows and his hand is cupping your cheek again. "Stiles, I'm...I'm in heat." His mouth opens then closes then opens before closing. Stiles is doing that thing where his brows are moving on their own and his eyes are blinking rapidly which means he's thinking. "Whaaat does that mean? Just - just as a clarification ya' know" You groan. The pants you're wearing has been achingly tight and you can't stand it anymore. "Dammit, Stiles! I need you to fuck me! I'm in heat, I feel - I feel like my skin is on fire and I - I just, fuck, please, Stiles, please" There's tears in your eyes. Embarrassment be damned, it's too much. It felt like your senses were fucking with you, it's been like this for days, symptoms of oversensitivity steadily raising until it reached its boiling point that caused you to drive all the way to here. But all of it washes away when Stiles is holding you. All your focus is on him and it relieves you of so much pain why the fuck isn't he holding you now? "Please, I need you, I need you so badly."

Stiles catches you when you trip over your own feet, faceplanting into his chest where he can feel your open-mouthed breathing. Your hands cling to his shoulders, his wrap themselves around your middle as you cry. "It hurts, Stiles. I can't, I can't think I just — Mmf, you smell so fuckin' good," your gaze lifts up and Stiles groans into your mouth when you surge forward to kiss him. It's a shitty kiss. Sloppy, messy, and there's a clear lack of coordination but fuck it was hot. His tongue brushing against yours along with his lips.

You feel the dry patches he has — clearly college has triumphed his basic needs so you fix it by wetting his lips with your tongue. His grip tightens as you push him back, back and back until the back of his knees knock onto his bed. He falls. You fall too. It's not the first time he's had a werewolf over him but it is the first time he's had a werewolf in heat on top of him. He prefers this compared to the other instances. The window of his room, where moonlight floods in, cast you in this blue hue. It contrasts with the warm hued light of his desk and the colours look so fucking good on your skin. Your lashes are dark with tears. Stiles is certain he's tasted a few of them while kissing you. He reaches up and wipes the evidence of their path away. You turn your nose into his palm like a puppy and Stile's plaid patterned pajama pants feels a little tight. A tear slips and Stiles uses both hands to hold you. Those pretty eyes flutter open and Stiles gulps. You were (Y/N) (L/N), a longtime friend. One of the first guys that made him realize he was bisexual. A cherished friend, someone he could imagine one day meeting up for drinks even after decades have passed. Here you were, on his lap. "Why, why me...?" It was a fair inquiry. He lived miles away and he hadn't been available as of late too. You? You were a looker. So handsome and kind it made Stiles feel guilty every time he jerked off and your face appeared in his thoughts. You could have anyone you wanted. If the werewolf thing was stopping you from getting with anyone...well, it wasn't as if there were a shortage of werewolves in Beacon Hills. The sounds of your breathing muffles the beat of silence. Then, you're leaning down and Stiles places a hand on your chest to stop you. "You...You don't want me?" He feels your muscles tensing. Ready to dart if he nods but he doesn't. "I...I really want you, (Y/N)" You lean again and again he stops you. "Stiles, please —" "Why me, (Y/N)?" He knows you're thinking. You have this tell on your face when you do and since you're just inches away from him he'd be blind not to see it. "Because I...I trust you, Stiles. Muh...More than anyone else. I don't just need you, Stiles, I...I want you" It's his turn to talk but he's quiet. You're whimpering again, hips twitching as you try so very hard not to act on impulse despite the way your body is on fire. There was this annoyingly loud voice in your head just chanting Stiles name and it's killing you that he is so, so, close but not fucking you. When Stiles kisses you it takes you aback, teeth clacking and all but neither of you care. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and he's gripping the back of your neck as he all but devours you. Your hands slide up his shirt. He flinches, pulling away from the kiss and squeezing your neck. "I bruise easily," you're confused. He motions to your hand with his eyes and your eyes widen when you see your claws fully extended. "Shit, Stiles, I'm sorry —" He cuts you off with his mouth. Your eyes are rolling back and he swallows every pathetic noise as he grabs your hips, ass, then your thighs. The yelp you let out when he twists you surprises you both. He's between your legs now, above you and grinning boyishly. "That's — That's new," he nods before diving in to mottle your neck. Your fingers are curled into fists as you arch your back into him. "Learned some self-defense moves, came in handy, huh?" Your laughter dies when you feel Stiles teeth playfully bite into your flesh. "I mean, it works against werewolves" Both of you glance at the wall behind you when you hear repetitive thuds, followed by a squeal of pleasure. Stiles wants you to scream on his dick like that too. You gasp, whispering out his name when Stiles undoes the annoying obstacles that is your pants. Your boxers have a wet patch on them and you nearly kick Stiles off when he presses a kiss on it. He's hastily tugging your pants away from your legs but you're not cold at all. Everywhere he touches you feels like he's setting you on fire.

But it's good. Not like "before Stiles", not like "without Stiles" burning that makes you feverish and turns your skin unbearably lonely. Stiles touches spreads this delicious burn across your skin. Your shirt is next. Stiles doesn't help you with, just watches as you take it off and toss it to the side. He's over you again, kissing you again and you're so overwhelmed you can't help the noises you're making. His fingers ghost along your navel but you've no time for foreplay. You grab his wrist and guide it down to your crotch, bucking your hips up from his ghost-like touches. "Fuck, you're pent-up," You're nodding in agreement, balls tightening as he finally, finally, slips a hand into your underwear. Your torso twists to the side, moaning like a whore as he holds your cock in his hands. "Really pent-up" Stiles jerks his wrist and you're biting your hand to keep the noises down. "Don't, not like they're holding back" Stiles reminds as the headboard banging grew more incessant. He pulls your hand away, pinning it down as he watches your face. His fingers are so good, palm warm and your precum is excessively leaking down. Probably a side-effect of the whole "in heat" thing. His thumb digs into your slit and he's groaning at your wanton moans. Curious, he slides his hand down. "Stiles," you feel him touch your balls but he slips further down to your perineum then to your twitching entrance. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "You're wet" Stiles astute observation makes you dig your heels into the mattress. "You're wet"

"Stiles!" You can't handle this. You need him inside you not have a QNA session. "You've fought werewolves, a Kanima, hunters, the Wild Hunt, the Nogitsune, fuck — You survived holding Derek Hale up in a pool full of water while he was paralyzed for hours, stranger things have happened than my ass being self-lubricating!" You spread your legs, holding your thigh open as you try to catch your breath. He watches, entranced, as your fingers slip into yourself. It slides in with ease and familiarity. You're pumping one finger then two and then three. The way your rim stretches and clenches — Stiles sees it all. Stiles towers over the foot of his bed, over you, and you're relieved as you spot his hands replacing yours. His fingers are longer than yours and it has you melting as he pumps into you. "Shit, you're so warm" "All for you, baby, just for you," his ears are burning again. You look so blissed out but Stiles knows this isn't what you want. His shirt is the first to go and after stepping out from the puddle of checkered patterns Stiles is naked too. His cock is just as pretty as he is. There's moles on it, veins decorating the underside of it. It's long, more girthy near the base. "You manscape...?" You ask. "Shut up," Stiles replies. Stiles splits your legs apart, they're cushioned on the top of his thighs as you wrap your arms around his neck. The tip of his nose bumps into yours, lips catching yours again. He only pulls away when you feels his head catch on your rim. Stiles watches your face as the pressure gives and he's inside of you. He's biting his lower lip, wanting to only hear you (Tom isn't helping but that's not in his control). "Oh fuuuck, Stiles, Stiles your — " Stiles nods, pulling his hips away a bit before inching more inside. It has you whining. The delicious drag of his dick makes you clench and he hisses. "You feel so fucking good," he whispers against your Adam's apple, grinning as it bobs when you gulp thickly. Your claws are out again but he's electing to ignore it as it leaves kitten scratches across his shoulders. "God, (Y/N), you're so tight, so warm — Jesus fucking Christ, I —"

His words are making you squirm. It feels like an eternity but once he's fully sheathed inside of you it feels like all those days of overstimulation hell was worth it. The both of you moan and Stiles relishes in your velvety walls as they welcome him. "Like you were made for me," You whimper out his name. He notices your eyes are wet with tears and so he braces himself on his elbows, pushing you further up his bed. The jostling makes his dick pump into you and you mewl sweetly. "Don't have to cry, pretty boy, I've got you," he cradles the back of your head and places his forehead on yours. "Stiles..." Your eyes widen as he thrusts into you. He's watching closely. Your face scrunched up in ecstasy as he moves in and out of you. "You're so beautiful, fuck, (Y/N)" He hisses again when you clamp down at him. Only looking away to see your cock twitching in a tell-tale sign of an oncoming orgasm. Stiles chuckles as he grips at the base making you groan, shaking your head. "Hey, shh, relax, I'm helping you out. I'm not an asshole," he does that thing with his wrist again and your back arches. You see white and he slows his thrusts down, his back stinging but it's not the worst thing he's been through.

Stiles kisses down your throat and chest. He rubs soothing circles in your hips but he's still so painfully hard inside of you. The very feeling has your cock filling up again. He wraps his lips around your nipple, twirling his tongue around it and letting his teeth catch it as he pulls away. The entire thing has you shuddering. Stiles grabs a handful of your ass then maneuvers you onto your stomach, slipping out of you smoothly before positioning himself behind you. "FBI training?" You pant out as you look at him from over your shoulder. It makes Stiles laugh. "No, uh, just good ole' experience and porn" You roll your eyes at him and he grunts as he grips your hips. "Oh, I'll give you a reason to roll those pretty eyes," His pulls almost all the way out then slides back home. You moan out his name, clutching onto his bedsheets so hard there's a distinctive ripping sound. None of that matters though. The position you're in makes Stiles go in so deep it feels like you're in heaven. Your back is bowed and your face is in the sheets. Stiles sucks his teeth as he watches the way your ass ripples and bounces with every thrust in. You're writhing on the bed, moaning out his name as he plows into you. Stiles can't help himself. He lifts his hand and you squeal at the impact of his hand against you ass. "That feel good?" With the way you're backing up on him, he assumes that means yes. He squeezes your ass in his hands, watching the flesh blush because of his hands. Every spank makes you tighten around him and he groans as he soothes the stinging with his kneading hands. "So good for me, fuck, (Y/N), that's it just — Ah shit, shit, shit, your ass feels so good" Your cock is hanging heavy between your legs. Stiles grip on your hips is almost bruising. Your sweat slicked skin under moonlight has Stiles approaching his orgasm quicker than he anticipated. "I'm going to — " "Yes, yes, yes! Inside me, inside me, Stiles"

His thrusts become more and more erratic and you feel your second orgasm coming at you like a freight train. He's so beautifully loud the closer and closer he gets to his orgasm, you're whimpering as he ruts into you. His hands slide up your hips and he curls his arms around your shoulders to pull you up. Your back flushed against his chest. Stiles kisses you, messy and hot, and you only pull away to moan out his name as you come all over the bed sheets. He's not far behind, he fills the inside of your ass with thick ropes of cum and every involuntary twitch of his hips makes you let out whiny moans. His thighs twitch but Stiles makes sure you don't fall in your own cum. He lays you down next to it, slipping out of you with a groan before he bunches up his blanket to toss it to the pile of dirty laundry. You cling the second he lays next to you and he does not object. He pulls you closer, catching his breath as he kisses the top of your head. "That felt good?" You nod, asking him the same question with a scratchy voice. "Fuck yeah it did, holy shit," You grin as you grasp at his chin to give him a rewarding peck. "You're so...You're so hot, you know that?" "Stiles," you bashfully glance away (an odd time to be bashful but that can't be helped) and Stiles squeezes you closer. "I'm serious! I'm not saying it because of the post-sex glow or whatever — which, by the way, you are glowing" Your guffaw, hiding your face with your hands as he continues look oh-so-proud of himself. "I slept with (Y/N), I spanked his ass — He wanted me" "You're talking to yourself," you murmur, ear twitching as you hear Tom and his girl also coming down from their romp. How nice. Orgasms for all it seems. "And it's wants not wanted" He feels something twitch against his hip. Stiles peeks down and laughs in disbelief. "I still want you, Stiles..." Your eyes glow again. The way you're nosing his neck makes his dick raise to attention. "Stiles," you call. "I've got you, (Y/N)," he answers.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Hi! Congratulations on your milestone 😊

I would really like to see something with Spencer x Reader and Blinding Lights by The Weeknd! ❤️

Hello my love! I’ve wanted to write a fic based on this song for so long! Set in place of 3.16 Elephant’s Memory.

Send me a song lyric from my list to celebrate my follower milestone 🎵

Blinding Lights

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary - Spencer is ten months sober and struggling to ward off his cravings. When a case takes the team to his hometown, he knows there’s only one face that can keep him from falling off the wagon.

CW - heavy angst, hopeful ending, past drug use, thoughts of relapse, Spencer is just really sad, brief mention of a bad past relationship, tears.

WC - 3.8k

The golden medallion watched him thoughtfully from the dresser, the way any inanimate object could. He could feel the judgement rolling of it in waves, hearing its sickly sweet commentary as he stared unblinking at the opposite wall.

You’re not strong enough, it goaded him. You can’t do this alone. Relapse is inevitable. 

Of course he knew a piece of metal couldn’t think, couldn’t chastise him, didn’t have its own voice to vocalise these vicious words. It wasn’t sentient. It was a coin, a simple gold chip. And anyway, the taunting voice following him around like a rain cloud sounded too much like his own for it to be anything other than his own intrusive thoughts. 

His cell phone was next to him, tucked against his stomach as he lay in the foetal position atop the scratchy hotel bed sheet. 

Since having to cut his meeting at Beltway short and joining the team for the case less than twelve hours ago, he’d tried calling the same number fifty two times. 

Fifty two times he’d called and fifty two times he’d gotten the same monotonous voice in response. 

The number you dialled has been disconnected. 

Yet it didn’t stop him from calling the same number over and over until his thumb was numb and the beeping continued to sound in his ears long after he’d hung up. 

It was said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Did he really think that after fifty two phone calls the line would become magically reconnected just because he was so persistent? 

He wasn’t surprised exactly, but he was disappointed. It had been more years than he could count since he’d last tried to call that number. 

No, that wasn’t true, Spencer knew exactly how many years it had been, he knew how many minutes it had been since he last heard your voice. 

Five years, two months, sixteen days. 

He’d been standing in your doorway bidding you his final goodbye before he flew to Virginia to start work at the BAU. You’d said you’d stay in touch and you had. For a time at least. And then life simply got in the way. 

But today of all days when he was, as the literature put it, craving, for the first time in ten months of sobriety he needed to hear your voice. He needed to hear your dulcet tones on the other end of his phone telling him it would be alright. 

And to make even more signs point towards you, the case had taken them to his hometown of Las Vegas. 

He didn’t know for a fact that you still lived here but there was something in his gut that told him you were close by. He could feel your aura, sense you were within his grasp but just out of reach. 

Without so much as blinking, he blindly reached for the dresser next to the bed and felt around until his fingers brushed over that taunting gold medallion. 

He tucked it into his palm, squeezing so tightly it would surely leave indentations in his hand. It was meant to be a token to aid him, to keep him focused for the next two months when he got his own. 

But it was simply serving as a reminder of his addiction and how much he would give to get high right now. 

The dilaudid didn’t just allow for his escape from reality but it also offered him a reprieve from his perpetual loneliness. Spencer had been on his own for so long, fighting battles solo against demons who always seemed to win as of late. 

Sin City had never felt as cold and lonely as it did right now. 

Still clutching the chip in one hand he used his other to pick up his phone. He pulled up his call history whilst moving as little as humanly possible. 

But this time he didn’t call your disconnected line. 

He put the device on speaker and held it in his hand, finally closing his sore and tired eyes as he listened to it ring. 

He counted four dial tones until his call was answered. 

“Boy wonder?” Garcia’s tone didn’t hide her confusion. “It’s late, I thought you’d all called it a night?” 

“It’s not about the case.” He barely recognised the sound coming out of his lips and judging by the long pause down the line, Penelope didn’t either. 

“Ok. What’s up?” She sounded concerned, it was nothing new. 

Since the team discovered his addiction it was the same tone they’d all used on him. It was growing tiresome. 

“Can you find someone for me? Like if I gave you a name could you find out where they live?” 

Another stretch of silence met his ears but he knew Garcia was still there. He exhaled through his nose and forced his exhausted limbs to straighten out, hearing the clicking of joints that shouldn’t be as worn down at his age. 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding in a groan deep in his lungs as he got himself into a sitting position. 

The medallion was still pressuring aggressively into his palm. 

“You know I can, Reid.” Garcia finally spoke. “But you’ve got to tell me what this is about. If I’m going to help you, you have to be honest with me.” 

The truth was that Spencer felt like he was drowning. During daylight hours he was just about capable of keeping his head above water but in the night was when he started slipping beneath the surface. 

The whole team was worried about him, hadn’t stopped worrying about him relapsing, worrying about his monsters out running him. 

If Garcia wouldn’t give him the information he needed, it was likely ten months was where his sobriety ended. 

“I need to see an old…friend.” Now was not the time to be going into detail. “It’s important.” 

It wasn’t as though he deliberately kept you a secret from his team, he just never felt like talking about it. If he talked about you then all the pain would come flooding back to him, the waves of heartbreak likely to wash him away to sea for good. 

But still, in the midst of undoubtedly the worst time of his life, you were the only person that had a hope of making it better. You’d been there holding his hand when he’d made the decision to have his mother committed, you’d been his rock in that horrible time of his life. 

He knew when he was like this, you were the only one he trusted enough. You were the only person who had ever seen him, all of him, both metaphorically and physically. 

“Reid,” Garcia sighed as she spoke his name and he knew exactly what words would leave her mouth next before she vocalised them. “Are you ok?” 

Are you ok?

Such a flippant and vague question, but one in which he’d been asked more times than he cared to count over the past year. 

And it wasn’t just the question, it was the tone that went along with it. The pity veiled in a cloak of concern, the kind of concern you only had for a person on the brink. 

“No.” He confessed, loosening his grip on the chip maybe in the same way he was steadily loosening his grip on reality. “But that’s why I need you to do this for me.”

The desperation, the agony of his fractured mental state must have come through in his voice because it was only a second or two before Garcia replied.

“Ok.” She agreed and he heard the distinctive clicking of keys down the phone line. “Give me a name.”

***

It failed to register with Spencer that it was gone midnight when he emerged like a shadow from his hotel room, creeping down the corridors as if he were nothing more than an apparition. Limbs moved of their own accord with the address Garcia had given him burnt into his memory. 

He found himself behind the wheel of one of the hired SUV’s, foot hugging the gas pedal as he sped in the direction of your home. The gold medallion sat on the dashboard almost like a reminder that this wasn’t a venture to buy drugs. 

As much as he wished it was. 

He knew the roads in Vegas like the back of his hand and he traversed them on autopilot. One road blurred into another, his focus waning. 

All he could really make out through his tired and heavy eyes was the assault of light around every turn, seemingly getting brighter with each new street he drove down. 

It soon became blinding, piercing his retinas as somehow he continued to drive, but all he could see was light. It all felt like some kind of fever dream, the haze that shrouded his brain was so familiar somehow. 

It was almost as if he was high. But that wasn’t possible, was it? He’d remember if he’d used, wouldn’t he? 

No, he couldn’t be high, he was simply fatigued. He was exhausted from work, drained from the constant internal battle he was fighting over his abstinence. 

He just needed to see your face, to rid his vision of these damn lights that seemed determined to impede his vision. 

He never could see clearly since you’d been gone. 

Somehow he ended up parking the SUV on a quiet and sleepy road and then once again, his limbs moving without his brain telling them to do so, he was climbing out of the vehicle, up the front steps of a building, and knocking on the door. 

He didn’t know what he planned on saying when, or if you opened the door. He hadn’t exactly stopped to think this through, if he had done there was no way he would have just shown up at your door after five years. He had more sense than that. At least he usually did. 

All he knew was that if he didn’t see your face he had absolutely no doubt he would relapse. It was an incredible amount of pressure to put on one person, his sobriety rested on your shoulders and you were none the wiser. 

He rubbed his palm aggressively against his left eye socket while he waited, still someone seeing those blinding lights long after they’d disappeared. 

Time had ceased to be relevant to Spencer long ago and so he had no idea how long it was he was standing in your stoop, rubbing his eye as if to somehow erase any trace of light still poisoning his retinas. 

But eventually the door creaked open, slowly, cautiously; it was the middle of the night and of course you would be sceptical about someone knocking on your door. 

He dropped his hand back to his side as you appeared from behind the door, your hands clutching the wood, ready to slam it closed again if you perceived a threat. 

Your brow was furrowed and you were rolling your bottom lip between your teeth. But a fraction of a second later he saw the realisation flood your features, the recognition of the man on the other side of your door in the middle of the night. 

Your frown faded at the same time your eyes widened in an animated fashion. Your jaw fell, leaving your mouth agape while you sucked in a thick breath. The hands that had been clutching the doorframe fell to your sides and you simply stared at him unblinking. 

“Uh, hi Y/N.” He offered you a meek shrug which told you without the use of his words that he had no idea why he was here. 

He stuffed his hands inside of his pockets and brushed his fingertips across the chip in an attempt to keep him grounded but it failed. 

You remained silent, taking him in. He’d aged, of course he had, so had you. But in your mind he was still the twenty-one year old saying his goodbyes as he left you forever in pursuit of his own dreams, in the process destroying your own. 

But it wasn’t just the fact he’d aged, he almost seemed like a completely different person from the one you remembered; a ghost of his former self. 

The dark circles he always wore under his eyes were blacker than you recalled, a stark contrast again his sallow, alabaster skin. His eyes always held so much emotion, like his heart lived through his pupils but right now they were vacant, staring through you rather than at you. 

His lips were cracked and split from profuse chewing, something you knew he only did when he was nervous or upset. His shoulders drooped, his neck retreated inside his sweater as though he just wanted to disappear inside it all together. 

You took a few breaths, trying to hurriedly reconcile all the emotions running rampant within you so you could move past them and focus on this broken man on your doorstep. 

“Spencer,” you swallowed as you spoke. “What are you…why are you…?” 

“I’ve been trying to call. I’ve been…” his voice was trembling and trailed off to try and correct it, whilst also trying to clutch at the right words. “I’ve been on my own for long enough.” 

The last part of his sentence was whispered, so quiet you had to strain your ears to hear him. 

He hung his head, looking down at his feet as he didn’t want to see your reaction to his pathetic words. He grasped the medallion tightly, it still didn’t help him to feel rooted. 

But then he felt your delicate fingers brushing against the underside of his jaw, gently guiding his face back up until your eyes met. Even when they did, you kept your hand on him and your simple touch was everything he needed to feel tethered again. 

It was as if you realised this too, as your lip started curling into a soft smile and when you removed your hand from under his chin you were quick to place it instead on his wrist. 

“You wanna come in?” You tapped his arm, causing him to dislodge his hand from his pocket. 

He nodded a little too frantically, sending his messy curls bouncing into his eyes. But he didn’t seem to care. 

With his hand free out of his pocket he hurriedly caught your own hand and the grip in which he held you showed off his desperation. 

You offered him another smile before leading him inside by his hand. And somehow just thanks to your touch, he felt whole once more. 

***

You made some chamomile tea while Spencer sat on your couch, eyes scouring the room, taking in every inch of your life. He committed everything to memory, drew a map of your home on his heart. 

By the time you returned Spencer had made himself comfortable, his converse tucked neatly next to the couch and he sat with legs criss crossed, a big plush sofa cushion resting in his lap. He was toying with something shiny between his fingers but he quickly pocketed it when he saw you coming back. 

You handed Spencer one of the mugs which he took with a small, tight lipped smile of thanks. You sat down on the other end of the couch, leaving ample space between the two of you. 

Spencer took a sip and if he noticed it was scalding hot it didn’t even seem to register with him. He cradled the mug in his hands and sighed. 

“I don’t know.” He croaked, barely able to maintain eye contact with you for more than half a second. 

“You don’t know what?” You replied, giving him a slightly curious look. 

“You want to know why I’m here. You were inevitably going to ask. And the answer is: I don’t know.” He sipped more of the tea. 

“Ok.” There was no point in following that up, no use reminding him of how many years it had been because he knew that better than you did. 

“I tried to call.” He said for the second time. “A lot.” 

“I had to change my number a while back. I had some issues with an ex-boyfriend. He got…obsessed after the break up. It’s ok now though.” You shrugged. 

Spencer noticeably winced, hating himself for not being able to be there for you during that time. It also had a little to do with the idea of you being with someone who wasn’t him. 

He’d asked you to go with him. When he moved to Virginia, he’d asked you to go with him. But you had a life in Vegas, you had dreams of your own that you weren’t willing to give up in order to chase his. 

And along the way you’d met someone else, of course you had. Just because he hadn’t even so much as looked at another person in the last five years, it didn’t mean you had to do the same. 

But secretly, he’d wished you had. 

He sipped his tea, his heart constricting inside of his chest at the thought of you with another man. You were each other's firsts; you were Spencer’s only. 

When he didn’t speak again you put your mug down on the coffee table and scooted a little closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating off of you. 

Spencer hadn’t been able to see clearly since you’d been gone, but now as he looked at you it was like a thick fog had lifted from in front of his eyes. 

“Spence?” You brought him back to the present, eyes blinking at you several times. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” 

He copied you and put his own mug next to yours on the coffee table before lacing his hands together on the cushion in his lap. 

“I’ve been…unwell.” He mused, remembering the terminology Ethan had used to describe his addiction. “I mean, I was unwell but I got better. And recently I guess I’ve been feeling…sick again.” 

You tentatively reached out and placed your hand on top of his and he felt so instantly relaxed at the feeling of your skin on his. 

“And you came here because…”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I just knew if I didn’t see you I would have done something stupid tonight. I…I’ve missed you.”

Of course he’d known he missed you before this moment, but Spencer had long ago compartmentalised those emotions. He tried not to dwell on them because if he did he probably wouldn’t make it out of bed most mornings. 

Your absence had left a hole in his life. He’d tried filling it with work, and for the most part it had been effective. 

But being beaten to death and back again in Hankel’s cabin, all those emotions managed to break free of the cage in which he’d held them captive. 

Dilaudid helped mute them, helped him escape from the loneliness he’d harboured for five years. Being sober again, he’d been forced to feel everything. 

You briefly squeezed his hands before softening your grip, unaware of just how much your touch was soothing him. 

“It’s been so long, Spencer.” You breathed out, thumb caressing his knuckles. “I missed you so much and now you’re here…” Now you’re here I never want to be apart from you again. 

“I know.” He nodded, knowing what you weren’t saying. “Me too.” 

A quiet understanding passed between the two of you while you unlaced his hands so you could entwine your fingers with his. 

All the pent up emotions clung to the walls of the room like stale cigarette smoke. Everything that had ever been left unsaid between the two of you being spoken without the use of words. 

You sat like this for some time until, still keeping your hands interlaced, you stood up, tugging Spencer to do the same. 

He let you lead him by the hand towards your bedroom where you let go of him so you could lie down on top of the made bed. He took a few seconds of contemplation before an encouraging smile from you convinced him to do the same. 

You laid on your backs but your hand soon found his again and he held on so tightly as if afraid you might float away. 

His other hand slipped inside of his pocket and he pulled out the medallion which he cupped inside of his palm. 

With you there by his side, holding his hand, the chip was much less taunting of him than it had been earlier in the night. 

It was never supposed to be an omen, but a talisman, and now he was seeing it for what it really was. 

He had two months until he would receive his own, and laying next to you in your bed he finally believed he could achieve that. 

He rolled his head to the side on the pillow and you did the same, a soft smile cloying to your lips. 

“What…what happens tomorrow?” He couldn’t help but ask, always in need of answers to questions that didn’t always need asking. 

You gently squeezed his hand as a small exhale left your parted lips. 

“Let’s worry about that in the morning, ok?” 

“I wish I could.” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I don’t know if I can just leave again this time.” 

“Spence,” you shuffled a little closer to him. “We’ll figure it out, ok? But if you think for a second I’m just going to be able to let you walk away again, well for a genius, that’s just dumb.” 

Spencer couldn’t help the chuckle that left his lips as his heart soared at your words. He brushed his fingers over yours whilst doing the same to his chip. 

He exhaled a slightly shaky breath whilst turning completely onto his side and opening his palm so you could see the coin.

“It’s not mine.” He was quick to say. “I still have two more months to make my year.” 

He didn’t need to say more than that. You mirrored his position and took the medallion from his open palm. 

He wanted you to have all the facts, to have total transparency between you so you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. But he underestimated just how much you still knew him. 

“I figured.” You whispered. “You’ll get there. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to help you.” 

Once again his heart soared, his whole body feeling lighter than air. Tears he didn’t know had sprung to his eyes, started rolling down his cheeks but yet, he was smiling. 

“I’d like that very much.” He nodded against the pillow. 

You fell into silence after that and soon Spencer’s tired eyes started to flutter closed.

You’d been the one to show him how to love and along the way he’d forgotten. But now he was starting to remember it all. He’d been on his own for long enough and maybe, just maybe, you could show him how to love all over again. 

Being In your presence, the voices in his head were silenced, the lights weren’t quite so blinding. And with your touch, he could finally sleep. 

[dsireland86]

So i want to break people's heart and request a fic for whichever Bad Omens member you choose x fem reader inspired by the Ed Sheeran song Happier

I love this song. The story it tells is heartbreaking and makes me think about the story I wrote with Nicholas, "All Too Well." Guessing I'm going to make this part 2 of that story.

Happier

Tag list: @philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @thisbicc @lacy1986 @dominuslunae @shayzillaaaa @mrsnoahsebastian @flowery-mess @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @stardustsirenmelody @romanreigns-supreme @anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @rumoured-whispers @myownthoughts12 @sister-sebastian @missduffsblog @bngurngheart @somebodyllelse @xxkittenkissesxx @dizzylmwahh @Youlookforultraviolet @kenjipepsi1 @blackveilomens @chey-h @disappearintothegrey @jilliemiw86 @pathion @fear-its-beauty @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @an0mallly @flowery-mess

I don’t miss this place at all. After moving back to Virginia and having more of my own space, New York feels like a dang madhouse. I push past the people in front of me, desperate to get to where I need to be. I stop at the crosswalk and wait for the light to change, checking my phone for the time. I still have plenty of time to get there, allowing me to relax a little.

The "Do Not Walk" hand stays up for what feels like an eternity and I'm getting impatient. Looking up and sighing while shifting my weight to my other leg something catches my eye. It's the back of a woman who's holding on to the arm of the guy next to her. Her head is laying on his shoulder as they wait at the same crosswalk as me, just a few paces in front of me. Her hair is long, reaching the middle of her back, and she's dressed in a long sleeve, cream turtleneck and brown leggings that are covered by a white plaid skirt. I recognize the skirt immediately because it's the same one that She wore the day she met my sister months ago. It's only been a little over a month since I ended things with her back in Virginia, so there's no possible way it could be her, could it?

The crosswalk light changes and we start to walk across the busy intersection. I push my way through the crowd of people in front to get a closer look, being sure to keep enough distance between us. She's laughing at something the guy says, her beautiful hair flowing just like Hers used to. It makes me yearn for the days I used to have her head in my lap, running my hands through the soft strands as she looked up at me. It felt like I was staring into forever. As the crowd begins to thin out, I fall back, keeping a safe distance just in case. The girl places her hand in the guy's hand. She tugs him back, forcing them both to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and when she turns to look at him, my heart almost stops. It is Her as she looks happy. The guy pulls her in and kisses her passionately. It forces me to remember the times we used to do the same thing, no matter where we were. One time it was in the grocery store. Another time at a gas station. But the best times were when... I shake my head, refusing to let my mind go there.

I feel like I'm intruding on their not-so-private moment, so I look away for a moment, but continue watching from the corner of my eye. I can't get over the fact that she looks happier than the last time I saw her, which in reality was only a few weeks ago. Finally, they turn and walk inside a bar. I discreetly follow, taking a table in the far corner as soon as I walk in. I give the waitress my order, smiling and thanking her, but still watching them subtly. She laughs, again, at something the guy she's with says, which in turn makes him laugh, and she rests her chin in the palm of her hand, placing her fingers over her mouth. Their smiles were much wider than ours ever were. Maybe that was because I knew what I was doing with her wasn't right. I had someone else at the time; someone else that I was serious about. She was a commitment in California where my band was and I had no idea how to end things with her. So I kept them both. But I kept Her the secret; until she asked to meet my sister.

The way she looks at him is just like the way she used to look at me whenever I'd tell her a joke or use bananas to do something funny with. That was always her favorite. I remember one time, late at night in her apartment, I used one as a phone and she copied me. We had the funniest conversation we'd ever had followed by... yeah. Again, not going there.

The waitress sits my drink down without me even noticing. I peek at my phone, checking the time and realize it's running short. But I can't leave yet. Not now. Not like this. I look up and back over at her, realizing how bad I must have actually hurt her. I never meant to. I loved her and everyday I justified what I was doing by swearing to myself nobody could ever love her like I did. I was trying not to take any of this personally, but I was failing miserably. I was and every laugh, every gesture she made towards him was like a knife to my heart. She had moved on, so quickly, tearing up the memory of us and throwing it away.

The guys back in California told me this would happen. Once I gave in and told them about her and what had happened, they assured me, with time, she'd forget about me long enough to forget why she ever needed me in the first place and that I'd start to feel it, too. I didn't believe them. I knew how much she needed me, how much she... I won't call it what it was. I smiled and hid the truth for a while, but now... I can't anymore. I was happier with Her. I know others, like the guy she's with deserve her and her love, but dammit, her love should be mine, because, because, "I'm still in love with you."

"Excuse me?" l look up into the face of the waitress and suddenly feel like an idiot. I smile bashfully. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that out loud." Thankfully, she returns my smile, looking from me over to Her. "You should tell her." I shake my head. "No, I can't. She's with someone else, now." I pull my wallet out and place my debit card down on the tray with my bill. "You know, my husband and I went through something, way back when. We spent a lot of time apart. But then one day, he found me, and soon after we realized how much in love we still were with one another." The corners of my mouth lift into a grin. "What happened?" "We got married six months later." I laugh. "Wow! That's some story. How long have you been married?" asking, thinking a short time. "It was sixteen years last month." "What!" My reaction is a little louder than I mean for it to be, but the waitress just laughs anyway. "Yeah, I know, it's crazy. So don't give up. Keep fighting for her, if she's what you want. If it's meant to be, then nothing with stop fate." "Thanks," I say as she hands me back my card. "Here, it's on the house today. Just remember what I said, okay. Fight. If destiny has your stars aligned, then you'll find your way back to each other."

The waitress turns to leave. "Hey, wait. You said you spent time apart. How much time?" A huge smile spreads across her face. "Six. I was sixteen when he left me, he was nineteen." I’m utterly stunned by her answer. Realizing the time, I know I have to leave now or I'll miss the very thing I came here to do. I get up, taking one last look at Her only to find she's already staring at me. Her eyes are wide and full of surprise, but the smile her lips are holding is promising. I grab a napkin and write a message, hoping she comes over and reads it. With one last look at her, I lay the pen down and leave the bar, never looking back.

"You look happier. You deserve to be happy. I see you've moved on and that's okay. You should. But, if he ever breaks your heart, just know that I'm here, waiting for you. I never stopped loving you and I never will." -Nicholas