#but i have like. three or four wips right now and i Should Not make it five

[stergeon]

25 rejected edeleth fluff ideas

here are some edeleth stories i thought a lot about but did not write. if anybody wants to actually write one of these, be my guest (and also pleeeeease send me a link, i'm desperate for content about Them Girls™)

byleth takes edelgard on a fishing trip and she has an absolutely abysmal time

edelgard makes a valiant attempt to corral byleth's atrocious fashion sense ahead of a formal event

byleth teaches edelgard swear words

edelgard tries some of those weird herbs rhea used to give students to relax; byleth is more than happy to babysit

byleth does edelgard's taxes. she's wearing her goofy professor glasses. it does something weird for edelgard

edelgard takes byleth on a date to the opera and byleth cries the whole time

byleth reads a work of fiction for the first time ever. it's a horror story. she did not like it. edelgard reads her something nicer.

edelgard gets byleth to pose for a portrait and shows it to her

byleth has to give a speech at a big event and is a nervous wreck. edelgard has been waiting all her life for this coaching opportunity

edelgard tries to teach byleth how to draw (she is very bad at it)

byleth cannot for the life of her figure out which fork is used for what purpose at this fancy dinner. edelgard covers for her

edelgard goes all out to celebrate byleth's birthday on the day byleth thought was (read: randomly chose as) her birthday, not her actual birthday; byleth doesn't have the heart to tell her

byleth brings edelgard various souvenirs from her travels around the country. edelgard tries not to be so soft over it, even though they're… not all hits

edelgard attempts to make dinner and botches it beyond salvation. they get takeout.

byleth will not shut up about this cute house she saw when she was out on a mission and how nice it would be for them to "have something like it one day." edelgard arranges to buy the place

edelgard sees byleth in a dress uniform and cannot stop swooning

byleth is being relentlessly pursued by a suitor who won't take a hint and edelgard challenges the idiot to a duel

edelgard decides she will learn to swim. it goes poorly, to say the least, but she manages in the end. as it turns out, getting to see byleth in a swimsuit is a good motivator

byleth gets caught kissing edelgard by hubert. the resulting conversation is unpleasant for everyone. ferdinand, meanwhile, is overjoyed

edelgard is having a terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day. she chews byleth out over nothing and immediately feels awful about it. byleth forces her to take the rest of the day off to chill

byleth is going away for a month-long mission. both girls are inconsolable. they write each other letters literally every day.

edelgard really puts somebody on blast in a council meeting. byleth gets stars in her eyes

byleth concocts a very, very elaborate story about some kind of summit in faerghus; she and edelgard leave enbarr for two weeks to attend. surprise: there's no summit, it's a spa retreat

edelgard arranges a "normal date" where they go out in town in disguise and do very boring things like run errands, look at furniture, buy socks, etc.

doropetra-edeleth double date

[theragethatisdesire]

scary dog privilege - best friend!eren x reader one-shot, 18+!!

hellooooo i have had this in my wips for like two entire months and i am giddy and ready to share it. this hopefully will just be a one-shot, but you guys know i love to create a universe for each of my erens so god only knows where we'll end up with this one. best friend eren appears to be my angstiest, broodiest one yet, and i love him lol. wanted to make some use of classic fanfic tropes, so here we get best friend eren and fake dating!! woohoo!!

beware: this is absolute, pure filth once you get into it lol

pairing: eren jaeger x afab reader

wc: 9.1k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

CWs: smut, consensual hook-up, rough sex, biting, dirty talk, oral sex (fem!receiving), alcohol use, cussing, squirting, penetrative vaginal sex, swearing, use of names (baby, pretty baby, my girl), crying, multiple orgasms, eren being a menace per usual, jean's an asshole (i'm so sorry you guys know i love him but it had to happen)

have fun ;)

-

This is a terrible idea, and it had been from the start. You know it and so does he, but you had insisted. Now that you’ve made your bed, you have to lay in it, you suppose. You press your forehead to the cold, tinted window of Eren’s ridiculous muscle car, ignoring the vibrations from the rock music he’s blaring and the consistent fluttering in your stomach, and think back to your conversation earlier that week.

“Come on, Eren. It’s just one night!”

“And what about after? When you run into Sasha at the coffee place or Armin after work? Did we just suddenly ‘break up’?” Eren scoffs, pushing past you to grab a Red Bull out of the fridge. You collapse into one of the barstools in his kitchen, having prepared yourself to accept defeat from the moment you posed the question.

“I just can’t face him alone,” you sigh, “it’s only been four months and Sasha told me he’s hooked up with not one, not two, but three girls already. I haven’t even had a drunken makeout at the bar.”

“So? Just because Jean’s been whoring around doesn’t mean you have anything to prove.” Eren's tone is thoroughly unimpressed as he pops the tab to his energy drink.

“You’re my best friend. I just need one tiny favor.”

“Who would even believe us? It’s not like it’s a huge party- we know everyone going.”

You cock an eyebrow. “How many times have Annie and Mikasa tried to con us into a double date? Connie’s been teasing us for years, not to mention the waiter at lunch the other day–”

“Fine!”

“Fine?”

“Fine. I’ll be your date for one night. But all of the explaining is up to you. And,” Eren takes a sip, leveling a glare at you over the top of the can, “I’m going on the record as saying that this is a bad idea.”

He may be reckless, arrogant, and a bit of a brat, but if Eren Jaeger is one thing consistently, he was right. You chance a glance at your “date”. He’s in his typical uniform: black hoodie, black jeans, the little silver chain he never takes off, key swinging over his chest as he turns the car. He looks good, appealing even. If Jean dares to show up with a girl, she won’t consider you to have downgraded, that’s for sure.

You consider your own outfit, an anxious fist tightening in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jean for the first time as an ex. He would have hated it. Your nothing-to-the-imagination outfit is all thanks to Sasha.

You had clued Sasha in on the plan; you hoped having one more agent in on your secret would help sell the act. Sasha had gone all out, lending you an incredibly low-cut black top and some black leather pants that would have caused at least a twenty-minute argument with Jean. Had he not dumped you, you remind yourself bitterly. Sasha had insisted you borrow her all-black outfit to match Eren’s typical attire “just to be cute”. In hindsight, her enthusiasm about this whole situation should have been a red flag, but you’ve already gotten everything lined up, and it’s too late for regret.

It’s far too late for hindsight, too; you’re already ten minutes into receiving the official girlfriend treatment from Eren. He had worn you down on picking you up, opening the car door, the works. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out a bouquet of roses at this point. You can hear his obnoxious tone now: Even if you’re my fake girlfriend, you’re getting the full package. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Eren parallel parks smoothly on Armin’s quiet street, unusually busy with the buzz of a house party and lined with your friends’ cars. It’s Connie’s birthday, but Armin always hosts. It’s an unspoken rule at this point; you aren’t sure why he keeps volunteering, especially after Sasha had projectile vomited all over his bathroom at the last get-together, but again, dig your own grave and lie in it. You and Armin are in the same boat there.

When the car switches off, Eren takes a moment to consider you, wrapping and unwrapping his long fingers around the steering wheel, a nervous tic he’s had since high school. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you sigh, reaching for the door handle. Before you can wrap your hand around it, Eren leans over and pinches you harshly on the thigh. “Ow!”

“I open the door, remember?” Eren says, visibly annoyed.

You roll your eyes at him.“Isn’t this a bit much?”

“You think I’m going to be caught dead letting my ‘girlfriend’ open her own door? I have a reputation to uphold.”

You decide to bite back a snippy comment about the many girls who cried over Eren in college and cross your arms over your chest, pouting instead. “Fine.”

If Eren can be dramatic, so can you.

As naturally as if he had done it a hundred times, Eren slings his arm over your shoulders on the walk up towards the door; the weight of it, both physically and mentally, is heavier than you’re willing to acknowledge. When you catch sight of Bertholdt, Reiner, and Annie peering through the window, a flutter of nerves erupts your stomach; you reach a hand up to play with Eren’s fingers, absentmindedly spinning one of his rings and trying to sell the look as best you can. “We better pull this off.”

“It’ll be fine, just follow my lead.” Eren pulls you closer, kissing your hairline. Goosebumps rise all over your body; not at the action itself, but how disturbingly easy the affection seems to come to him. As Eren knocks on Armin’s bright red door, you pack that thought away and shove it to the back of your mind to collect dust.

“Hi…guys?” Armin’s friendly smile upon opening the door falters in confusion as he takes you in, absorbing the sight of you two intertwined on his doorstep. Armin’s wide, blue eyes flick between the two of you, and you can see the gears churning in his head, trying to make sense of how awfully close you and Eren are. Pitting your fake relationship against Armin’s intellect is the perfect first test; a nervous sweat breaks out under your skimpy outfit.

“Sup, ‘min?” Eren smiles back, the very picture of nonchalance, extending his free hand to shake Armin’s shoulder.

“Come on in.” Armin, ever polite, turns to allow for plenty of room for Eren to pull you inside. He doesn’t outright ask why Eren’s holding you, but his eyes betray his suspicions. It seems like your plan, as terrible as it is, is working. One down, a dozen or so to go.

Never dropping his arm from around your shoulders, Eren steers you into the living room where one of Connie’s favorite bands is already blasting from the speakers. Annie and Mikasa are curled up together in Armin’s recliner, hands interlocked as usual; Sasha and Connie are positioned at Armin’s bar cart, violently shaking two cocktail shakers apiece; Reiner, Bertholdt, Marco, and Jean are on the couch, arguing over something sports-related. With a sinking stomach, you notice that there’s only one unoccupied seat left in the room.

“My two favorite lovebirds!” Sasha cries, abandoning her cocktail shakers and rushing over to give you a hug. Upon Sasha’s impact, Eren drops his arm and grabs your hand that’s closest to him as a substitute, never taking his hands off of you. His actions are pointed, purposeful; every pair of eyes in the room looks between the two of you in surprise. You can practically feel a hazel-tinted laser beam burning a hole into your forehead. “You guys are so late; honeymoon phase gotcha already?”

“Laying it on a little thick, Sash,” you whisper into Sasha’s ear, cheeks burning. To your chagrin, Eren only curls his mouth in response.

“What?” Connie frowns, still shaking his drinks. “How long has that been a thing?”

You pause, your heart nearly stopping. You should have made up a story, you realize, something to explain–

“Just a few weeks.” The still-strange weight of Eren’s arm around your shoulder returns, and his jade eyes rest on you, adoration beaming through his always-cool gaze. Against your will, butterflies start dancing in your stomach; apparently Eren’s quite the actor.

“Yeah,” you jump in, grateful for Eren’s lead, “we just wanted to feel it out before we told everyone, that’s all.”

“Sasha knew.” Mikasa raises a suspicious eyebrow. Annie smirks at the two of you, a knowing look on her face.

“It’s about time.” Marco appears from the kitchen with a huge bowl of tortilla chips in one hand and salsa in the other. “Good for you guys.”

You can’t help yourself, finally meeting Jean’s eyes. He’s openly scowling at you, which is to be expected; where Eren is a criminally smooth liar, Jean wears his heart on his sleeve. You recognize that face all too well: anger to mask heartbreak, the same face he wore when you used to fight. For the first time, it occurs to you how cruel this plan might be, how Jean might react to you moving on with a mutual friend. Guilt washes over you, cold and heavy.

“Thanks for giving me a heads-up before you moved in on my fucking girlfriend, Jaeger,” Jean snips, taking a long swallow of his beer.

The guilt drops away from you as quickly as your jaw; you’ve forgotten what a prick Jean can be. Eren has been slowly guiding you over to the singular remaining seat throughout the conversation, and after Jean’s comment, he tugs you down firmly onto his lap. He rubs a large palm over your thigh, a blatant gesture of ownership.

“Not your girlfriend anymore, Kirschstein.” You can hear the distinct note of pride ringing through his voice, hear the nasty look leveled at Jean without turning to face him. It’s been fifteen minutes of fake dating, car ride included, and you can already feel the friendship line blurring. Your head spins.

“Anyway,” Armin, ever the gracious host, interrupts, breaking the awkward tension that has settled over the room, “what bar does everyone want to head out to later? Connie gets the first pick, being the birthday boy.”

The conversation in the room picks back up into a familial bickering over the evening’s next destination. All of your friends have become accustomed to the occasional awkward moment over the years now that some of you have begun to couple up; Mikasa and Annie especially are notorious for bickering like an old married couple, no matter who’s around.

“I need a drink,” you murmur to Eren, moving to stand.

“Do you mind getting me one, babe? Don’t want to lose our seat.” Eren pecks you on the cheek, smiling up at you as if everything about your situation right now is normal, natural for him. Jean’s eyes follow you every step of the way, and your face burns.

Over the years you’ve been friends with him, it’s never been lost on you that Eren’s attractive, not after the dozens of women he ran through in his college years. Peeking over your shoulder now, however, feels like you’re seeing him for the first time, seeing him the way the world sees him. Heavy-set dark brows frame his bright eyes beautifully, his jaw’s grown sharp and severe, and his lips are soft and pouty, stretching into a wicked smirk with sharp canines. He had grown into a heartbreaker, and he’s your best friend and now fake boyfriend– you swat away your private admiration as soon as it comes, taking a deep breath to center yourself and rifling through the bar cart in a daze.

“Want me to make you one?” Sasha waves a bright red concoction under your nose. “Connie and I made them- it has three different types of liquor in it, and you can’t taste any of it!”

One sip of the tiny cocktail straw has your nose wrinkling in disgust. You’ve worked behind a bar since the day you turned twenty-one, and the drink Sasha’s offering you tastes like an overly-syruped nightmare. “Um…no, that’s okay Sash. I’ll probably just stick to beer.”

Connie sticks his tongue out at you. “Boring!”

Predictably, Sasha pouts. “Okay, but we’re definitely making you take a shot. We can chill it in the kitchen, want to help me get some ice?”

Holding up a bottle of tequila, she cocks her head toward the kitchen and wobbles her eyebrows madly. You almost laugh; anyone who can’t pick up on a hint from Sasha is walking around with earplugs and their eyes closed.

“Fine. Let me just grab Eren a beer, and I’ll meet you in there.”

“Ugh, couples,” Connie rolls his eyes, wandering over to fiddle with the dusty karaoke machine that Armin claims broke years ago. You’ve always been dubious as to the truth of that, but knowing your friends, you can’t blame him.

Opening the cooler, you smile to yourself; Armin remembered your favorite IPA from the brewery down the road and stocked the cooler accordingly, nestling a few Hazy Daze’s between Reiner and Bertholdt’s domestics. You pick your way through the haphazard seating arrangements back over to Eren, holding a cold Budweiser bottle towards him. He pauses in his conversation with Reiner, grabbing your hand that holds the beer and removing it from your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, brushing them over in a light kiss. He looks you up and down lecherously as he does it, a dangerous curve to his lips.

You return a weak half-smile, doing your best to not appear outwardly shaken by Eren’s behavior and keep the what the fuck? thoughts from showing plainly on your face. Eren waves you off to the kitchen with a light pat on your bottom, innocent as ever.

“How’s it going?” Sasha asks, safe now in the privacy of the kitchen. Her face is already full-flush with excitement and that awful cocktail she was sipping.

“I mean, it seems like everyone’s buying it. Jean looks pissed, though.”

“What were you expecting? He’s always thought Eren had a thing for you.”

“Everyone thinks Eren has a thing for me,” you roll your eyes, “at least it’s working in my favor now.”

Sasha fixes you with a glare, wobbling slightly. “If you don’t think Eren actually has a thing for you, you must be blind. Deaf, too.”

“Sasha–”

“I mean, even if you hadn’t told me, I would have fallen for it. Is it not, like, weird for you guys? That it’s just natural for you two to–” Sasha burps, interrupting herself, and giggles. “Just makes ya think.”

“Sasha!” Connie calls from the living room. “Let’s do Eye of the Tiger first!”

“Woo!” Sasha shouts, abandoning you and running into the room to take part in the newly-revived karaoke festivities.

You stand alone in the kitchen, shell-shocked by Sasha’s observations. The truly irritating thing is that she’s entirely right. Not only do Eren’s little kisses here and there, the constant touching, even the pet names come naturally, it almost feels…nice. It’s as easy for you to receive his affection as it is for him to give it. You peek around the corner, grimacing at Sasha and Connie’s amplified wailing, just wanting to look at him. Really look at him.

Kicked back, beer in hand and jacket thrown over the back of his chair, Eren oozes charisma. Even doing nothing but holding a conversation with Mikasa, the room gravitates around him. Jean’s angry glare never leaves him; Armin has switched to drinking Budweiser, even though you know he hates it; Annie’s nodding along with whatever Eren’s saying; even Sasha and Connie are angling their performance around him, alternating between singing together and holding their microphones towards him, trying to elicit a reaction. He has this undeniable magnetic force, one that you aren’t exempt from.

You’d met him nearly a decade ago, in high school, and initially couldn’t stand him. His hair-trigger temper had hardly cooled with age, and his ego had gotten unthinkably larger, but you grew to find both of them charming– to a degree. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, Eren was the one cleaning you up and getting you drunk after every bad breakup, introducing you to all of your favorite sports teams and lending you jerseys for the games; hell, he even read that smutty fairy fantasy series you’d been obsessed with in college. Had the man you attempted Star Wars marathons with until you both fell asleep really looked like that the entire time?

He catches your stare, beckoning you over with one long, crooked finger. As his girlfriend for the night, you have to obey, even though you would much rather roll your eyes at the cliche.

“Missed you,” he mumbles as you sit back on his lap, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“You too,” you respond accordingly, wrapping your arm lovingly around his shoulder. Eren’s eyes flit down to your cleavage, but knowing him, it’s impossible to discern if it’s part of the act, or Eren being himself.

His hands rest comfortably over the casing of your pants, one on your thigh and one on the small of your back, one thumb rubbing circles into your soft flesh. Reveling in the drag of his rings over your clothed body, you couldn’t help but wonder how they’d feel on your bare skin, on your throat, on your–

Surprising yourself at the dirty direction of your thoughts, you swallow your beer too quickly, coughing. Eren, who had coincidentally been taking a sip at the same time, laughs at you mid-sip, choking beside you and spraying beer out of his nose.

The entire room bursts into laughter; Eren regains his composure and joins in good-naturedly. You giggle along, relief coursing over your body. Sure, Eren might look a little extra handsome tonight and be a bit touchy because you asked him to, but he’s still Eren.

“They’re practically in sync already.” Hitch, Marco’s girlfriend who had apparently joined the party while Sasha and you were in the kitchen, rests her face on her hand dreamily.

“It’s a little freaky,” Annie observes with narrowed eyes, but the slight curve of her lip betrays her. Not only were they believing your little farce, but they were happy for you. That’s enough to make you flush a little, realizing how naturally everyone’s just accepted your fake relationship. Everyone but one person, at least.

Jean suddenly stands, ripping a beer from the cooler and storming into the kitchen. The laughter dies as quickly as it had come, everyone exchanging nervous looks.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Eren offers, nudging you off of his lap. You blanch.

“Eren, I don’t know if you should-”

“It’s fine,” Eren drops a soft peck on your forehead, walking away before you can stop him. You meet Mikasa’s eyes, wide and concerned. To everyone else, Eren’s walking calmly, not a hint of aggression in his gait. But you know him, know him well enough to catch the anger simmering in his eyes, quiet, but there.

Jean and Eren have always been friends, albeit reluctant ones at first, but too similar where it counted not to get along. That had abruptly come to a halt when you had fallen for Jean. At first Eren had been confused, but over time that confusion had melted into constant irritation. Jean and you were wrong for one another, you know that in hindsight, but at the time, you had chalked all the fighting up to a passionate relationship. The constant tears had driven Eren nearly to a breaking point; multiple times you had begged him not to bring his frustration to physical blows. And now, your fake-boyfriend slash best friend and ex-boyfriend with the two worst tempers out of everyone you know are “talking”. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep the worry in your chest.

“Are you alright?” The question comes from Armin, who’s placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry that Jean isn’t taking the news well.”

“There’s no news,” Mikasa says low enough for none of the others to hear over the music, now standing directly behind Armin.

A neat little cross appears between Armin’s eyebrows. “They’re-”

“Faking,” she interrupts Armin, “they aren’t dating.”

Armin stammers, trying to correct her and apologize to you for her at the same time, but you just sigh. “How’d you know?”

“One of you would have told me,” she shrugs, “or at least I’d like to think you would.”

“It’s just…I couldn’t bear to show up alone, not with Jean here and apparently sleeping around since the breakup.” You cross your arms over your chest, grabbing your own shoulders tightly. It’s your fault, you know it is, but you had only wanted to feel a little less pathetic, a little less heartbroken. Drama had been an unfortunate and unexpected side effect.

“Why would Eren agree to that? It seems silly,” Armin muses, noticing your glare and immediately turning bright red, “I- I don’t mean you’re silly, just, you shouldn’t-”

“You know.” Mikasa bumps him. The slightest hint of a smile plays on her face, a knowing look directed at you. You frown, trying to look confused through the pink rising to your face.

A loud crash from the kitchen catches all of your attention, saving you from an uncomfortable line of conversation but making your heart beat that much faster. Dashing to the kitchen door, the entire house party hot on your heels, your thundering heart sinks.

Eren has Jean pinned up against Armin’s cabinets, forearm tight against the other man’s neck. Jean’s still seething at Eren, raw ego washing against the cool anger blazing in Eren’s eyes.

“Need to learn how to watch your fucking mouth, Kirschstein–”

“Eren!” Your voice is surprisingly firm, given the nauseating mixture of embarrassment, confusion, and panic swirling in your stomach. “Let him go!”

“Do you want to tell her what you said, or should I?” Eren hisses, nudging into Jean further. Jean’s eyes dart to you, back to Eren, and for a fleeting moment, you have hope that maybe this all can be resolved peacefully. And then Jean makes a fatal mistake.

He spits directly in Eren’s face.

Just as Eren swings, Reiner collides with the two, just barely catching Eren by his forearm before he can make contact with Jean’s cheek. Bertholdt, as always, is Reiner’s shadow, grabbing Eren by the shoulders and wrenching him away from Jean. It takes Connie, Reiner, Marco, and Bertholdt to restrain both of them, Armin standing in the middle and shouting how ridiculous the fight is above the curses.

“It’s my fucking birthday, Jean, come on bro!” Connie growls, pinning Jean to the cabinets with his back.

“Jaeger- back off!” Reiner manages to pull him back a few inches, hardly able to contain Eren, who’s struggling furiously, in his massive arms. Jean finally relents, slouching into the multiple arms holding him back. After several seconds, Eren does the same, never taking his eyes off of Jean. Into the shocked silence, Armin bravely speaks first.

“Maybe we should leave,” he suggests awkwardly, “take the party elsewhere.”

You pity him, poor Armin and his hosting inclination. Eren finally turns to face you. The wrath laid bare in his eyes sends a chill over your body.

“We are,” he spits, sparing Jean one last threatening glance before storming over, grabbing you harshly by the wrist, and practically dragging you towards the door.

“Eren, wait–” you try to reason with him and dig your heels in, but it’s fruitless. Eren’s strong, stronger than you, and you don’t stand a chance stopping him now that his mind’s made up.

He doesn’t drop the act at the car, ripping your car door open, waiting impatiently for you to step into your seat, and slamming the door behind you. As soon as he turns the ignition, the same angry rock music you had listened to on the way over blasts from the speakers; Eren makes no move to turn it down and neither do you. After so many years together, his temper rarely scares you anymore; it’s more of a nuisance than anything when it flares. You stare out of the window, seething with anger, arms crossed and foot tapping.

Five minutes into the drive, you realize Eren isn’t taking you to your house, but to his. What he’s thinking, you can’t be sure, but you go ahead and start making your plans to give him an earful and call your Uber the moment you get there. You just can’t wrap your mind around why he would attack Jean and embarrass you like that– Eren may have been a hothead, but rarely did he let his temper escalate to that degree, especially against a friend.

Eren whips his car into the driveway, parking with such force you nearly knock your head against the headrest. You reach for your door handle, ready to throw it open, but Eren’s faster. He hits the child lock button and slams his own door behind him, storming around the car.

“The fucking child lock button?” You leap out of your seat once he’s opened your door, glaring up at him with your fists curled by your sides. “Is that what I am, Eren, a child?”

“Come inside.” Eren’s voice is low, dangerous. You’re too angry to indulge his temper.

“No,” you snap, “I’m going home.”

No sooner have you pulled your phone out to call an Uber than Eren snatches it from you, sliding it into his pocket. He repeats himself, more forceful this time. “Come inside.”

You stand rooted to the spot for a beat, so angry you aren’t sure what you want to do more: run home, punch him, or kick his precious car headlight in. Eren simply glares down his strong nose at you, face unreadable as ever, rage still glittering in his eyes.

“Come inside, please,” Eren repeats himself again through gritted teeth. You decide you’ll indulge him and go inside, hear him out, and then punch him. At least it’ll catch him off guard, and you’ll have a better chance of getting your shot in. Without another word, you stomp up the walkway to his house, into the house, and into the kitchen, shoving your shoes off. Stupid fucking kitchens, you think to yourself, kicking your bare foot against the base of his kitchen island. Immature, but the little burst of violence feels good.

Whether Eren’s house smells like him or Eren smells like his house you’ve never been able to decide. The distinct scent of him envelops you: a boyish, sharp smell, laced with a hint of the weed he kept in the living room. Ordinarily it’s a comforting smell, but tonight, it nearly makes you sick with irritation. Fighting with Eren is something you do rarely, but you know the both of you well enough to buckle down. Arguing with Eren means you have a long, nasty, and emotionally gutting night ahead of you. You’re more than ready, fists shaking by your side.

“What the hell was that, Eren?”

He doesn’t answer, swinging the fridge open and grabbing a beer. He twists the top, tossing it aside carelessly and taking a healthy swig, bun bouncing on the back of his head, making no move to acknowledge your presence.

“Answer me!” Your voice rattles the cabinets. “Yeah, was the fake dating a stupid idea? Sure, fine, it was stupid, but starting a fucking fight with Jean on poor Connie’s birthday–”

“You didn’t hear what he said,” Eren says simply, still chugging his beer and avoiding your gaze.

“What could he have said to make you do that? What was so awful that you had to–”

“It was about you.” Eren finally brings his eyes to yours, staring you down through the little hairs that have escaped his bun with such intensity that it nearly knocks you clean on your ass.

Your heart stutters. “You– what did he say?”

“Told me if I wanted to taste your ‘slutty pussy’ so bad, I could just smell his breath. S’why he spit in my face.” Eren’s fingers wrap and unwrap around the beer bottle anxiously.

Your mouth drops agape, tears immediately springing to your eyes. No, you set your resolve, praying your body cooperates. “He…he said that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been fucking him?” Eren spares you another scalding look. Your temper flares at his anger, one fire against another.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Eren snaps, “this whole thing was your idea. What am I to you, just some toy you can dangle in front of your pussyboy ex boyfriend? How long have you been fucking him?”

“I haven’t been fucking him,” you hiss, “he lied because he was jealous. And you’re not some toy, you’re– you’re my best friend. I needed you.”

Eren freezes, eyeing you across the kitchen. His expression has changed, infinitesimally so, a pinch of the fury fading from his face but none of the heat. It strikes you that in the years you’ve known him, he’s never looked at you like this before, not once. “Say it again.”

“You’re my–”

“The other thing.”

“I needed you.”

“Again.”

“I needed– fuck, Eren, what is this? Some kind of game?”

He stalks toward you, silhouetted by the light behind him and looking sinful, closing you in. He’s forceful and shameless as he backs you into the counter, as quintessentially Eren as he can be. “Say it one more time.”

“I…needed you,” you indulge him, brain slowing down to pick up each little detail. His cologne– when did he start wearing cologne?– musky and thick in the air, one of his tattoos peeking above the collar of his shirt, the tangible sensation of emerald eyes dragging along every inch of you.

“I like the way you say that,” his tongue darts out, wetting his lips. You stare blatantly. His mouth is red, pouty, and full, bottom lip a little chapped from where he was chewing it in the car. “That you need me.”

Words are lost on you; even if you could gather something to say, it would probably get stuck in your throat the moment it materialized. His presence is choking you. He brings one of those massive hands up, cupping your jaw, running a thumb over your lip. His posture, looming over you, is demanding, almost hungry.

“Do you still?”

“Still?”

“Need me.”

You blink, eyes still watery. “How?”

“You’re a smart girl,” Eren murmurs, hot breath laced with beer fanning over your face, “you know. You’ve always known.”

You do know. When he ghosted a hand over your thighs at the bar, when you fell asleep on his chest watching a movie, the way he had kissed your head, nearly fought Jean, protected you at every twist and turn. You had kept it relegated to the recesses of your brain, slid a hand between your legs and allowed it to simmer to the surface, maybe for a moment, before pushing it back down. You had always known. He has you on the edge of a cliff, and with a thin gasp, you understand him now: he wants you to jump. And so do you.

“I still need you. Now.”

Something critical snaps in both of you. The countertop digs into your lower back, a beautiful, aching pain blooming up your spine to meet the sting of his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. He’s kissing you; this magnetic, maddening man is kissing you, hard. It’s all tongue and teeth, fingers wrapping in hair, hands exploring familiar places in a new way. Greedy, demanding sounds slip through his teeth as he paws at your clothes, squeezes your curves through the silken shirt Sasha had lent you.

“This shirt is ridiculous,” Eren pants into your mouth, “wish I wasn’t about to rip it off of you.”

A little whimper leaves your mouth at that, and your knees buckle. Eren catches you, grabbing you by your torso and lifting you up onto the kitchen counter; you use the extra height to wrap your legs around his hips. A groan from deep in Eren’s chest rumbles against your lips as he rolls his clothed cock insistently against you. The low, simmering heat in your stomach catches fire; he’s big, even through both of your pants, rubbing himself into where you need him most. A hand creeps up your neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and forcing you to look up at him. It hits you how large he is; six feet and some change of taut, corded muscle, bad intentions, temptation.

His voice is quiet and controlled, so close to your face that his nose moves against yours as he speaks. “I’m going to take you to my room. If that’s not okay with you, I need you to say it right now.”

You nod urgently, relishing the burn in your scalp where he holds your hair tight. “I want it- want you.”

Eren slides you off of the kitchen counter and holds you firmly around his waist, making a beeline for his room. You mouth at his neck, enjoying the little grunts he makes against your ear. You drop unceremoniously onto the bed, left to watch as he tears off his shirt.

Oh, and do you watch. It’s difficult to comprehend that your best friend is the man standing above you. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, but not like this: chest heaving, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, muscles flexing as he reaches for your shirt, ripping it from you and tossing it away. Your eyes draw towards the defined v leading down beneath his jeans, and you wonder how it might taste under your tongue.

Your bra comes next, Eren moving down to take your lips in his again as he deals with the clasp. He pushes you onto your back, kissing down your neck, sneaking harsh bites in between the gentle presses of his lips.

“Careful, Eren– you’ll leave marks,” you gasp, pulling at his hair.

“Good,” Eren replies against your neck, emphasizing his point with another deep bite to your neck, “you wanted everyone to think I was your little boyfriend, didn’t you? Let them see.” 

Your panties grow damp and hot against your core at that; you have no other response than to choke out a stunted moan.

“Fuck, you have no idea,” he growls, traveling down, teeth scraping the top of your breast, “what you do to me. How long I’ve wanted you.”

Your mind falters, caught in the crosswires of Eren’s confession and the way you’re clutching his head to your breasts, fingers desperately threaded in his dark hair and pulling him as close as you could get him. His mouth is so hot it burns, even against your feverish skin. 

“Remember…” Eren muses, mouthing his way down your stomach, “remember college? When you’d wear those slutty little dresses out?”

“I remember,” you breathe, impatient and urging him towards your lower half.

“Used to come home from the bar and jerk myself off, thinking about this sweet little cunt,” Eren tears your pants down your legs, panties following, “could practically see it in those short ass dresses. I’d cum thinking about how you’d sound when I stuck my tongue in it.”

A lewd whine rips out of your throat before you can stop it. Eren’s pressing your thighs open now, and his words and the quick little swipes he’s making across your clit are making you dizzy.

“Fuck…” Eren trails off, eyes wide, “got such a pretty pussy. Just look at you.”

“Eren, please,” you’ve never been the begging type, but the bright green eyes peering up at you from where your legs are propped open by broad, strong shoulders take your sense away.

“I’ve got you,” he shushes you, grinning as he leans into your center. A thick stripe of a lick up the center elicits a groan from you both. “So fucking sweet. Knew you would be.”

Eren hooks his arms around your legs, dragging you down the bed to be flush with his face. Eren’s no amateur when it comes to women, you know that, but you had never dared to let yourself imagine what that might translate to in practice.

He licks little figure-eights around your clit, not quite hitting it; he’s teasing you, the antagonist that he is. You tremble under him, little gasps and whimpers puffing out of your lips. Eren smiles contentedly against your pussy, nose flush with your clit, nudging against it rhythmically as he licks through your folds, circling your entrance. You bring your hands down your body, grabbing a fistful of dark hair and pulling him closer to you; you don’t even know what you want, the singular word more ringing in your head like a church bell.

Eren chuckles. “You need something?”

“Stop fucking with me,” you breathe, inwardly cringing at the desperation in your voice, laid bare for him to see. You brace yourself, looking down to meet his eyes, and instantly regret it. The anger has faded entirely from his face, replaced by an unyielding hunger. A wet, wicked smile plays at his mouth; you can physically feel your cunt dripping just at the sight of him.

“You want me to stop fucking with you?”

“Please, Eren, I need you–”

“That’s all you had to say.”

And then, like he does with everything else in his life, Eren licks into you like his life depends on it, like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His tongue pushes in and out of your hole, swirling around your clit, and you can distantly hear the most obscene sounds you’ve ever heard slipping from your mouth. He’s so good, better than you’ve had in years; you throw your head back against the bedspread, hardly able to focus on breathing.

Just when you think it can’t get any more intense, Eren slides one long finger inside of you, curling it against a spongy spot in your walls that makes you see stars. He chuckles at the loud, long moan that you let out.

“My girl likes being full, doesn’t she?” He pumps his finger slowly, testing your limits. Your walls clutch down on him, begging.

“M-more,” you stutter, barely able to form a coherent word through your panting.

“What was that?” You can hear the shit-eating grin on his face.

“I need– fuck– I need more.”

“Magic word?”

“Please, Eren, fuck!”

“Good, good girl,” he coos, pushing another finger into you, “so sweet and needy for me, yeah?”

Your eyes fly open at the stretch, the fullness of his fingers moving inside you. His other hand comes up to push on your lower stomach; your head snaps up, and you frown at him, panicked.

“W-what are you– oh,” you hate yourself for it, but you can’t even speak as he applies pressure onto your abdomen. You feel strange; it’s just right and too much all at once. The familiar bubble of an impending orgasm swells in the pit of your stomach, but it’s more intense, wetter than you’ve ever felt it. 

“Close?”

“Mhm,” you force out through gritted teeth. Eren moves his elbow slightly, just enough to bear down on your hip bone where you’re pushing your hips up towards him unwittingly. “But it- it feels weird…I, I can’t–”

“Sh,” he murmurs, mouth back against your clit, “you can do it, just for me, I know you can. It’s going to feel so good, you’ll see.”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you teeter on the precipice, blood roaring in your ears. You want to, you need to–

“Cum all over my fucking face baby, give it to me.”

The band in you snaps, your eyes rolling back into your head. You can feel your cunt spasming around his fingers, pushing something out. Liquid sprays from you, all over Eren’s face, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can’t even hear the lewd sounds coming out of your mouth, too surprised at the gushing orgasm. It finally winds down, and once you gather the energy, you shove insistently at his hand still pumping in and out of your sensitive pussy.

“You have the messiest little cunt,” Eren chuckles at you, wiping his face and kissing his way back up to your gasping mouth, “knew you were a squirter.”

He lands a few gentle taps against your sore pussy, and you flinch. 

“I–I’ve never…” you take a shaky breath in between every word, “never done that before.”

Pride illuminates his face. “Really? I knew you could do it– just for me, right?”

You nod, sitting up on trembling elbows. “Your cock, I– I want it in my mouth. Please let me.”

You reach down to fumble with the button of his jeans, but Eren grabs your wrist, pulling your hand up to kiss it gently. “Next time. I’d never forgive myself if I busted before I got to fuck you.”

Too overwhelmed to answer, you simply nod again, sitting back as he shimmies his pants off. Once you catch sight of it, your mouth waters. He’s big, bigger than you thought, wide enough to where your fingers wouldn’t touch if you grabbed it, and long enough to make you gag. The thought goes straight between your legs, cunt still throbbing and clutching around nothing, and a rush of anticipation washes over you.

Eren flips you over onto your stomach, shoving a couple of pillows underneath your hips to prop your ass up. “Christ,” he exhales, landing a sharp smack to your ass.

“Please, Eren- oh!” You jump; Eren’s circling your asshole, using the mess you’ve already made as lube to pop the tip of his thumb in. “Eren…”

“You’d let me fuck you there, one day, I bet,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, you think. Your body tenses in response, the memory of your first glance at his cock fresh in your mind. Eren swears under his breath. “Maybe next time, then.”

You hear him spit, hear the slick sounds of him lathering himself up. You have a brief moment to think to yourself, with the last glimmering shreds of consciousness in your orgasm-dazed mind, that this is Eren. This is your best friend, pinning you to the bed by the back of your neck, rubbing your lower back, admiring you, fucking you. And then the head of his cock is pressing into you, and that last little bit of hesitation gives way.

“Oh, baby,” Eren bends over you to growl in your ear, “never gonna forgive you for keeping this perfect pussy from me all these years.”

“Eren, it’s so– oh my god,” you trail off, eyes rolling back into your head as a few more inches of him sink into you. The way your body stretches for him, the way he fills you, is unbelievable, sweetened by just the slightest burning sensation.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing his forehead into the back of your neck, “you feel so fucking good. Best I’ve ever had.”

You whine at that, pushing your hips back into his and forcing him to bottom out. Eren swears against your skin, nearly collapsing on top of you. Your cunt pulses around him, desperately trying to hold him. You can hardly fathom the weight of him inside you; you’re just so full, the word runs through your mind on a loop.

And when he rolls his hips into yours– you nearly start praying. He drags against your walls so nicely, you nearly cum again then and there. He works up a torturously slow rhythm, grinding his hips into yours. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying your hardest to suppress the obscene groan about to leave your mouth. You taste blood.

“Never giving this pussy up,” Eren grunts above you, “never letting you give this to anybody else again. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

You nod into the pillow beneath your head, tears pricking at your eyes. He’s picking up the pace now, and the exquisite push-and-pull rhythm of Eren moving inside of you coupled with the fact that it’s Eren moving inside of you is destroying any semblance of intelligent conversation you can muster.

“Say it’s mine,” his face is beside yours now. A hand grabs your hair, turning your face towards him. You know how dazed you must look, mouth open in a permanent gasp, eyes watery and full of hearts. “God, you look fucking incredible. Say it.”

“My…my pussy is,” you swallow hard around the delicious knot of shame in your throat, “yours. It’s yours.”

“That’s my girl,” Eren sits back up, thrusting even faster, “my pussy, my girl. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you pant, canting your hips back against his, feeling your next orgasm approach embarrassingly fast. Eren understands, already knows your body as well as he knows you, and moves the angle of his hips just so to hit that spot he had found so quickly with his fingers earlier. You keen, drooling into the pillow, letting him fuck you stupid.

Eren shoves you over the edge for the second time that night. It’s toe curling, almost violent in nature, the way you cum around him, listening to him hiss as you tighten around him, vice-like. He fucks you through your orgasm for just long enough to see you through it, and flips you onto your back the moment you begin to twitch and shove at his hips, desperate for a break.

You slowly blink your eyes open in surprise, letting the tears roll down your cheeks, expecting to see Eren lining himself up, ready to fuck you senseless once more. Instead, he’s studying you, wiping a tear from your face, licking it off of his finger. There’s a moment happening here, an important one, one you don’t have the mental capacity to absorb right now.

“I want to see you now,” Eren says quietly, “need to see your pretty face when I cum, m’kay?”

You nod dumbly, not knowing how to respond to him in the thick air hanging between you. Before Eren can get any more words out of his open mouth, a loud ring startles you both.

Your phone is buzzing on the floor where it fell from Eren’s pocket; the name on the screen nearly stops your heart. Jean.

You stare into Eren’s eyes, a long, silent beat passes between you both. Your hazy mind is scrambling, grasping at anything you can say to take his mind off of the awkward interruption, but to your surprise, Eren cracks a grin. It’s a wicked grin, prettier than the devil himself and twice as evil.

“Your other boyfriend calling? Checking up on you?”

“He’s not my-”

“Better not be. Not after what I did to you tonight,” Eren’s voice drips with ego. Something in his eyes is territorial, carnal.

You find your words, but they come out quiet. “He’s not. Never again.”

Eren’s grin grows darker. He’s nudging your knees apart with his own, reaching down and pulling one of your legs to wrap around his waist. He’s pushing himself in now, the ringing of your phone fading into the background as the all-encompassing stretch of Eren inside you takes over your thoughts.

“Such a good girl,” he coos, thumbing at your bottom lip, “such a good mouth. Always telling me what I want to hear.”

You nod again, urgently this time, pulling your other leg up to hook them around his waist, hold him inside you, make sure he never leaves again. You’re addicted already; addicted to the pressure in your abdomen, addicted to the way his tip kisses your cervix, addicted to the taste of his sweat as you lick a strip of it from his face, cheekbone to temple.

“I…” you aren’t sure how to articulate how good it is, how good he is. A defeated laugh of your own making interrupts you. “You feel so fucking good. I feel so fucking good right now.”

“God, just look at you, all fucked out for me. You love it, don’t you?” Eren kisses your forehead, face to face with you after propping his elbows on either side of your face. “Love how I fuck you like a whore, don’t you? Tell me, baby.”

“I love it,” your voice is quivering, and you’re vaguely aware of tears streaming down your face. You’re overstimulated, you at least know that, but he just feels so good that asking him to stop seems more painful than letting him keep hammering into you.

“My pretty baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Eren rambles, “so pretty when you cry for me.”

You can’t break away from his gaze, not through the tears or the rapid-fire speed of him fucking into you. Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely hold them up; Eren’s letting a flurry of little grunts and groans fly out, grabbing onto your cheek with one hand.

“Gonna cum soon,” he huffs, hips still pistoning into you hard enough to hurt, “gonna cum in your pussy, really make it mine, okay?”

“Okay,” you whimper, clamping down on him at the mere thought of it.

“Fuck, you like that don’t you?” He seethes against your forehead, thrusts beginning to falter. “You want to be mine? Want this pretty cunt stuffed full of my cum?”

You can feel him getting closer now, sloppy thrusts punching into your cervix, the ache of bruises forming on your inner thighs as he uses you, chasing his orgasm. You force your eyes open, meeting bright, hypnotizing green. Your voice is going to break, you know it, you hate it, you love him for it. “I– I want to be yours. P-please cum in me Eren, I need it.”

He slams into you one last time, holding his hips as tightly to yours as he can manage, cumming deep inside you with a breathless curse. You arch your back, relishing the feel of his cum in you, warm and filling. Even in your fucked-out mind, you know it’s a lot; you can feel the drip of it, seeping out around his cock and down onto the sheets. The leaden collapse of his body into yours, the gradual softening of him inside you, grounds you, pulling you down from the clouds and back into the bed.

It’s Eren on top of you, sweaty skin clinging to yours, his cum that you begged him for leaking out of your abused pussy. Your eyes shoot open. He’s incredibly heavy, your breath still coming out in short puffs as you try to catch it. He slides out of you; one last pitiful whimper leaving your lips as you find yourself empty.

“Holy shit,” Eren breathes out into the tension, a humorless and exhausted laugh punctuating his statement. As he rolls off of you, you’re overcome with the urge to smack him.

“That’s one way of putting it.” You scrounge around in the bed, trying to find the edge of the sheets to cover yourself with. Eren lays beside you, arm tossed over his eyes, as if the entire axis of your friendship hadn’t just flipped on its head. After a beat, you speak your mind, testing the waters. “I should probably call Jean back.”

That catches his attention. Eren sits up, scowling at you. “Why?”

“Maybe he wants to apologize.”

Eren snorts, rolling off of the bed and pulling you up with him, bridal-style; you aren’t sure where he’s taking you, but all the fight’s been fucked out of you, and you melt into his arms, eyes falling closed. “Who fucking cares?”

“I might,” you answer quietly, adjusting to the heat radiating off of his body. When your eyes open, you realize he’s carrying you to the bathroom to clean you up. Your heart thuds sadly in your chest, overcome with so many emotions you couldn’t begin to name them if you tried. You almost want to cry again, for a different reason now.

Eren sits you on the toilet, not responding to your small confession. He drops to his knees before you, reaches a long arm behind him over to the fixtures on his obscenely large bathtub, pushing the plug in and turning the water on. You draw your knees up to your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. Satisfied with the water temperature, Eren turns back to you, one hand placed firmly on each of your kneecaps.

“You don’t need him,” he says, solemn as you’ve ever seen him, “and from what I saw tonight, you don’t even want him. You know that now, right?”

There’s something about the way he says it, a hidden thread of pleading woven into his words. Your exhausted brain holds onto that, but your heart refuses to believe in it, broken and beating wildly in your chest.

“I just–”

“I meant it, you know,” Eren avoids your direct gaze, eyes flitting over every feature on your face, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Meant every word of it.”

You pause, wondering absentmindedly if he can hear the pounding of your pulse. “Really?”

“We don’t need to get into it now,” he shrugs, “but you know that. You know I’d do anything for you. You know I’d treat you well. ‘M not a bad guy.”

Your chest aches. “I know, but Eren–”

“So that wasn’t the best sex you’ve ever had in your life?” He fixes you with a singular, raised eyebrow, so serious that you giggle in his face.

“You might have me there.”

“Better than horseface?”

“Watch it.”

The light returns to his eyes; it loosens a hard little piece in your chest, flooding you with warmth. It hits you just how much you love that little sparkle amongst the green, just how much you would give to see it as often as you can. “We won’t talk about it, for now at least. I’ll get us cleaned up, and we can go watch–”

“Mamma Mia,” you blurt, hopeful.

“No fucking shot. But we can watch something else of your choosing, if you let me eat you out again.”

“Eren!” You smack his shoulder, scandalized. Both of you laugh; your fake outrage is twice as funny considering the state of you right now, smeared makeup and bruises on your neck.

He grins crookedly back at you. “That’s not a no.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[zephyrchama]

Vampire mc. Like it could be an add on of angst if like they failed to protect mc when mc got attacked by a vampire, got turned into one. Like they can make a cute but vamp!mc is thirsty now- 🧛anon

(I started typing one for each brother but they winded up a little longer than intended. >u< I'm gonna break this up into 7+ parts, one for each character! Gonna use this post as the intro and master list for it, so each time a new installment is posted I'll update this here. Part I will be posted in just a minute!) Intro:

Nobody was at fault.

The Devildom is filled with horrors. Dangers lurk within every shadow, eyeing you as easy prey and waiting for the right time to strike. It was honestly a miracle you hadn't been attacked sooner.

Despite that, everybody naturally blamed themselves. You shouldn't have been alone, they should have been by your side, why did they let you out of their sight? They had been naive.

You were locked up for a month in the Demon Lord's Castle, not that you remember much. The first two weeks were the worst. The room was bare, with a mattress and little else. The rare decorative wallpaper had been tattered with scrapes from your nails. You hardly recall anything more than flashes of confusing memories.

Diavolo restraining you with an anguished expression. Barbatos pinning you to the ground with a firm hand. Solomon chanting as you wailed and clawed at the floor by his feet, unable to cross the magical barrier that separated you from his tantalizing flesh.

You were not a pretty sight. It was for the best that those three would remain your only visitors during your stay at the castle. They wanted to look for a cure, but by the time they found you it had been too late. They knew this. They tried anyway.

Vampire metamorphosis is not a pleasant experience. By the third week you began to mellow out and regain conscious thought, but you were moody and irritable and oh so hungry. Your gums hurt. Everything felt hazy.

By week four you managed to stop yourself from gnawing on the mattress and it was decided that you were stable enough to return to the House of Lamentation.

Finally. You craved familiarity - your bedroom, your possessions, your best friends. But everything felt new, and you were a changed person. No longer the human exchange student.

Changes needed to be made, and it took a couple more days before you were permitted to leave the castle. With few words, you finally went back to your Devildom home.

Lucifer's Part here Mammon's Part here Leviathan's Part here (The rest are currently still WIPS and will be updated here when finished.)

[violetteshoneybee]

WIP. (remus lupin x reader)

remus lupin x reader

In which the marauders and their girls are on summer holiday in South of France and Remus realises he wants you.

Warnings: fluff (maybe smut, we’ll see); not proofread!!

Remus had no idea when he agreed to go to the Potter’s summer house in south of France that the summer holidays would go like this. He thought it would be just the four of them boys in a little house. But he did underestimate the Potters wealth a bit.

The taxi stopped in front of the iron gates of a three-story house. The path to the front door was lined by pine trees. Remus could hear some repetitive melody coming from the trees. He attributed that to some kind of grasshopper. The scorching sun, although filtered by the branches, was making the boy’s head ache and sweat. And the noise from what he had gathered to be a cigale was worsening it. Still, he was pleased to discover the house with its walls made of put-together stone, its shutters needing fresh paint, and the small fountain beside the floral arrangement that would go all around the building. James had pushed its faucet to bathe his head in cold water, but Remus was focused on something else now. He had seen someone in the window. Someone he didn’t know would be here.

The door opened in a hurry, and all he could think was, when did he miss that information?

“We were starting to worry, what took you so long?”

“James had forgotten his pacifier, that’s what took us so long. You know how he is when he doesn’t have it.” Sirius climbed the stairs, his sunglasses in his hair and his bag on the shoulder. “Insufferable!” He muttered loud enough for the four girls to hear.

Remus combed his fingers through his hair and took a long breath before opening his mouth

“Well! Hello-”

“What are you doing here? I thought it was just us four!” Peter asked joining Sirius and the others inside.

You stayed in the corner of the door looking at the two boys left.

“Had a nice trip?”

Remus nodded. You looked ethereal in your blue and white sundress, your hair braided together.

“And you? You didn’t wait too long? Lils is not mad right?”

“Don’t start, Prongs.” Remus lifted his luggage. “I like the dress”

“You’ll get burned if you don’t put sunscreen on, Potter.”

“It’s alright, Evans. He’s a big guy.”

“I have some sunscreen if you'd like.”

James shook his head no, not glancing at them, his arm covering his eyes to cover himself. He had decided he was done with Lily Evans. Too much running around, not enough results, he said. And, too busy becoming a better guy, he was not seeing how Lily’s attention toward him had changed. That’s what everyone understood, though.

Remus’s gaze turned from his three friends to the girl getting in the water. You chuckled a bit listening to Lily’s attempt at catching James attention.

“Not too cold?”

You immersed yourself fully in the pool and let yourself float around.

“It’s parfait!”

Remus smiled at your French pronunciation. You and Sirius had been going around throwing random French words in conversation since the first day of the holidays.

“Is it? Should I join you?” You shook your head.

“Don’t ruin it. It feels good like this.” You hummed plunging your head underneath the surface.

Remus looked at how your body moved expertly under the water. The way your hair floated above your shoulders and how sunshine seemed to rain on your back as you swam. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. Away from your legs moving so delicately under the water like a dance he did not know of.

He watched you like this the whole time you were enjoying the nice and cool pool in the back garden of the house. He was sitting on a lounging chair in the shadow of a pine tree. He had kept his shirt on despite the warm weather, too embarrassed to show his scarred body. Remus’s face was already reddened by the sun, and some freckles had started to appear on his nose and cheeks. You had found them quite adorable on him. It betrayed his soft personality that you loved so much.

You had been in love with Remus for two years now. Stealing glances at him when you could, but keeping your feelings for yourself. You were worried you might ruin your bond and your friend group dynamic. As if getting serious with Remus would stop you from enjoying time with the others. Particularly if Remus were to reject you. You couldn’t even think of how your friendship would go after that without being embarrassed to death. Still, from time to time, when you were brave enough, you would attempt to flirt with Remus. Just to see if you had a chance, or if he really was too good for you. You were wondering at that moment, fully aware of the attention on your body, if you could say something to him. Your face was red just at the thought of it.

“My eyes are higher, Rem.” You managed to say without stuttering too much. You had swum to him and were now looking up at him through your lashes.

Remus was speechless. You looked so innocent, so beautiful at that moment. He wanted to take a picture of you, just to keep you in his wallet, and maybe, just maybe, sometimes say to strangers, “That’s my girlfriend, isn’t she beautiful?” He dreamed of that, of saying you were his.

Dividers credit to @cafekitsune

Tag list : @innerloverpainter

[ladykailitha]

Sweet Home Indiana Part 5

Hey all! Heads up for those that missed my previous announcements, I'm going on vacation starting today for about a week.

No WIP Wednesday tomorrow as it's my niece's graduation, but it should be back on next week, depending on how late I get in.

We finally hit pinnacle douche Eddie and the beginning of his turn to the lovable Eddie we know and love.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4

****

Steve walked into his house after a long day at the shop to find Eddie in the kitchen making dinner. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked behind him at the door he clearly unlocked to get in and then back at Eddie.

“How the fuck did you get into my house?” he growled, throwing his keys in the dish by the door and kicking off his shoes.

Eddie didn’t even bother looking up from his dicing of vegetables. “Robin always forgets her keys, so you have to have a spare for her to get in, and because she’s so forgetful it has to be in the same spot.”

Steve let out an annoyed huff. “Under the second flower pot with duck.”

“Right in one, darlin’,” Eddie said, looking up at him with a grin.

“So is this your new strategy to get me to sign the divorce papers?” Steve asked pulling out a beer from the fridge. “Buttering me up?”

“Well,” Eddie said going back to his cutting, “since we’re still married and all with you refusing to sign the papers, I figured I’d just move back in.”

Steve dug around his crock drawer for the bottle opener. “Like you’d give up your cushy tattoo job up in Seattle.” He popped open the lid and took a sip.

He immediately went to the sink and spat it out. “What the fuck is that?!”

“Craft beer!” Eddie said with another grin. “It’s all the rage out on the West Coast. But anyway, I was in town and stopped by the furniture shop because that couch is hideous and has to go. And of course we're going to need a bigger bed.”

Steve scoffed and shook his head. “Whatever, babe. It’s your money.”

Eddie stopped chopping and said with all the innocence he could muster and said, “But Stevie, I thought it was our money.”

Steve who had opened a bottle of his own beer and was drinking it, suddenly froze. His throat still moved, swallow after swallow but the rest of him was stock still.

“I bet the words ‘joint checking account’ are flashing through your mind right now,” Eddie sneered.

Steve emptied his bottle and threw it into the sink with a loud crash. “How much did you take?”

Eddie turned around and faced him, crossing his arms over his chest. “All twenty-nine thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven dollars and fourteen cents.”

Steve’s jaw formed a hard set line and he clenched his fists. “You put it back, right now.”

“Why don’t you use it for something useful, Steve?” he asked, waving his hands in front of him. “You have a shop, why aren’t you putting the money toward that? Christ that is almost life changing money.”

Steve stormed out of the room and was back before he could even raise a protest. “This is what it’s for, asshole and if you don’t put it back I will never forgive you. Do you understand me?”

Eddie looked down at the papers in his hand in confusion, gingerly taking them from Steve. In big bold letters were the words NON DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.

“Am I allowed to read this?” he asked with a gulp.

“It expired five years ago,” Steve bit out. “So yeah, otherwise I wouldn’t be giving it to you, would I?”

Eddie nodded and began reading. The date was roughly three or four months after he left and god was it a mess. It chronicled Susan Hargrove’s addictions to drugs, alcohol, and sex. And that if Steve wanted custody of her daughter, Maxine Maxwell he had to jump through so many hoops, including signing the NDA. His hand shook as he turned page after page of what boiled down to fifteen page document.

“The money is part of the settlement from the court,” Steve said through gritted teeth. “I put it in the old account because I didn’t feel like opening another one and forgot your name was still on it. It pays for her schooling, rent, and food until it’s gone.”

Eddie’s lip quivered. “Shit, Steve, I’m sorry. But I’m still in contact with most of the kids. Even Max and no one told me about this. Not ever.”

Steve frowned and took the pages from Eddie’s trembling hands. “I thought you knew. Hell, it was more than a nine day wonder here in town when the dust finally settled.”

Eddie thought for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. The more he thought about it the more it actually made sense. And fuck if that didn’t hurt like a kick to the ribs.

One of his worst parting shots was that the kids would be fine on their own. They had parents and friends and other people who cared about them. But that fucking NDA proved him to be the biggest asshole in that regard. Because it irrefutable proof that he had been dead wrong about that.

“Fuck,” he whispered, drawing his hands over his face. “It’ll be back in there by tonight, I swear. I’m so, so sorry, Steve. I swear I am. I know you won’t believe me and that’s okay. But I would never do anything that would harm those kids. Not if my life depended on it.”

Steve’s bottom lip quivered and then he pinched his nose and rubbed the end. And fuck if that didn’t break Eddie’s heart. That was Steve’s little tell that he was fighting back tears.

“You really didn’t know?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Eddie shook his head. “I didn’t know. Here...” he pulled out his phone and immediately transferred the money back. He had transferred it in several small amounts as to not trigger that that Fed law thingy and reversed every one of them. “All back.”

Steve let out a shuddering breath. “Were you really going to blackmail me with the money to divorce you?”

Eddie hung his head and let out a sigh of his own. “I can’t tell you why, but me and Chrissy are on a timetable and if we don’t get married by certain date, things can go very badly. So yeah. I was going to do whatever it took.”

Steve’s bottom lip quivered so him bit down on it to stop it shaking.

“Come on,” Eddie murmured. “Let me finish making dinner and we’ll talk. I think there are a lot of things between us left unsaid. I thought it was all on my side, but I’m starting to think there has been a lot of things that I haven’t been told about what’s being going on with you and this town.”

Steve nodded.

****

It took Steve a fair bit of breathing techniques to get his heart rate back to normal after that little stunt. And if he was honest, he couldn’t say had their situations been reversed, he wouldn’t have tried the same thing.

But there wasn’t anyone in his life right now that measured up to Eddie. Or at least that starry-eyed boy he fell in love with the first time.

Eddie had actually made his favorite meal. Manicotti. He had been cutting up the vegetables for the bolognese sauce that he poured over the top.

They sat down on the hideous neon green sofa while it went into the oven to cook.

“This sofa really is grotesque, Steve,” Eddie muttered, bringing one knee up so he could turn and face him.

Steve threw back his head and laughed. “That’s what everyone has said once they’ve seen it.”

“So why keep it?”

He ran his fingers over the worn surface thoughtfully. “Because despite how ugly it looks, it’s soft and comfortable. Great for naps and movie nights. If I spill something on it, I won’t freak out about it getting ruined.”

Eddie’s heart sank to his stomach. That was something that had made having movie nights over at Steve’s parents’ house such a nightmare. No feet on the sofa, no drinks anywhere but on the coffee table with a coaster, no dips or salsa, nothing red or orange, drinks or otherwise. It was the biggest house with the biggest screen, but it was a museum and not a home.

He actually looked around him for the first time, taking in the homey surroundings, the pictures on the wall of not just Steve and Robin, but all the kids. Birthdays, graduations, dances, you name it, if Steve was there with a camera, it was there up on his wall in some way.

The house was neat, but in a lived in sort of way instead of the strict tomb quality of his parents’ house. Christ. He had been joking about wanting to move back, but now he actually did. He could see himself slotting himself into this home as easy as breathing.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Right. So how long have you had this place?”

“About three years now,” Steve murmured. “That’s about when the shop started making a profit and not just coasting along above red.”

“I like it,” he said with a fond smile.

Steve gave his shoulder a shove. “You do not. You don’t need to pretend with me.”

Eddie grasped his hands to his chest. “Ah! I doth protest!” He paused for a moment and tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You’re right, I don’t like it.”

“See?” Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I love it.”

Steve stared at him for a moment before blushing and looking away. “So how long have you and Chrissy known each other?”

“Two years,” Eddie replied. “She came in for a tattoo to cover up the name of her ex-boyfriend and we became really good friends.”

“And she’s a paralegal?” Steve asked.

“Legal assistant,” Eddie said. “Don’t ask me what the difference is, I don’t know. But she’ll always correct people when they say ‘paralegal’.”

Steve nodded.

“So, is it just you and Robin?” he asked, looking around the house for clues there was another person here. Either for Steve or for Robin.

“Yeah,” Steve said with a sad smile. “But not for much longer. She’s starting school in the fall. She just needs to pick which one she wants and let the other know she’s pulling out.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asked. “What are her choices?”

“NYU and University of Washington,” Steve said. “I don’t get wanting to go to either except to get as far away from Hawkins as possible and still be in the country.”

Eddie laughed. “Well can you blame her?”

Steve leveled him with a glare and Eddie gulped.

“Right, sorry. That was a shit thing to say,” he said ducking his head. “I ran away and kept running away and you didn’t deserve that.”

“So why did you? Run away, I mean?”

Eddie ran his fingers over his face and let out frustrated sigh. “I thought it was what I wanted. The fame, the fortune, the screaming crowds every night. And maybe it still is, but the other guys got tired of it. Of the being away from family and on the road all the time, so by the time that all fell apart, it was just too much.”

Steve cocked his head to the side and regarded Eddie fully. He took him all in and not just the cursory glance he got at the bakery.

Eddie had filled out in a good way. He would always be thin, but he was no longer that waif he was in high school. He had more tattoos, which made sense considering his job. His hair was still as wild and untamed as always. He had stubble on his jaw and on his upper lip. There was a weariness to those dark brown chocolate button eyes.

“What was too much, Eddie?”

“The amount of pain I put you through,” he said softly. “And continued to put you through. You didn’t deserve any of it, sweetheart. You deserve a white wedding with all your friends and loved ones around you. You deserve to have someone standing by your side as an equal partner. You deserve someone who isn’t going to run the moment things get rough.”

“I always thought that would be you,” Steve admitted.

Eddie nodded. “So did I, once upon a time.”

“But not anymore?” Steve asked, breathless.

“No. Not anymore.”

****

Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Tag List:

1- @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @ravenfrog @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @goodolefashionedloverboi

3- @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @vecnuthy @irregular-child

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1

5- @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt

6- @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95

7- @blackpanzy @amazing-spiderkeys @oldpinghai @raisedbylibrarians @kultiras

8- @swimmingbirdrunningrock @steddie-as-they-go @captain--low @micheledawn1975 @thespaceantwhowrites

9- @mac-attack19 @blondie1006

[lizaluvsthis]

SMG4: You used to be cool...

"HEY LIZ! howd that new epis-"

*DEEP BREATHING...*

*MOVES AWAY WIPS AND DROPS A NEW HYPERFIXATION*

*thanking @shygirl4991 for putting up some thoughts for the new episode! I really like to read those :)*

You- HAVE NO- F-CKING IDEA HOW LONG I QAS WAITING FOR THE "VILLAIN" THING. GAHHH!!!

OKAY SO-

wait sh-t wrong image...

SO THIS! RIGHT AFTER EGGMAN HAS OBSERVED SMG3 FROM THIS SHT- HE PUTS THREE ON A TEST AND THEN AFTER THOSE STUFF HE REACHED THE FINAL ONE- WHERE HE HAS TO UNALIVE HIS "ARCH NEMESIS" BUT WHAT EGGMAN DIDNT KNOW IS THAT THEY WERE BOTH "EX" RIVALS NOW.

BUT-BUT WHY???

cant we all just talk about the part when THREE WASNT CONSIDERED THE "COOL EVIL VILLAIN" to his other villain mates from what he USED to be back in the old days of his shenanigans??

Eggman doesnt see that our man three has had his thing called- " DEVELOPMENT " RIGHT AFTER THE WHOLE THING...

Three has gone far too long- three has been through so much and so many things had changed including him and his way of seeing things. He had gone too soft from the past few years and eggman sure had been catching up on his daily does.

EGGMAN. However. He considered to be three's idol back then- but now? He sees three as a 'low level of villain' because the three he knew before had so much destruction and destroying stuff.

Eggman missed the three he knew, the one who USED to be a total top Villain.

SMG3 has never realized how much things had changed and that he too did. Now bringing up this part

This part when three was shocked when Eggman told him that his final task was to "KILL" his arch nemesis. SMG3 is flabberghasted.

In his lair- room¿ he was practicing his shooting skill (pointing it at four) for the right aiming AND to finish him off.

See- I noticed something here- SMG3 couldn't bring himself up to do it for seconds... just a single detail of his hand SHAKING while holding a gun, pointing it at SMG4 (which is just a picture of him from a cardboard)

He couldnt do it- just- COULDNT. He had those memories flashing back to him, his hand holding with SMG4, how they both used to bond together, how he said they were FRIENDS and that he really meant to say that infront of his face, with four's reaction.

Notice how the music came to get intense during the flashbacks? Where we saw this event from Three drawing him and smg4 after 23th of wotfi? This is the most important part. That HE SMG3 drew them both together in his personal diary, a MOMENT of a good memory he and four created.

But oh wait- how did this come to three shooting him still? Even tho it was just a confetti? Why did he still shot SMG4 (on that picture)? I'll tell you another reason. "Christmas Wars" :) lets go back to that shall we?

"You'd consider partying with the guy that tried to kill us?"

Now THIS CANON EVENT. so happens to ruin Three's mood. THATS where he onwardly shoots four's picture with a gattling gun... a REASON. Why.

This triggered him SO much from the memories he spent with Four and what he'd thought about his ex rival.

After Three kept being indenial to eggdog that he doesn't care about SMG4 and that "he had NO character development" with him.

That was all a lie. (We already know that- but it's still important and relating to the episodes HOW MUCH of a bastard SMG4 is to SMG3, he continues to be friends with Four as he moves on.)

-the gun to four scene-

During this scene when Three barges in with Four making a new meme for his content Tomato Soup. Four never even thought about the things that could ever happen when three is there. He simply went on with the usual "friends conversations" talk.

Because four knows that they were both friends now. And that he knows 3 has gone soft. With an emotionless face, he approached to Four holding a GUN.

To where Four noticed- "oh a glock- watcha gonna do with that...?" He felt nervous and worried something with three carrying it- "Oh, something that I should of done long ago..." With Three holding up a gun and pointing it at Four, SMG4 screamed "THREE WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?"

The detail... his eyes? From a pinch of second his eyes when he LOOKED infront of Four's? He felt sorry to himself. He had been pointing this gun at SMG4 and the pain he's baring from his chest lived on with mixtures of feelings he had developing with Four next to him.

He was unsure. He couldnt decide- because HIM as SMG3 he wanted to be the most evil villain known of everyone and other of his villain buddies. Including Eggman. And with another spot he also wanted to make eggman prove to him that he hasnt gone soft.

that HE- would actually do it- for himself to prove that he is better...

But he cant- couldnt he?

Lets point this straight- we all get it- three has a soft spot- and that is SMG4 too- he could NEVER do that to him. He promised, he swore, he declared it, he announced it in official.

"Remember what I said? W-we- We're Friends!"

He will never EVER. take this part of him. He will never REMOVE THIS BECAUSE HE BUILT THIS DEVELOPING FRIENDSHIP WITH SMG4

he could never.

SOOO he ends up shooting the tomato with four gettin all worried n stuff- making that "blood splatter" from the window to where eggman mistaken that he actually "did" kill SMG4

SMG3 backfires on Eggman with a sneak attack,

"Like usual-"

Okay three- we get it. You annoy his ass back when he annoys you first. You ruin beeg and his dating plan and may or may have shoved a dynamite in four's mouth right after "the inspection" with his coffee request.

But we've never actually seen any other stuff beyond that reach right after wotfi 23... so three... tell me... how USUAL were you trying to put when you've BARELY DONE ANYTHING EVIL THAT RELATES FROM "KILLING" OUR GUY?

Maybe it was all... pure torture of asmr or just ruining four's day... (thats atleast what he'd meant when he said "killing you" with no tensions of doing so in literal)

When SMG4 looked at three who emotionally cried when he said this line- he still continued to cry (even after when Three smacked his face annoyed with him being a baby)

He still cried at his new meme continuosly. He didnt gave himself a second to think. "If he actually wanted to kill me, then why didnt he just do it already?" "What is stopping him from killing me?"

But no. HE JUST STRAIGHTS UP BEIN ALL OBLIVIOUS AND JUST FOCUSES IN ONE POINT AND CRIES DIRECTLY AT HIS TOMATO SOUP'S DEATH.

NOOO when i THOUGHT. ABOUT THE "allow me to demonstrate" GAVE ME THE REFERENCE FROM ANDRIAS'S WORDS FROM AMPHIBIA "TRUE COLORS" Scene... (if- you guys watched amphibia)

This part when Andrias said "allow me to demonstrate" thats the part he made the whole line about "thats how a thing about friends is it? The more you love em the more it hurts to let them go..." THEN THE LINE CONTINUES WITH HIM DROPPING DOWN THE PROTAGONIST'S FRIEND OFF A HEIGHT-

and seeing this part when- eggman said that? I am... SH-TTING with myself.

With three expecting to take the hit, but instead he pointed the missle at Four, Three would be expecting that now. But with eggman knowing that he and Four had a bond for a few years and on? HE POINTS IT TO FOUR ON PURPOSE. TO SEE HOW THREE WOULD BE ACTING.

Some of you might say "yeah we get it- he pointed that gun at four so whats up about it?" UM- EXCUSE ME... *COUGH* HE- WAS POINTING AT HIS DEAR FUTURE BOYFRIEND/HUSBAND-/HJ

With Three getting a bit too protective and tried defending SMG4 it was all on worth the time. As he squashed four's newly made meme, this is referenced from "mario's spicy day" where back back back BACKKKK in the episode where Four had destroyed Three's whole production area he had took time to work on.

SMG4 destroyed his children. Children of his own that were his MEMES. And putting it here when Four had his own memes as his children? IT WAS HIS- TURN TO SPIN THE TABLES AND PUNCH IT AT FOUR'S FACE.

To let him experience.

The suffering and pain he had done. Thats why... he laughed at him.

With SMG3 putting out his true speech from "I am happy with just the way I am..." he TENSIONALLY- PLACED- HIS RIGHT HAND AT SMG4'S SHOULDER. standing up at his own. All proud and happy...

Three finally learned his own lesson that he doesnt have to be forced to be like someone that he used to be and the stuff he'd usually did before. Because that was the old him, the old self of his? Is gone now. Three is continuing to bloom from his own way and had things that he ever needed or desired to have. A job of his? Is there, friends? There already, a partner by his side? Is also there! (Barely- but still is!) His twitch strreaming or taking care of his son? Is there!

He has had a new purpose of living and this is the path he chose. So he broke free from just by being himself and not getting pushed by other people by just telling him. "You used to be cool..." "wheres the old smg3 we knew?" "Why arent you the three we know that used to commit world destruction anymore?" "Wheres three?"

You cant call the old three because THIS IS THREE.

This is the baby boy we have and he still grows on and on out of his shell. Leave the man alone ya big bozos because he's having his own development, discovering his own ways between living the life of good and bad.

Three had an amazing development honsetly and I dont like how people say "we want the old three back" but you guys cant.

Anyways- these are my messages and uhhh a whole essay or... something- I'M GLAD YOU TOOK YOUR TIME ON READING THIS BECAUSE I REALLY LOVE LOOKING THROUGH THE DETAILS AND SLIGHT REFERENCES THAT'RE PUT IN HERE...

Please dont tell me these two will get foreshadowed... please dont.

AND THAT CALLS OUT FOR YOUR LIZA'S NEW FIXATION FOR THE NEW EPI-

*flat heart rate monitor*

[majorbuckyegan]

✨️ my clegan fic masterlist under the cut ✨️

Ours is just a little sorrowed talk.

Explicit. 8.6k.

He exhaled a shaky breath, feeling another tear sliding down his face. He'd never wanted to cry in front of Gale, but he didn't think he could hold it together any longer.

"It's okay, John." Gale said, gently squeezing his thigh again, "Trust me, I know how hard all of this is. I know how much it hurts with every man that we lose, but we will be okay. Like you said, if there were only two pilots left up there, it'd be me, and it'd be you. We'll be fine.

Read it on ao3 here

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

In whisper as you come to me.

Mature. 8.7k.

He turned his attention away from watching DeMarco and Meatball, to find John still smiling at him in that stupidly charming way. Dressed in his heavy sheepskin flight jacket, with his officer's hat tilted at an angle that was slightly off for regulations, he certainly looked the part. Tall, and handsome, and perfect as ever.

Read it on ao3 here

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Come back and stay for good this time.

Explicit. 15.1k.

He was suddenly furious with Gale for not making it back to him; for leaving him behind with nothing but a locket with a sweet message inside, and the memory of his warm smile. He should have fought harder, he should have flown better, he should have done more in order to avoid being shot down.

Read it on ao3 here

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Loving you isn't the right thing to do.

Teen. 7.1k.

"Yeah, well, that's easy for you to say, isn't it?" He snapped, "We all know what you're rushing home to, since you never shut the hell up about it. Marge, this. Marge, that. Give me a fucking break."

Read it on ao3 here

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Another version of me, I was in it.

Explicit. 9.2k.

"No, I.. I-" He stammered, pushing the sheets off of himself as he scrambled away from Gale, feeling disorientated and panicked.

"Hey, it's alright, it's just me." Gale said softly, reaching out for him.

"Buck?"

"Shh, it's alright." Gale whispered, curling in close to him as he wrapped his arms around him to hold him close, "I've got you, you're safe."

Read it on ao3 here

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

For tonight, let's love like there's no goodbye.

Explicit. 14.6k.

"I'm still getting married, John." Gale said softly, something that sounded a lot like heartbreak in his voice, "What happened here doesn't change that."

He nodded, unable to make himself meet Gale's eyes, "I know, I wouldn't want it to."

Read it on ao3 here

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Dear, John.

Teen. 11.2k.

He stretched over to take the letter, a frown crossing his face as he looked down at the name across the envelope.

- Maj. John "Bucky" Egan.

Read it on ao3 here

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Never saw the sun shining so bright. (Part one of Blue Skies)

Teen. 18.6k.

It wasn't something worth dwelling on. The kiss had been quick and playful, and John was probably closer to drunk than sober right now, and so he knew there was no point in wondering what it had meant, or if it had meant anything at all.

Read it on ao3 here

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Never saw things going so right. (Part two of Blue Skies)

Explicit. 16.8k.

"You need a break. I think the colonel ought to fix you up a weekend pass."

"You should come. London. Let's do it up, Buck. Paint the town red."

"Yeah, maybe next time."

"We'd have a hotel room. A bed, forty-eight hours of leave. You remember what we spoke about in Algeria, don't you?"

Read it on ao3 here

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Blue days, all of them gone. (Part three of Blue Skies)

Teen. 10.2k.

His stomach twisted with something ugly whenever he thought about what John might have been through over the last few days. These injuries didn't look like they'd come just from John bailing from his fort. Somebody had done this to John, and that realisation filled him with a kind of murderous rage that he'd never felt before.

Read it on ao3 here

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Nothin' but blue skies from now on. (Part four of Blue Skies)

WIP.

A year after the war, and without either Marge or John, Gale finds himself on a train to Manitowoc.

Read it on ao3 here

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[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 17/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE

TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FORTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

                While they travel together most people assume Vi and him are a couple, it helps a lot of the time. They end up sharing a room or bed as they move around. It does make hooking up difficult, but he either resorts to bathroom stalls, or going home with guys after letting Vi do her hard ass security routine where she insists on taking any guys photo before she lets Bradley leave with him. Annoying as fuck but he’s certain he dodges some real bullets because of it. On the rarer instances when he’s hooked up with a woman she’s done the same thing, although it had resulted in more than one awkward proposition for a threesome. He knows Vi doesn’t do casual, but she’s more than happy acting as his wingman, and telling him that in no uncertain terms she doesn’t find him at all attractive and never will.

                Spending nearly every waking moment together for weeks and then months on end helps solidify their relationship. He’s never had a sibling, and while Vi has two sisters, they’re both quite a bit older though, so he can only think that this must be what it’s like. She knows him, has known him, for several years now and even though she never likens their relationship to that of siblings she definitely calls him cousin openly and consistently, treats him like he’s family in a way he can’t imagine having any other way without calling her sister. Cousin. Whatever.

…            …            …

                He wakes up feeling the most well rested he has in ages, muscles pleasantly sore, blankets warm, air conditioning making the room cooler and he takes a moment to just burrow down further beneath the blankets and smiles to himself. This is what everyone wants him to do when they tell him he needs a vacation. If this is what it’s going to be like then he’s going to be much more easily persuaded. He stretches and reaches for his phone, surprised to see it’s after ten. He needs to ring Vi and check in and make sure the restaurant hasn’t fallen down, not that he doesn’t trust those he left in charge, but it’s his, and he’s been gone for a while and it doesn’t always sit right leaving it for so long. However he trusts Vi implicitly and she won’t hold back telling him if he needs to come home, no matter how much she thinks he needs a break.

                “Come up for breath huh?”

                “Hello to you too.”

                “You’re having a sexcation, I’m surprised you’re awake.”

                “Jake’s gone to see his family.”

                “Oh. Right. Of course. I see how it is. You’re bored.”

                “I’m…” he lets out a long calming breath, “I wanted to check in with you. See how it’s going in my absence?”

                “I came back to a pile of ash and am busy filling in the insurance paperwork…”

                “Vi…”

                “Everything is fine. Everyone is fine. We created a well-oiled machine and it’s working exactly as it should. Calm down and enjoy you sexcation…”

                “What if it’s… more than that.”

                “What do you mean?”

                Bradley bites his lip, wonders if he should just blurt out that he’s already asked Jake to consider dating him, having a long distance relationship and trying something, no matter how crazy or difficult it might be. If he tells Vi he’s already done it, she’ll support him, without question. However if he asks her opinion then he’ll also get it, honest and brutal and he’s terrified it might not be supportive but he still wants to hear it.

                “So, I met his sister yesterday. One of his sisters. She invited me to dinner to meet the rest of his family tomorrow night… I really like him.”

                “Yeah. Of course you do. He’s your Cinderfella.”

                “Cinderfella was a fairytale, Jake is… a cocky asshole who adds sauce to everything.”

                “And yet you like him anyway.”

                “I do. I do like him.”

                “Yeah. I could tell. You going to actually do anything about it other than just… sex?”

                “Do you think I should?”

                “I’m not making that decision for you. But… He was learning Italian. Maybe on the off chance that he might one day meet you again. I mean. Slim to zero chances if you were actually Italian, but he was doing it anyway. He makes you laugh. His stupid sauce thing. You think it’s fucking cute and funny. It’s like he’s made you loosen up a bit and that’s… it’s good to see. I want you to be happy and more relaxed and if you have to be with a guy that adds sauce to everything to be happy then I will make sacrifices…”

                “Wow. Big of you.”

                “What is the worst he can say? No, right? Thanks but no thanks?”

                “Yeah.”

                “And what’s the best he can say?”

                “I love you, lets run off to Vegas and get married?” Bradley jokes, because he’s already had the conversation with Jake, and Vi is already pushing him to asking. And Maria had been doing the same, so having family also think that they might work together. Despite the distance and jobs. To try it.

                “Holy shit, you’re thinking about marrying this guy.”

                “What? No I’m not.”

                “You literally just mentioned running off to Vegas to get married!”

                “It was hypothetical!”

                “And if he asked?”

                “I’d… I’d say yes,” Bradley says, but he has to hold back laughter, because he wouldn’t, but god does he want Vi to think he would.

                “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

                “He’s not going to propose marriage Vi.”

                “Well, still more likely than him saying no to whatever it is you’re going to ask him… Bradley. You’ve met his family. Well. A sister. He’s met me, which is as much family as you have and talk to on the East Coast. You’ve shoving several months into two weeks… But do not, under any circumstances run off to fucking Vegas and get married. Aunt Silvia would kill you as soon as she caught wind of it.”

                “Well, I’m not going to ask him,” Bradley says, grinning, because god he loves winding her up.

                “Why not? You have to take a risk sometime…”

                “I’m not going to ask him, because we already talked about it yesterday and we’re… dating. Going to try the whole long distance th-”

                “Mamma Mia! Stronzo!” Vi snaps out, followed by further strings of insults in Italian and Bradley laughs at her annoyance, feels accomplished in a way that only annoying her brings.

                “Yeah yeah, think of me tomorrow when I’m meeting his entire family. For the record, he has five sisters.”

                “Oh… oh that’s beautiful. That’s what I call karma. Stronzo.”

                “Yeah, laugh it up. Can’t be any more intimidating the Nana and Nonna.”

                “True. Think you’ll take him to Italy?”

                “It’s been six days. How about we just… slow it down. Take it easy.”

                “Hmm. From the guy who has already decided to date him and try long distance. And yet I’m the one suggesting crazy shit.”

                Bradley groans, and he knows what he’s going to ask next isn’t going to help at all in terms of making Vi think he’s not rushing into things.

                “His sister clocked me as soon as I walked in by the way. She’s a fan.”

                “And?”

                “Jake has no idea who I am…”

                “Oh… oh shit. That’s not going to work.”

                “He knows my name. But he doesn’t like watching reality TV. He saw one of my recipe books, that Maria owns, and he didn’t even blink. Was just… oh, good for you. You’ve done a cook book.”

                “Okay. So maybe he’s just very chill about it?”

                “Maria thinks he’s oblivious and will remain oblivious.”

                “Maria is…”

                “His sister. She invited me to dinner. To meet everyone else. Said that Jake can be pretty blind to things even when it’s right in front of him. And that she’ll… maybe help him remain in the dark a little?”

                “That’s not a good idea.”

                “Not in a bad way. Just… she’s warning all of Jake’s other sisters, so they don’t make a big deal and are prepared when I turn up. She was not prepared for me to turn up, Jake had been calling me Leo the whole time. I’m lucky she just rolled with it. We’d met at the market as well, so…”

                “He knows your name though right?”

                “Yeah. And Maria calls me Bradley.”

                “Oh. So… he knows you’re a chef, that you’ve done some books and what…?”

                “That I work in a restaurant in New York. But also that I travel a lot for work. Sometimes.”

                “You do travel a lot.”

                “Yep.”

                “Okay. Well, for the record I think you should maybe try and spell it out for him.”

                “It’s kind of nice having him like me for just me…”

                “Leonardo…” Vi says, and he can hear the reproach in her tone. “He already likes you. Don’t think he’s going to care about your very limited claim to fame.”

                “Yeah, but you know people think of me differently when they see the TV version of me, and then meet me in person.”

                “I don’t think Jake is going to be one of them.”

                “Yeah? Why do you think that?”

                “Because of the way he adds sauce to fucking everything. If there was a guy who cared less about what you do for a job I challenge you to find him. Salsa scandalo.”

…            …            …

                “So… want to tell us about him?”

                “Why bother? You’re just going to grill him tomorrow.”

                Again silent looks are exchanged and Jake realizes that maybe Olivia is also an owner of Leo’s cookbook.

                “Are you a fan of his?” Jake asks.

                “I…” she starts, looks to Maria. “Yes.”

                “Great.”

                “Okay, you guys cannot make a big deal or embarrass me, okay?”

                “This is the first person you’ve ever brought home. It’s kind of a big deal.”

                “If you guys screw this up for me, he’ll also be the last guy I ever bring home.”

                “Okay okay, we’ll be on our best behavior. We promise.”

                Jake doesn’t trust that statement at all but it’s not like he has much choice in the matter.

EIGHTEEN

[skyward-floored]

this ask is an invitation to yap about whatever you want to 💙

- hero-of-the-wolf

I was going to yap about the incredibles au but then I got distracted and then I was thinking about that thing I mentioned the other day about IAU Wind and Four being blasted off to an alternate dimension and I started writing and DARN IT ALL I WROTE SOMETHING EVEN THOUGH I SAID I WOULDN'T so now I feel like I should share it because your ask sent me on this crazy spiral bfhsbgkhshhdsjhfk

I purposely didn't bother with a beginning though, I told myself i wasn't going to expend any big effort on it. this is it. no more. not until I finish more wips.

This is when Wind and Four first run into Legend-- they don't really understand the scope of what they've stumbled into here yet.

(explanation/context if you're confused)

...

Wind glared at his brother, fed up with his weird questions and acting like he didn't know them, and unusually harsh attitude. Just because they'd been launched into some alternate-version of their world didn't mean he had to act like such a jerk!

“We’re not civilians! Stop calling us that!” Wind said, stamping his foot. “Legend would you just listen?”

Legend froze, his eyes going wide. Then his face twisted up and he grabbed Wind’s collar, startling a yelp out of him.

“How do you know that name?” he demanded, and Wind swallowed, staring at his older brother.

“Legend, you’re... it’s because I know you, you’re... you're Link,” Wind said weakly. “Link Forester.”

Legend’s expression didn’t change, and his grip tightened on Wind’s shirt.

“Don’t call me that. You have exactly one minute to explain why I shouldn’t kill you right now for knowing my secret identity,” Legend growled, and Wind swallowed.

“...Can you put me down?” Wind asked a little squeakily, and Legend paused, then dropped his shirt. He didn’t move back though, and his glare stayed on his face.

“Clock’s ticking. Explain.”

Wind looked at Four in a panic, and his younger brother stepped forward. “Look, this is going to sound crazy no matter how we put it, but... we’re from an alternate dimension.”

Legend’s expression didn’t change.

“Um, right. So, the dimension we’re from, it doesn’t have this... program thing you’re in. In fact, supers were banned by the government before we were born, they were only recently reinstated. We don’t have all these weird restrictions, I mean we still keep our identities secret, but there’s not all of... this.”

One of Legend’s eyebrows raised, but he looked otherwise unmoved. “Twenty seconds.”

“Right, okay but that’s not the only thing that changed. In our world, Legend, you’re our brother,” Four stressed, and Legend got an odd look in his eyes. “That’s why we know who you are, you’re our brother, and so are Twilight and Wild and Hy—”

“Whoa whoa, stop,” Legend said, motioning a time-out. “I only have one brother.”

Wind felt like he’d been punched.

“Wh... what?” he croaked, and Legend huffed.

“I only have one brother. How hard is that for you to understand? And what kind of a name is Wild anyway?”

Four looked just as stunned as Wind felt, and Legend looked between them, gaze sharp.

“...you really believe I’m your brother,” he said, voice not quite as biting as before.

“In our world you are,” Wind said. His voice was more watery than he’d prefer, but he couldn’t stop it.

Legend really didn't recognize them?

Something softened a little in Legend’s eyes as he looked between their shocked and teary expressions, and his gaze lingered on Four, eyes darting across his face.

“We have powers too, if that helps convince you,” Wind added quietly. He guided some wind to stir up the leaves in the alleyway to prove it, twirling them in a gentle loop around the three of them.

Legend’s eyes went wide and he grabbed Wind’s wrist, making his wind abruptly die.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, darting his gaze around.

“I was just—”

“Doing that kind of thing around here without any documentation is liable to get you in serious trouble,” he snapped, and released Wind’s wrist, jabbing a finger at Four. “Don’t show me yours.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Four huffed.

Legend looked between them both again, a conflicted look passing over his face. He ran a hand through his bangs, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Okay. This... I don't know if I believe you. But the powers change things. Look, you kids are seriously—”

Just then an alarm went off somewhere on Legend, and he looked at the band around his wrist, eyes going wide. He tapped at it and pushed a few buttons, then growled, even though the alarm stopped beeping.

“We’ll have to talk later. You guys need to get out of here, my agent is coming and you’re unregistered supers.”

“That’s bad?” Wind asked, and Legend’s eyes darkened.

“Very. Look, I’ll try to meet up with you in a few hours. If you’re who you say you are, you should know where I live. Tell my Mom you’re friends of the rabbit.”

“But our family moves all the time,” Wind interrupted in a bit of a panic. He didn’t want Legend to leave, they’d just found him, and he didn’t want to be left in this weird, scary version of their world with nobody but Four again. “What if we don’t—”

Legend growled again and jabbed a finger to his chest. “East side of town. Miyamoto street. House with the pink mailbox. Now get out of here, seriously.”

Wind swallowed, meeting Legend's eyes, then nodded as Four grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the alleyway.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

arsonist Neil, if you're up for it. Happy Wednesday!!

WIP Wednesday (9/4) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 224)

Andrew should have never agreed to this bullshit dinner.

That's more obvious now than it was four days ago when Aaron was here, trying to convince Andrew it would be fine. Andrew isn't sure how it could possibly be 'fine' knowing the history between the three of them, but he said he’d be there. And, unlike his brother, he does not go back on his word. No matter how badly he wants to. (He and 10 are both taping tonight's episode of Supernatural.)

But yes. It is now 6:17 and Andrew is only half dressed. Half because he's been trying for an hour to decide what one should wear to a function they don't want to attend and that is being hosted by someone they do not like. His first thought was to wear some of his older clothes. Something edgy and all black, like he did in college. Hell, he thought about wearing the exact outfit he'd worn that day he met Katelyn in the library. But her memory probably isn't that good. It would be a wasted attempt. Besides, that shirt has a hole in it now. (He dropped a cigarette on it.)

For some reason, Andrew's had 10 on speaker throughout this entire fiasco. He's sent a few photos of options and 10 says he looks good in them all. It's not helpful though. Andrew's not any closer to deciding, but his ego is a bit overinflated. He picks up a pair of dark wash jeans and realizes they're the ones he wore to the cafe the time 10 didn't show. He sets them off to the side, as if they're bad luck, and continues rifling through his closet like something new will appear to him.

"Hey, send me a photo of your closet. I want to see what you’re working with." 10 says when Andrew growls at his stupid clothes for the third time. Andrew has to hold in a laugh.

"No offense 10, but you're not exactly an authority on fashion."

"I could be."

"But you're not. I should be helping you pick out clothes, not the other way around." Andrew says, making 10 huff out a sigh.

"Fine. Maybe I'll let you take me shopping one day," 10 says, making Andrew bite his lip. In theory, it's an amazing idea. Andrew would dress 10 up to his own tastes and ogle him the entire time. But then again, they probably wouldn't get that far. Knowing 10, he'd find a way to sneak out of the dressing room and text Andrew some stupid excuse.

Andrew hums in acknowledgement.

“I know, I know. You think I look like a homeless loser. Well, guess what. I am!” 10 says, making Andrew laugh. “And I know I dress for comfort and practicality over aesthetics, but that's not a bad thing."

"Mm, you're right.”

"So send me a picture of your closet,” 10 demands. Andrew nods to himself and starts to open the camera, but then 10 startles him. “This is fun. I like seeing you dressed up.”

Andrew nearly chokes. “You do? Why?”

"It’s just interesting, I guess. You know, I usually just see you in uniform. Or those old, angry-looking T-shirts you cycle through when you're at home." 10 says, citing Andrew’s hoard of old band shirts from his emo phase. (Not a phase.) Since they first started exchanging selfies, 10 has seen Andrew in half a dozen black shirts with barely legible fonts and always asks what they’re supposed to say. 

Then Andrew reminds him of their deal and 10 sends a photo back. Usually, they’re taken in his hotel room. Sometimes they’re taken outside. Andrew likes those best. The sunlight brings out all the shades of 10’s hair and makes his eyes so pretty. 10’s phone is sort of shit for selfie-taking, since it has no front camera. But 10 does his best and Andrew saves every picture he receives, even when they’re blurry. Even when they’re completely random and stupid, like the display of cookies Walmart had out the other day with the caption, ‘should I get you some? ;)’

[moongreenlight]

U already KNOW what time it is baybee!!!! WIP WEDNESDAY!

Been riding the Gaz high and this has been in the works recently (I wrote 2k words yesterday) so here's this!

Director!Gaz x Actress!Reader

Summary: It’s the mid-1970’s and you’ve recently made the unshocking discovery that it’s difficult to find good work acting. Lucky you stumble on the wrong opportunity at the right time!

You’re not dumb enough to fall for the advertisements in the papers looking for actors in ‘up and coming independent films.’ Not anymore.

After being burned so many times by ‘pay to audition’ schemes and sleazy directors only looking to collect videotapes of girls doing porno auditions, you gave up on that front.

But what’s the stipulation on extenuating circumstances? Like when you’re working at a bar a few blocks away from the community theater and a man comes up and sits at the counter all by himself.

He’s gorgeous and a sweet talker. Seems intent on chatting with you even though you really should be polishing glassware. And once he’s finally caught you in his snare, he drops a bomb that up until this point you’d only ever heard stories about.

He says he’s a small-time director and he saw you in the last production the theatre put on. He laughs and makes a lighthearted self-deprecating joke about being “one of those wankers in the paper” to which you wrinkle your nose and give him a weary smile.

But, Jesus, if he can’t make a bad thing good. He’s got all the makings of a politician the way he’s able to talk circles around you until you agree to show up to an audition for his latest project. ‘Trouble in paradise’ or something to that tune.

He tips you twenty pounds and his business card on a coke he barely touches. Uses your pen to write your audition time on the back of the card.

Wednesday at 11a. x

He doesn’t give back the pen.

Your roommates do no good talking you out of it. Hushing your half-arsed arguments about scams and serial killers and all kinds of things. It ends with the four of you in a pile on the couch, wine-drunk and giggling yourselves into hysterics.

So two days later you go. Forcing your roommates to promise no less than five times that if you’re not heard from in an hour that they’ll send in the authorities.

You find your way to the address on the card that now looks tired in comparison to when you first got it. The edges are fussy and dog-eared from your worrying with it and passing it around to prove its legitimacy.

It doesn’t look like any studio or office you’ve seen. Far from. And that should have been the final nail in the coffin. Should have been the reason you turned tail and went back home. But something pulled you up the worn steps of the house. That same something, now cowering a bit at the looming possibility, brought you to rap your knuckles sharply on the part of the door with a few different layers of paint chipped away to expose the cheap metal underneath.

You’re left standing on the stoop for a few moments too long with no answer. And just as you were about to come to your senses and return home with some sliver of your dignity still intact; the door swung inward and exposed the same man from the bar - Kyle - with his horrible, beautiful, toothy smile.

“Thought you were going to stand me up. Wouldn’t have known what to do with myself.”

You catch yourself thinking it’s a shame that he’s directing and not starring in movies. His devastating good-looks and all. Must be a terrible read.

There’s a card table set up in the living room. Two folding chairs behind it that look flimsy at best. Three thick packets that have been three-hole punched on the side, but held together by a binder clip in the top center.

The rest of the furniture is pushed up against the wall. A hodge-podge of mismatched chairs and a sofa that very well could have been your grandmothers and a few banged-up side tables.

He offers water. Offers to take your purse. You decline both. Opt to stand a bit stiffly on the faded rug in the center of the room with your bag tucked snugly under your arm.

Maybe you should make a run for it. Maybe you were stupid to come at all. He’s a total stranger for Christ sake.

Before you can will your feet to move, there’s s bang from behind you. A screen door slamming shut and rattling on its hinges. It startles you almost a foot into the air.

“Nervous?”

Kyle is cool as ever, sliding into one of the chairs, waggling his eyebrows at you. It whines under his weight and you’re suddenly very aware of just how bulky he is. Doesn’t look it on passing glance, but when all you’ve got to look at is the way his shirt fits it becomes glaringly obvious.

“Easily startled.”

You correct, trying to decide whether or not it’s passé to turn over your shoulder to find the source of the heavy footsteps behind you.

He hums and grabs one of the packets, taking off the clip and leafing through it. Pulling out a few odd pages and setting them on the table.

The footsteps reveal their maker when he rounds the corner into the room and shuffles behind the table. If you thought Kyle was big, this man is properly a behemoth. A bit taller, broader in the shoulders, a layer of fat packed on over his muscles. He looks to be older by a few years. He gets crows feet when he nods and smiles at you before taking his seat.

The chair looks as though it would be happier pulling its own legs out from underneath itself.

“Cap’.”

Kyle doesn’t look up from his papers when he addresses the man.

You get no formal introduction to ‘Cap’ though he doesn’t seem to be truly involved in the audition process. He barely glances up from his packet. Content to nurse a fresh cigar and lean further back in the chair than you think should be plausible.

You read from the stack of pulled-out papers with sloppily highlighted lines and try not to shy away from meeting Kyle’s watchful eye.

The audition goes normally, all things considered. You’re instructed to read three different scenes. Without the time to read the blurb on the project, you draw the conclusion that “Trouble in Paradise” is some sort of short suspense film centered around a woman living, shockingly, in paradise.

The writing isn’t first-rate, but you suppose that’s to be expected. You have a hard time piecing together how the scenes flow, but that’s not your largest concern.

“Lovely. Really, darl’.”

Kyle stands when he talks. Commands the attention even of such a small audience. Takes up space in the room like he’s owed it.

You smile, feeling a bit more at-ease now that things seem to be wrapping up.

“N’ how do you look in a bathing suit?”

The question takes you entirely off-guard. It makes your jaw fall far enough open that you’re left looking like a fish out of water.

“I- sorry?”

Kyle’s face doesn’t change. Fantastic at keeping up appearances. He’s still casting that warm smile over you. The focus of it makes you feel like you’re sunbathing.

“Bathing suit, love. How d’you look?”

Disappointment drops like a stone in your belly. Heavy and fast. It’s another scam. Of course it is.

“Oh. I don’t- I don’t do dirty movies.”

It must be palpable on your face even more than it is in your voice.

‘Cap’ glances up at Kyle when he ashes his cigar. The smell is nauseating. He seems to be chewing on a smile. Kyle meets his eye for only a moment, amusement painfully evident on his face.

“You’ve just read the pool scene. Hardly anything dirty about costuming.”

[raccoonfallsharder]

an excerpt from Part Three Candied Apples. 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑

thievery in the garden.❤︎❤︎ ⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall masterlist | main masterlist

finally finished drafting the third (and final) part of ⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑ (a meetgroot), currently clocking in at 37 pages and 17,251 words of teasing, smut, and sentimental nonsense. is any of it good? who knows? but i should be done editing it and have it posted sometime next month (you can check the monthly forecast on july 1 and i should have a semi-concrete posting date by then). in the meantime, to whet your appetite...

fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2/3 parts | wip | word count: pending.

“All right, sweetheart,” he croons, his mouth still just a breath from your jaw, from the soft needy flesh of your throat. You feel yourself sway toward him, but he shifts at the same time you do: pulling back, keeping himself just a whisper out of your reach. “Go on. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about, so I know what you like when I put my hands all over you.”

“I — I think about a lot of different things,” you manage to choke out. Your eyes flicker: catching him in your periphery, then casting back out over the city and the sparkling of its lights. You can see your rooftop community garden from here, and the ropes of plasma orbs draped like glittering diamond necklaces over the rows of growing things. You concentrate on it. Your breath feels shallow and thin, lungs straining with the weight of your need. “Sometimes I — sometimes I think about you being rough with me.” Maybe you shouldn’t say that. Maybe you should ask for gentle, for light touches and sweet words, for something romantic and soft. You do like romantic and soft, sometimes. But right now you’re so desperate — for touch, for his touch — right now you’re so greedy and needy and wanting — that any softer fantasies turn instead into bruising hands and welts left by claws, and thrusts so hard that your teeth click together in your dreams.

Admitting it aloud, though? You’re not sure you’ve ever been so humiliated in your life. Your eyes flutter closed in a wince, and your thighs clench under your ruffled skirt.

“Oh, yeah?” The drawl of his voice is low and entertained. He tsks. “Just like I thought — gettin’ yourself into trouble here, and too shy to do anything about it. You’re gonna have to be more specifical than that, princess.”

You bite your lip and hazard a sideways glance at him. “What — how—”

“What’s it like when you think about me—” His voice drops, turning predatory. “—being all rough with you?” 

“I — I don’t know.” Your breath feels even more tattered and frayed. “You seem — strong. I think you could maybe — throw me around if you wanted to?” God. You press your fingertips back into your cheeks, giving up the charade of pretending to being anything but mortified. “I guess — I’m not really sure how that would work since I’m so much bigger than you?”

He tilts his face in closer to you — a whisper of his fur against the back of your fingers. “Oh, I think I can figure it out.” Each word is bitten around a sharp-toothed smile. “So tell me more, shy girl. In these damp little daydreams of yours, do I got you on all fours?”

You hiccuping a gasp, knees suddenly wobbling at the image that flashes to the forefront of your mind. “Uhm, sometimes,” you whisper. “Other times, uhm — on my back? With, uhm, my knees folded up against my chest?”

He makes a sound in your ear — a sort of low, rumbling clicking noise. The edges of his fur vibrate against you. “Uh-huh. That sounds nice to me, angel. A real nice little thing you’re just aching to give me.” 

You swallow. 

“Anything else, when I take you rough?” It’s a purr, you realize — a true purr. You hadn’t known a purr could sound so dangerous. “You like getting your ass slapped, angel?” The endearment sounds like a taunt, now. 

You lick your lips. “I — I’ve never tried it before, but…” You trail off, everything in you furling so tight you can’t get the words out.

“But you think about it,” he finishes with a grin — so smug, so self-satisfied and sharp that you can feel it cramping your abdomen. Your eyes are wide on him when you nod, before they swerve away — trying to retain some last scrap of self-preservation.

Still, you can hear him chuckle — can feel it, teasing against the skin that’s crying out for him.

“You open to us trying a little bit of that, then?” he rumbles against you, tilting his head and dipping his nose deeper into the space between your neck and your shoulder — like he wants to nuzzle in, but won’t. He’s taunting you — maybe taunting himself too — and he’s close enough that you can pick up on the scent of him: something like juniper, and something like blackberries. Leather — probably from his uniform — and something sharp and smoky. You breathe it in greedily — take it into your lungs like you’d plant a garden of it if you could.

“M’not interested in smacking your face around,” the Captain adds, “but I’d slap just about any other part of you if you let me.” He pulls back, and from the corner of your eye, you can see his tongue run over his teeth — like he’s imagining tasting the warmth of your skin after it’s been struck a few times. “I’d frickin’ love to see you bounce, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters out of your lungs in a shaky stumble that you try to crush back. Your fingers clutch rigidly at the edge of the wall. “I’d be okay with that,” you manage to squeak out, trying to reign in the thump of your heart on your breastbone.

His hand snaps out, black skin on black shadows, and he grips the line of your chin and turns your face abruptly toward him. It’s sudden, and maybe a little scary — your heart and belly both tumble inside you and you choke on a gasp — but it’s also the first time he’s really touched you beyond his knuckles teasing under your sundress-strap, and the featherlight bracelet of his fingers on your wrist. You immediately melt into his grasp. Everything inside you leans into him, until you dazedly think that he’s holding you up, just by his fingertips kissing your face. He startles at the way you sink into his demanding grasp — then lets another pitying smirk curl the corner of his mouth. 

“Needy little Terran pet,” he muses, stroking his thumb just once, back and forth along your jaw. You struggle to hold back the little whimper wisping up over your ribs, and you think at first that you’re successful — but he must see your throat working, because he laughs again: softly, this time, but meanly. 

“Gotta say though, angel, I’m not interested in what you’re okay with.” 

For the first time, his voice drops from a quiet, mocking sort of laughter and into something closer to a growl. It sounds dangerous, but your body doesn’t seem to realize that — or maybe it doesn’t care. Your skin prickles deliciously: every muscle straining for him, every cell lighting up and begging. 

“M’only interested in what’s gonna make you wet. And what’s gonna make you whine for more.”

Your mouth pools with saliva and you have to swallow. “W-what about you?” you whisper, and your voice is as shivery as new leaves in a manufactured Knowhere breeze, trembling on the play of shadow and soft glow, filtering over the rooftops and glimmering between the branches of Groot’s trees. “What did — what do you think about? What do you like?”

The threat in his voice drops away, but you’d be a fool to think for a moment that he isn’t still a predator in his own right. The smirk grows wider: unrepentant and leering. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” he purrs. “I like to run my frickin’ mouth.”

wind·fall /ˈwin(d)ˌfôl/ noun. an apple or other fruit blown down from a tree or bush by the wind; an unexpected piece of good fortune.

semi-shy touch-deprived reader tries to avoid meeting knowhere’s intimidating captain. is profoundly unsuccessful.

based on a prompt by @creativepromptsforwriting: The apartment she moved to has a beautiful, well-tended garden. After a while she finds out that her neighbor is the one tending to the plants and she decides to help him out one day.

⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall masterlist | main masterlist new! flower dividers & banners by @/saradika-graphics

[nburkhardt]

Somebody Loves You, You Got A Friend. (Part 8)

Other parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Seeing as all my current WIPs are making me mad, I nearly forgot about this. Since it’s already written out and in my notes app, I thought I should post it lol.

Quick note: a few POV changes happen, there’s a bit of plot and I kinda bash Nancy a bit. (picks up right after part 7)

Gareth watches as Eddie falls asleep and he only knows because of how relaxed his friend looks and he pulls his eyes away to find the freshmen looking so confused.

They don’t ask anything, thankfully, but they’re not at all sneaky with their glances towards Eddie. Or the completely silent conversation they have with each other.

He just hopes whatever it’s about doesn’t involve Eddie.

Eddie’s dragging the rest of the day and Gareth is about ready to explode at how dumb his friend is being, “dude, you should’ve stayed home”

“I had to take tests, that effects my final grades” he says, “I- Ms. Click fucking hates me dude”

And unfortunately, his friend is right and he has to watch as he suffers finding his work and everything else. The rest of the day is pretty boring, the only weird thing was catching Nancy Wheeler eye Eddie during their shared class. He only noticed because he’s trying and failing at not laughing at Eddie, who’s nodding off during Mr. Smith’s lecture.

Once the final bell rings, he’s trying to find Eddie since their last class isn’t shared.

He turns the corner and nearly falls on his ass, “fuck” he mumbles and looks to see the person he ran into, “dude my bad.”

Jonathan Byers nods and helps him up, “sorry, I wasn’t paying attention either”

He’s about to say something else, when he hears an all too familiar laugh. Looking around he finds Eddie with a nasty glare aimed at Nancy Wheeler, he looks at Jonathan and wordlessly they both move towards the other two.

“I don’t fucking sell shit anymore, Wheeler and it wouldn’t be any of your business if I did!”

She crossed her arms and glares up at Eddie, “but you did sell! And it is my business!”

He can just see Eddie’s anger, before anything else happens, he steps closer to his friend and quickly grabs his arm, “Eddie let’s go, cool off before you get home, yeah?”

Eddie doesn’t answer, just glares at Nancy, “it’s not your business, he told you to stay away! That means, stay away from me too.”

He doesn’t say more, simply because Gareth punches his arm and leads him back out, “dude what the fuck?”

Eddie shakes his head and makes a beeline to the van, “Nancy is a bitch, dude.”

“I noticed, who were you talking about?”

“Stevie. Nancy believes she can get him to help her with some shit. Been like this for a year now, when Stevie and I were only just starting out with our friendship” Eddie explains with a glare aimed at nothing and his hands clutching and unclutching from frustration, “When he was only a few months pregnant, there was one morning where his mom answered the door to find her standing there and wanted her to wake him up to fucking talk about whatever”

That’s, really fucking confusing to Gareth. He looks towards the school and sees Jonathan and Nancy walk out with their brothers, “didn’t Nancy break up with Steve?”

Eddie let out a near hysterical laugh, a cigarette dangling from his mouth now, “She nearly fucking broke him, actually.”

“What?”

Eddie jumps into the drivers seat, pointing a finger to his passenger seat and he doesn’t need to be told twice. Once inside the van and Eddie starts it up, “Stevie told me that she blamed him for Barb’s death and his mom told me about how she found him sobbing about it. He said Nancy called him bullshit, that their whole relationship was bullshit.”

“Fuck dude”

He’ll never be able to look at Nancy the same, “and now she’s pushing you to what?”

Eddie scruffs and turns down his street, “Fuck, I don’t even know. She came up to me demanding to know if I knew why Stevie left school or where he is, then when I wouldn’t answer, tried saying I’m a bad influence”

He laughed, “I mean you are but not like that”

“Fuck you dude” he smiles and shakes his head, “I haven’t sold anything since I found about Ellie. Wayne pulled me aside after we told him, to tell me that I needed to stop- I mean, I already was thinking it.” He shrugs, “I don’t know why Nancy would think like that”

Gareth doesn’t either and he tells this to Eddie, the van comes to a stop in front of his home, “I don’t know either, she sounds like she’s a little obsessed with Steve.”

“I know and it’s weird, right?”

The Next Day

Eddie is woken up by Eleanor’s cry and he groans, he feels Steve stir next to him and he shushes him, “stay, I’ll grab her” he gets a hum in return and he sits up before dragging himself over to her crib.

She’s kicking her legs and wiggling trying to get out of the blanket, “hey baby” he whispers to catch her attention, she blinks up at him and whines.

Smiling, he lifts her up and rocks her, “come on, cranky.” He looks over and sees Steve smiling at him, it makes his heart beat a little faster.

Steve moves up a bit and pulls his shirt off, before he can even sit down next to him. Eleanor is no longer crying, thankfully, but Steve still makes grabby hands at him.

Laughing, he hands her over and then pulls the covers back over them before wrapping his arm around Steve. They sit in silence as Eleanor drinks and Steve drops his head onto his shoulder, “I guess it’s another long day”

Laughing softly he pressed a kiss to his head, “want me to stay home?”

“Maybe? She was so fussy yesterday, Eds.” He whispers, a hand patting her back, “even mom couldn’t get her to settle”

Later on Janet finds all three of them in bed asleep, Eleanor in Steve’s arms and Steve against Eddie. She shakes her head before going over and shaking Eddie, “Honey, don’t you have school today?”

He blinks back sleep and looks up to find her standing there, “nah, I’m skipping today. Gotta help Stevie”

She smiles, nodding before placing a kiss on their foreheads, “I’ll call the school, have one of your friends pick up your schoolwork later, okay?”

He nods and she smiles before walking out of the room and he looks down to find Steve still asleep with Eleanor snuggled against him. Sighing, he relaxes back down and decides they don’t need to get up anytime soon.

Steve is humming along to the mixtape Eddie put on to fill the kitchen as they make breakfast/lunch.

It’s currently noon and Eleanor is having tummy time in the living room with Eddie, while he’s busy making breakfast sandwiches. They slept in until nearly eleven and when they made their way downstairs, Steve found a note from his mom telling them she had several appointments today.

He can hear Eddie encouraging Eleanor to move around as he makes his way towards them with their food, when the doorbell rings. Confused, he sets the plates down and goes to the front door and through the peephole finds Nancy and Jonathan.

Even more confused and a little frustrated, he opens the door with, “Isn’t today a school day? Why are you guys here?”

They both look shocked to see him, which is weird since they’re the one’s knocking on his door.

“I’ve been trying to find you!” Nancy starts with and there’s her angry determination, “you’ve been locked up in your house?!”

Jonathan just looks uncomfortable.

Raising an eyebrow at her, he shakes his head, “uh, yes? I live here. Just because we don’t run into each other doesn’t mean I left town. Just my asshole father, now you should go back to school. Isn’t this your senior year?”

“Shouldn’t you be there with us?”

Rolling his eyes, he leans against the wall. Giving the impression of indifference, “I graduated earlier this year, through a different school. Not that it concerns you, I’ve told you before, Nancy. I’m not your boyfriend, and I’m definitely not your friend.” He then looks At Jonathan then back at her, “he’s your boyfriend, now leave me alone. Leave Eddie alone while you’re at it”

Nancy narrows her eyes at him and he can just barely smell the annoyance in the air from her scent, “So you are still friends with him? Is he the reason you dropped out? Why you won’t help with the upside down?”

“I have much more important things in life,” he thinks of carrying Eleanor for nine months, holding her and feeding her, thinks of being with Eddie and the alpha holding him like he’s the whole world, “like I said before, I was there to apologize. I stepped in when you needed help, but afterwards? We were told it was over. Will was found and is fine and safe. Shouldn’t you guys be over this?”

Neither person in front of him can give him an answer because he hears Eddie shout, “Oh Stevie! The little missy and I miss you!”

He sees the confusion on their faces and before they can ask, he slams the door in their faces. Which if he’s being honest, he should’ve done sooner. He locks the door and turns around to the ones that actually deserve his attention.

He knows, Nancy won’t give up though.

~

Yikes I completely forgot how I wrote Nancy in this 🫣 oops. Please know I DO love her but she’s just a stubborn person and can’t understand that Steve’s not involved and refuses to be involved.

I can’t believe I added plot to this lol anyway, we’ll get to more slice of life again 🥰

If you see any typos or mistakes, let me know!! Also if you have any ideas that you’d like to see, send me an ask or message! Same goes for if you want to be added to the tag list!

@spectrum-spectre @itsfreakingbats @mysticcrownshipper @artiststarme @thereindeerlady @justforthedead89 @ronniescontinuum @freyaforestafay @littlewildflowerkitten @zerokrox-blog @callme-keys @maya-custodios-dionach @rajumat @yellowdevilkitten @munsonfamilyband @steddierthings @tartarusfairy @mx-jinxous @zombiethingy @lunaticmarunatic @carlyv @thelittleclare @estrellami-1 @epiclazershark @bookworm0690 @forest-fogg @flustratedcas @p0lybl4nkk @tiny-enthusiast @a-gae-af-racoon @blackpanzy @marvelmwah @malicia62 @solliesolesito

[mysticstarlightduck]

Character Aesthetic Deep Dive Tag!

I created this tag in this post, and I want to do it again for another Scrapyard Boys OC of mine so here we go!

Rules: Make a moodboard with your character's aesthetic, a playlist that fits their vibe, "badly summarize them" (like, talk about their personality, but funnily), etc. It absolutely does not need to be super detailed!!!!!

✦ Character Aesthetic: Maxwell Cymbelline, WIP -Scrapyard Boys

♡ Moodboard ♡

♡ Playlist ♡

Not All Heroes Wear Capes - Owl City

He doesn't fight crime Or wear a cape He doesn't read minds Or levitate But every time my world needs saving He's my Superman Some folks don't believe in heroes 'Cause they haven't met my dad He loves his workshop And rock 'n roll He's got a hot rod And a heart of gold And you could say he's a man of few words But he talks a lot within And even though I'm a little taller I still look up to him

Could Have Been Me - The Struts

Don't wanna live as an untold story Rather go out in a blaze of glory I can't hear you, I don't fear you I'll live now 'cause the bad die last Dodging bullets with your broken past Well, I can't hear you, I don't fear you now Wrapped in your regret What a waste of blood and sweat Oh oh-oh I wanna taste love and pain Wanna feel pride and shame I don't wanna take my time Don't wanna waste one line I wanna live better days Never look back and say It could have been me It could have been me, yeah

Burn The House Down - AJR

Used to keep it cool Used to be a fool All about the bounce in my step Watch it on the news Whatcha gonna do? I could hit refresh and forget Used to keep it cool Should I keep it light? Stay out of the fight? No one's gonna listen to me If I write a song Preaching what is wrong Will they let me sing on TV? Should I keep it light? Is that right? Way up way up we go Been up and down that road Way up way up, oh no We gon' burn the whole house down

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - Taylor Swift

'Cause I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit They said, "Babe, you gotta fake it 'til you make it" and I did Lights, camera, bitch smile, even when you wanna die He said he'd love me all his life But that life was too short Breaking down, I hit the floor All the pieces of me shattered as the crowd was chanting, "More" I was grinning like I'm winning, I was hitting my marks 'Cause I can do it with a broken heart (one, two, three, four) I'm so depressed, I act like it's my birthday every day I'm so obsessed with him but he avoids me like the plague I cry a lot but I am so productive, it's an art You know you're good when you can even do it With a broken heart

Gone, Gone, Gone - Phillip Phillips

When life leaves you high and dry I'll be at your door tonight If you need help, if you need help I'll shut down the city lights I'll lie, cheat, I'll beg and bribe To make you well, to make you well When enemies are at your door I'll carry you way from war If you need help, if you need help Your hope dangling by a string I'll share in your suffering To make you well, to make you well Give me reasons to believe That you would do the same for me And I would do it for you, for you Baby, I'm not moving on I'll love you long after you're gone For you, for you You will never sleep alone I'll love you long after you're gone And long after you're gone, gone, gone

♡ Badly Summarized OC ♡

Seemingly delicate, polite teenager who loves vintage stuff but can actually pack a punch and is not afraid of a fight - in fact... she rather likes a good bit of chaos

Certified Daddy's Little Girl

That one friend that strangers think is the "Responsible One" but is actually a main Source Of Chaos in the friend group

Feral gremlin of a girl and unashamed, will watch the goriest and intense horror movies while having a girl's night with her friends and painting her nails different colors

Enabler of Bad Decisions who never thinks things through and then gets like "well, went horrifyingly out of control.... LET'S DO IT AGAIN!"

Worst driver in the history of drivers but is trying her best <3

Human embodiment of both an orange cat and a hyperactive border collie in one body

Would practically collect stray puppies and kittens like Pokémons if her current doggo wasn't jealous of every other animal in the world

Likes cereal without the milk. This has nothing to do with anything, but I think its a relevant fact of her personality lol

Tagging (gently): @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@the-golden-comet, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@thecomfywriter

@topazadine, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes

and OPEN TAG

Taglist for Scrapyard Boys below the cut 🧪

Scrapyard Boys Taglist (-/+): @ray-writes-n-shit, @sarandipitywrites, @lassiesandiego, @smol-feralgremlin, @kaylinalexanderbooks,

@diabolical-blue @oh-no-another-idea

@cakeinthevoid, @clairelsonao3, @sleepy-night-child

@thepeculiarbird

@the-golden-comet, @urnumber1star, @ominous-feychild, @anyablackwood, @amaiguri, @lyutenw @finickyfelix

@thecomfywriter, @the-letterbox-archives, @differentnighttale

@wyked-ao3

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[lonelychicago]

wip wednesday!

tagged by @honestlydarkprincess @panbuckley and @prince-buck-diaz @diazblunt <33 here's a moodboard and a snippet for single girl dad buck who interrupts eddie's dates jdwjhwshukewj

"Right." Buck sighs. "God, I don't know what happened tonight." He steps closer, his knuckles delicately brushing against Kie's cheek and watching her with a small but wry smile. "I even gave her the stuffed turtle Chris got her from the aquarium, Tutty, and she wouldn't even look at it. I think she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you." Eddie shakes his head. "She just— I think babies are smarter than we give them credit for. They can feel when you're not okay, when you're too stressed or too tense." Eddie frowns. "Back when I came back from the army and Chris was four months old, he couldn't stop crying. He would literally scream like it was goddamn world war three everytime I picked him up." 

"Really?" 

"I swear." Eddie mutters, Kie slowly drifting off as her face falls to rest on his shoulder. "It got better once I adjusted and calmed down." He glances at him. "You need to relax." 

"I wish I could," Buck breathes out, rubbing his hands all over his face and trying to relax his muscles, his neck feeling like he's about to snap. "But you know how I've been picking extra shifts and stuff, and I don't know, Eddie." Buck hesitates for a few minutes but then speaks the words that have been haunting him for months. "I think I'm a terrible dad." 

"You're not. You're a great dad, Buck." Eddie says softly, looking at him with his cheek resting against the top of Kie's head. It's an adorable image and Buck aches all over when he sees it. "You care for her and you play with her for hours. You read her stories and make all these voices, even when she can't even understand you, just because it makes her giggle. You sing songs in the car with her— and like, those songs for kids that every parent hates but you sing at the top of your lungs. Like, If I were a fish or Baby Shark." Eddie scrunches up his nose and Buck snorts.

Eddie smiles at him briefly but then continues, "And you give all you have for her to be happy and comfortable, you— You are there and you give a crap about her, y'know? That's more than most parents."

"Eddie," Buck exhales, a single trembling breath. 

"Hell, it's more than I ever did for Chris the first few months of his life." 

"You're a great dad, too, y'know?" Buck mutters, his eyes focused on Kie's now sleeping form. "Chris is lucky to have you." 

"We're talking about you now, not me." Eddie pulls  that face that Buck has come to love so much during this last year of knowing each other— the one where his chin tilts down so he has to look at Buck from beneath his eyelashes but the angle managed to cover the small smile that disappeared into his cheek. "And you're an incredible dad." 

"Yeah, okay." 

"I'm serious, Buck. No one enjoys playing peek-a-boo as much as you do." Eddie half teases, half says the truth. "Should give you an award or something." 

"Thanks, Eds." 

tagging: (no pressure): @monsterrae1 @buddierights @prettyboybuckley @bigfootsmom @starlingbite @alyxmastershipper @heartshapedvows @hippolotamus @shortsighted-owl @the-likesofus @spaceprincessem @messyhairdiaz @transbuck @transboybuckley @ebdaydreamer @bekkachaos @thewolvesof1998 @spotsandsocks @cowboy-buddie @cowboy-buck @mysteriouslyyounggalaxy @barbiediaz @911onabc and anyone else who wants to do it! <33