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tortillamastersblog · 3 days ago

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First Date | Sam Carpenter

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x reader

Warnings: foul language, a shit ton of fluff, and smut (if you squint)

Summary: After recovering and moving to New York to start your new life, you finally take Sam on a first date. . .

Masterlist

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"How do I look?" | ask, fixing my collar nervously in front of the mirror.

"For the hundredth time, you look great!" Liam exclaims, and I glance at my phone to see him nodding encouragingly on my screen.

I sigh and run my fingers through my hair once again before dropping my arms and turning away from the mirror.

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," | admit, picking up my phone while Liam laughs.

"You're ridiculous. You're not going to throw up. Why are you so nervous anyway? You've been living with Sam for almost three months now."

I shrug on my jacket and crouch down to slip on my shoes. "I don't know! It's just... this is our first real date and I want to impress her." I look at my phone to see Liam's face softening.

"I get that," he says gently, "but there really is no need to be nervous. This is Sam we're talking about.

She loves you so much, she'll be impressed no matter what you do, or where you take her."

"I guess you're right." | take a deep breath and grab my keys.

Sam and I moved in together after I got out of the hospital. At first, I went to live with her and Tara in their old apartment, but since then I got a new job at Liam's company and the apartment that comes with it.

Tara moved into an apartment of her own with Anika and Mindy.

They live close to campus, while Sam and I live on the upper west side. It's the same building Liam lives in, but he's currently on a business trip in Dallas, hence why he's on the phone with me for moral support rather than being here in person.

Sam is at Tara's, getting ready for our date since Tara, Mindy, and Anika insisted it would be cute if I didn't see Sam all dressed up until I went over to theirs to pick her up.

"Of course I'm right," Liam teased lightheartedly.

"Now go and have fun! I'll talk to you tomorrow." I snort, but smile. "Yeah, yeah. Talk to you tomorrow.

“Bye!"

"Bye!"

I hang up and I take another look at myself in the mirror before squaring my shoulders and leaving the apartment.

I lock the door behind me and take the elevator at the end of the hallway down to the parking garage. It's just as fancy as the rest of the building and it spares me the trouble of finding a parking spot out on the street which is always a nightmare.

The bouquet of red roses I got earlier sits on the passenger seat of the car when I get in and I make sure it’s secure before starting the car and making my way across the city.

It's a surprisingly short drive because for some reason there is barely any traffic. There's also a parking spot right in front of Tara's apartment building which makes my heart skip a beat because I thought l'd have more time to prepare myself for seeing Sam.

I have no idea what she's going to wear, but Tara texted me a couple of minutes ago, telling me I'm going to faint when I see her.

I grab the flowers and hop out of the car, tapping my foot nervously on the elevator ride up to the apartment. I love Sam, and I know she loves me, but after all is said and done, this is still our first date and I want it to go well.

“Oh hey! You’re right on time!” Anika greets me at the door and even goes so far as to pull me in for a hug. We aren’t exactly close, but ever since I saved her life she’s been extra nice to me.

“Hey, Anika.” I smile and shift on my feet nervously.

“Babe? Is that Y/N?” Mindy calls out from somewhere in the apartment and Anika shouts back a yes, which makes Mindy appear a moment later with a smirk on her face.

“Hi, Y/N.” She pulls me into a careful hug, making sure not to ruin the flowers. “You look dashing.”

I feel myself blush and avert my eyes momentarily, clearing my throat. “Uh– Thanks, Mindy.”

When I look back up, Mindy’s smirk has turned into a soft smile and she and Anika share a knowing look before ushering me into the apartment and closing the door behind me.

“Tara and Sam will be right out,” Anika explains, and not even a second later, Tara comes bouncing around the corner.

“Y/N!” she exclaims happily, however unlike Mindy and Anika she doesn’t close the distance between us to hug me. She simply stops by the corner and smiles brightly, her eyes darting between me and the hallway to her left, which is shielded from my view.

And then I hear it. The telltale sound of high heels on the hardwood floor.

Sam.

I hold my breath and wait patiently for her to appear,and when she does, I really do feel like fainting. In a regular shirt, she’s already stunning, but right now she’s simply breathtaking. She’s wearing a simple black, one shoulder dress that has a slit running up the length of her thigh and a pair of matching black ankle strap heels. The front of her hair has been tied back, so it’s out of her face while the rest of it flows down her back in soft waves. To tie back the entire look, she’s applied some makeup to highlight her dark eyes, her lipstick a soft red so as to not distract from her eyes.

“Hey,” she says softly with a shy smile on her face.

“H-Hi,” I stutter, unable to take my eyes off her. We’ve not even left the apartment yet and she’s already got me swooning over her.

Tara, Mindy, and Anika watch us staring at each other, amusement on all of their faces before Mindy clears her throat, prompting me to finally move.

I step further into the apartment and hold out my hand, my knees almost buckling when Sam takes it with a dimpled smile. I notice her nails are painted the same shade of red as her lipstick, and it makes me marvel at just how much thought and effort she’s put into her appearance tonight.

“You look–” Good? Great? Beautiful? No. None of those words describe the way she looks right now. I bite the inside of my cheek, and squeeze her hand before finally settling on, “-- absolutely breathtaking.”

“Thank you.” Sam looks away shyly before meeting my eyes again, this time with a faint blush on her cheeks. “You look amazing, too.”

I snort because I wouldn’t even dare to compare our looks tonight, but I don’t disagree with her. Instead, I bring the bouquet of roses between us and say, “These are for you.”

Her eyes light up and she glances at the roses before looking back at me. “For me?” she asks quietly which makes me chuckle softly and nod. “Thank you.”

She takes them, her cheeks now redder than before and intertwines our fingers.

“You’re welcome.” I want to kiss her, but I don’t want to smudge her lipstick, so I opt for giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Ready to go?”

Damn. She even smells great. Is that sandalwood?

Sam nods and I squeeze her hand before turning back around to find Tara, Mindy, and Anika still watching us.

Tara and Anika both look like they’re going to melt, and despite Mindy trying to play it cool, I can also see affection dancing in her eyes.

“You two are so cute, I love it.” Anika sighs and takes Mindy’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “Aren’t they cute?” she asks and Mindy just shrugs.

“I guess,” she admits when Anika shoots her a disapproving look which makes all of us chuckle.

“They’re cute and hot,” Tara teases with a smirk. “I mean, honestly guys, you’re like the power couple of all power couples!”

Sam laughs bashfully and tightens her hold on my hand while I groan. “Sproouuut!”

“What?! It’s true,” Tara insists before her smirk turns into a genuine smile. “I’m so happy for you guys. You deserve this. Enjoy your night.”

My cheeks are still warm, but I smile gratefully and dip my chin in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

Mindy and Anika wish us a great night too and then we’re off.

It’s a little cold outside since it’s the beginning of March, so before we exit the building, I stop and take off my jacket, draping it around Sam’s shoulders before leading her the rest of the way to the car.

I make sure to open the door for her, which earns me another shy smile. It makes me feel accomplished and I quickly get into the driver’s seat to start our drive to the restaurant.

So far, so good, I think.

“Where are you taking me?” Sam asks after some time when I come to a stop at a red light.

I glance at her before looking back at the road and shrug casually. “It’s a surprise.”

“What? Still?” she whines playfully and out of the corner of my eye I can see her pout.

I chuckle softly and reach over to squeeze her thigh quickly. “Mhmm.”

The light turns green and I’m quick to take my hand back to put it back on the gear stick.

Sam huffs, but doesn’t push it. She places her hand on my thigh instead, and takes my phone with her other hand to change the music .

Her warm touch makes my stomach do flips and for the rest of the drive I rest my hand on top of hers every chance I get.

“Alright, this is it,” I say when I finally pull up next to the high rise the restaurant is in.

Sam’s jaw drops and she takes in the glass facade of the building with wide eyes. “Are you serious?” she asks and I just smile, getting out of the car and handing my keys to the approaching valet who’s dressed in a sleek black tux.

Then, I round the front of the car and open Sam’s door, offering her a hand when she gets out, which she gratefully accepts.

“Y/N… What is this? What are we doing here? Is this a joke?” she asks, which makes me laugh softly. She goes to take the roses with her, but I stop her with a tug on her hand. They’d just get in the way in the restaurant, and it’s not like they’re going to wilt if they’re without water for another two hours or so.

“It’s not a joke, Sammy. We’re having dinner here. Well, not here, but in the restaurant on the sixty-eight floor,” I explain, watching her take in the building one more time before her eyes land back on me.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I pulled a couple of strings to get a reservation tonight, but for her, I’d do anything. Yes, the food will probably be overpriced, and the other customers will probably be snobby and stuck up, but it will all be worth it for the view and the experience.

“T-this is too much.” She hesitates when I go to lead her into the building, so I turn back around with an encouraging smile, letting go of her hand to wrap my arms around her waist.

She steps closer and I place a kiss on her forehead, making her close her eyes momentarily. “It’s not too much, Sam. I love you, and you deserve the world, so please let me treat you tonight.”

Sam looks at me with uncertainty shining in her eyes, so I place another kiss on her forehead, this time between her eyebrows.

“Please?” I whisper and after another moment's consideration she nods. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” she says, cupping my cheeks. She leans up to kiss me, still having to do so despite her heels, but I pull back which makes her frown.

“Your lipstick,” I try to explain, but she rolls her eyes and kisses me softly.

After more than four months of being together, kissing her still sends shockwaves through my body. My cheeks feel like they're on fire where her hands are touching them and my lips tingle when she pulls back, mumbling, “I don’t care,” before pecking my lips once more and pulling away completely.

I stare at her like a love sick fool and smile sheepishly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replies easily and after making sure her lipstick isn’t all too smudged, we finally make our way into the building and up to the restaurant.

I keep catching Sam glancing at me over her menu, so after the fifth or so time I put mine down and smile at her quizzically. “What?”

She looks around the dimly lit restaurant as if she’s afraid of someone overhearing her before leaning forward in her seat and saying, “This is weird, isn’t it? Why am I so nervous? We live together for God’s sake, and we’ve had dinner before. Not like this, obviously, but still. I mean, how come there are no prices on the menu? Is that normal? Is that how fancy restaurants like this trick you into ordering something super expensive or–?”

I laugh softly and place my hand over hers on the table, effectively cutting her off. “It is a little weird because we’ve never done this before and I’m nervous, too, but let’s not let the fact that we’re on our first official date be the reason why we have a bad time.” I smile and bring her hand up to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Also, no, the restaurant isn’t trying to trick you into getting something super expensive. You just don’t have the prices on your menu because the waiter gave you what they call a ladies menu.” I grab my own menu and turn it around to show her that I have one with all the prices on it. “It’s weird, I know, and it’s a pretty outdated concept, but it is what it is and I want you to get whatever you want without feeling guilty about the cost, so maybe it’s a good thing.”

Sam presses her lips into a thin line because she still feels bad that I’m willing to spoil her all the time, so I send her a reassuring smile and wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.

“Come on, live a little, Sammy. What else am I supposed to spend all my inheritance on except you and Tara?”

That makes her crack a smile and after a while we’re ready to order.

While Sam gets the Coq au vin, I order the mushroom risotto, and when the server asks us if we want wine with our food, I decline politely.

A glass of white wine would pair great with my risotto, but Sam can’t drink because of her meds, so I’m not drinking either.

“So,” I say as soon as the server is gone again. “How was your day?”

Sam turns her attention from the brightly lit city outside to me and raises an eyebrow as if asking if I really want to hear about her day when there’s so much more we could be talking about.

I nod encouragingly and take a sip of my water, my entire attention fixed on her despite the stunning view of the city around us.

This is a first date, yes, and people normally don’t talk about their day on a first date, but we’ve known each other forever and I’m simply here to enjoy her company and spoil her.

“Well. . .” Sam goes on to tell me about her relatively stress-free morning at the cafe she works at as a barista before diving into the photography lecture she had this afternoon.

Ever since I got my new job and we moved in together, I’ve managed to convince her not to work full time any more and find something she actually enjoys doing. At first, it took a while for her to figure out what she liked after being in survival mode for so long, but then she discovered her love for photography which is how she ended up enrolling in a couple of community college classes.

She tells me about a couple of lighting techniques I’ve never heard of and goes on to explain the differences between digital and film cameras.

It’s fascinating, really, how much there is to know about photography, and I keep asking follow up questions which makes Sam’s eyes light up.

I love listening to her talk, especially about things she’s excited about, but after twenty minutes of non-stop rambling, she asks me to tell her about my day.

“Well,” I start the same way she did while she takes a sip of water, “I went to work until four and then I went to the gym before heading home and getting ready.”

I add some details about a particularly interesting meeting I had before telling her about a guy who tripped over some dumbbells in the gym, which makes her laugh.

Conversation flows easily after that until we finally get our food which, as expected, tastes absolutely amazing despite its insane price. We share some bites here and there, letting the other try each dish before our table gets cleared and our server hands us some dessert menus.

We’re both more than full, but after some back and forth we decide to order some chocolate souffle to share because neither of us can resist its calling.

In the end, it tastes even better than expected and I tell the server to give our compliments to the chef when he comes back to pick up the empty plate.

After that, Sam excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I’m quick to pay the check before she gets back.

“Ready to go?” I ask when she returns to the table which makes her smile and nod.

“Yes, let’s go home.”

I grab my jacket off the back of her chair and help her put it on again before grabbing her hand and leading her out of the restaurant.

Back on the street, the valet has already pulled my car around, so I tip him generously and help Sam into the car before getting in myself and driving off.

“Thank you for tonight,” Sam says after a moment of silence. “I had a lot of fun, and the food was terrific.”

I can’t look at her because I have to focus on the road, but I do smile and dip my chin to acknowledge that I heard her, adding, “You’re very welcome. I’m glad you liked it.”

Letting out a sigh of contentment, Sam places a hand on my thigh and lets silence wash over us while I continue driving us home.

It’s peaceful, and I feel all warm inside, knowing that she enjoyed the night as much as I have, but then her hand on my thigh starts moving upwards which makes my heart skip a beat.

For a moment I think it might have been unintentional, but then she moves it even higher, and when I risk a glance at her I find her already looking at me with dark eyes.

“Sam. . .” I swallow thickly and shift in my seat, almost letting out a gasp when she starts tracing circles on the inside of my thigh with her thumb.

“Yes?” she asks, feigning innocence.

“D–Don’t do that,” I stutter. “You’re distracting me.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she says calmly and I grit my teeth when her hand moves up even further.

Since getting together we’ve had our fair share of kisses and make out sessions, but we never went further than that. In the beginning it was because of my back and then because we never really had any time for it with me figuring out my new job and Sam readjusting to her new life and finally doing something she likes. Tara being over constantly doesn’t help either, but tonight nothing is holding us back and Sam seems to know that.

I pull into the underground parking garage of our building in record time a couple of minutes later before turning off the car and leaning over the center console to capture Sam’s lips in a searing kiss.

She immediately reciprocates it and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer and deepening the kiss.

She tastes like the souffle we shared and I can’t help but shiver at the sound of a soft moan slipping past her lips when I trap her lower lip between my teeth.

The position we’re in isn’t comfortable by any means, but we don’t pull apart until we’re both panting, desperate for air.

“Shit,” Sam curses under her breath and when she looks at me I see nothing but desire in her half-lidded eyes.

“Should we take this upstairs?” I ask which makes Sam nod adamantly.

I jump out of the car and hurry to the other side of it to open Sam’s door and help her out.

“Thank you,” she says, still breathless, and before I know it her lips are on mine again as we stumble toward the elevator.

It’s hot and messy, but I can’t get enough of her and when we finally make it to our apartment we waste no time kicking off our shoes and making our way to the bedroom.

As soon as the door slams shut behind us, Sam pushes me against it, her hands in my hair at the back of my neck to pull me infinitely closer.

My hands are around her waist, grasping at the fabric of her dress while our lips move against each other in a passionate kiss.

Sooner rather than later, much to my dismay, we’re both forced to break apart once again to catch our breath.

Sam doesn’t seem bothered by it though because her lips find their way to my neck while her hands move down my body until they settle on my hips where her fingers play with the buckle of my belt.

It’s clear what she wants, but I don’t want to go on until she actually says it, so, reluctantly, I pull back so she’s forced to look up at me.

“Wha– Are you okay?” she pants, her lust filled eyes momentarily clouded with concern.

I chuckle breathlessly and tighten my grip around her waist to prevent her from stepping out of our embrace.

“I’m fine,” I assure her, pecking her lips. “But I need to know you’re okay with where this is heading.”

“I’m okay, I want this,” she whispers. She tugs on my belt and stands on her tiptoes to whisper the next part into my ear. “So would you please take my dress off and fuck me already?”

A strangled sound slips past my lips and I pull my head back so fast, I’m surprised I don’t get whiplash because of it. “You– You want me to. . . What?”

Sam smiles mischievously and bites her lower lip, looking up at me through her lashes. “You heard me,” she mumbles, “Fuck me.”

Goddamn.

I swallow harshly, hearing my heart pounding in my ears, but within the next second it’s as if a switch has been flipped in me.

I bend down and lift her up by the back of her legs, making her squeal in surprise before my lips are back on hers.

The position we’re in makes her dress ride up, but she doesn’t seem to care as she wraps her arms around my neck and starts grinding against my stomach.

“Fuck,’” I gasp when she bites my bottom lip and carry her to bed, making her laugh briefly when I unceremoniously dump her onto it so I can get to work on taking off my clothes while she watches.

Once I’ve discarded all of them, I join her on the bed, making quick work of her dress while she runs her hands over my shoulders and nibbles on my earlobe.

“I love you,” I whisper a couple of minutes later when she arches her back and moans against my lips.

“I. . . love you, too,” she sobs, her eyes screwed shut while her nails dig into my back and I’m quick to kiss her again to swallow her next moans and whimpers.

The next morning I wake up without Sam by my side, but when I sit up I smile at the smell of pancakes wafting into the bedroom.

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And they lived happily ever after!

Hi, everyone! I'm not back for good yet, but I just had to write this because it's been stuck in my head ever since finishing Back To You.

Also, a huge thank you to everyone who was part of creating the Back To You Playlist ❤️ I love you all and words cannot describe how honored I feel.

Tag list: @bella423 @artrizzler19 @btay3115 @canyonyodeler @quadofthec @pussyydestroyer @rqizzu @pithod @morganismspam23 @idontliketoread2137

* not proofread yet ‘cause I’m lazyyyyy

#sam carpenter #sam carpenter x reader #samantha carpenter #x reader #scream #samantha carpenter x reader

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anomaliex · 2 days ago

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Collection of headcanons not elaborate enough for own word vomit post:

- I don't think Kristen can swim. She has the vibes of someone who never learned as a kid and now it's too late to bring up without being embarrassed. (Also I thought about what would happen if she fell in water — mechanically she's wearing heavy armor, would Brennan just let her swim since she's in universe only in a tracksuit or would she sink without a sufficient strength check? Idk, but that's how I got to the no swimming conclusion.)

- insanely weird hc to have but i think Fabian shaves his arm hair. Also like legs and arm pits i guess but the way more unusual and therefore notable thing is arms. This guy kills any body and facial hair on sight. Like no one has ever seen him with as much as stubble outside of Cathilda or the Bad Kids when they were sleeping over. Why? Idk he just prefers that, no deeper reason. I do think elves generally have less body hair but here his human genes come through so he has to shave. Or get it lasered away I guess. You can do that right?? He's rich. Maybe he'd do it.

- also Fabian's depth perception is dog shit. Using his crossbow is less impressive because Fandrangor is simply a better weapon and his flourishes and manoeuvres rely on melee combat, I know, but to me it's also just that he's better at hitting things real close to him.

- Riz is the kinda guy to have chronic migraines and think it's fine. "Everyone has headaches sometimes and I do sleep a lot less than I should ahaha" (the amount of coffee he drinks is barely saving him from the horrors.)

- Adaine also gets a lot of migraines in what I think are more. Passive non specific visions? Like a gut feeling that's always correct and also makes her body hate her. The proper visions are comparable to absence seizures I think? Like I don't wanna say it's that because it's magic but the process is kind of the same in the sense that she's out for like ten to thirty seconds and it can really suck

- I also think Adaine has synaesthesia! I can't really put this into words well so I'm not even gonna try, but she perceives certain sounds and/or colours at times where there shouldn't be sounds and/or colours. I think those associations also to an extend help in drawing connections between less specific visions and real life.

- we know Gorgug has a drumset in his room I think it's electronic. But like not in a normal way like we have them irl it's some insane artificer shit that would justify so much more noise complaints than a regular one and also could probably have its own pyrotechnics idfk. It's fully a safety hazard but it doesn't even rank on the top 10 of worst things to have in your house that is a TREE that the Thistlesprings casually own.

- I think either Fig or Kristen would be the shortest medium creature type Bad Kid. Like obviously Riz is four feet tall max but he's in a whole different category lmao

- Fig sometimes puts little braids in Jawbone's fur and he happily lets her. He only properly adopted Adaine and Fig has more than enough dads, but he does still act as sort of a paternal figure to her (and every other kid ((which in this case includes Ragh but maybe not Aelwyn)) in mordred manor because he's just a caring guy and it's hard not to grow attached) so that's their pseudo daddy-daughter bonding

- Fabian doesn't like, hate Gilear as much as he used to? Like he still has his moments but overall he thinks he's a good guy and absolutely has the "well I can shit on him but I'm gonna kill this other guy who did. How dare you make fun of my Mama's beloved??" mindset. But uhm he tries to make Gilear work out with him so he can "stop being death fodder". Gilear is a commoner and everyone else in Seacaster Manor absolutely is not and like he likes it and he loves these people but he does kind of live in hell. His wife? Could kill him. His step son? Could kill him. The maid? Could kill him. The dog slash motor cycle?? Could kill him. One hit. Also the entire current Seacaster household are dexterity based fighters they're all so graceful and skilled he's fully just a guy that spills every drink ever on himself

- I think the Hangman loves Cathilda because she gives good chin scritchies (hound form obviously lol) Generally he tends to mirror Fabian's attitude towards people anyway so he's always liked her, but once he started being a hound more she started petting him and giving him treats and he is smitten

- Gorgug (and sometimes Ragh or Ayda) play extreme fetch with the Hangman. Like I need to stress that he's not just a big dog he's large enough to be a mount, which means he'd have to be the size of a horse. Maybe a small horse sure but that's still a horse-sized dog. I think his mini looks fairly big but in my heart he's bigger. So yeah fetch with him (which they mainly do because they want him to feel comfortable in both forms because he's so good) is really big sticks. Like not logs or anything but sticks the average person can't huck all that far. Fabian casts enhance ability on himself so he can also do it, lol. The wonders of multiclassing into bard.

- I think the only Bad Kids who never use makeup are Riz and Kristen. Gorgug doesn't do it every day and not that much but he uses eyeliner sometimes. Fig's makeup is the most noticeable and usually very fun.

- Gorgug has kissed Ragh at least twice. So at least one time after the prom thing. I don't mean this in a ship way I mean this in I look at Gorgug and then I look at Ragh and I go yeah these guys have shared at least one tender bro kiss. I mean I think Gorgug is the kinda guy that would kiss all of his friends if they wanted to because it's not that big of a deal to him and he loves them but not everyone is comfortable w/ that lol. He and Kristen kiss each other on the cheek though, I think (this does not mean he wants to see her naked in public please put your clothes back on Kristen??)

#rambling into the void #dimension 20 #fantasy high #headcanons #bad kids #fabian aramais seacaster #riz gukgak #fig faeth #adaine abernant #figueroth faeth #gorgug thistlespring #kristen applebees #jawbone o'shaughnessey #the hangman #ragh barkrock #bite sized ramble #technically. lmao

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hawkins-batman · 2 days ago

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I've gotten some asks about Millie Bobbie Brown lately, so I just want to make one blog addressing them all. Chiefly to say that I will not be participating in any Millie Bobby Brown slander.

Firstly, while I do follow along with her social media(s), I don't follow very closely along with what she's doing outside of that. So, I'm not the most informed on her doings. I also just don't put a lot of stock in rumors unless they come from someone I really, really trust.

More importantly, though, I want you to look at this:

This is the current viral tweet going around about Millie.

Lots of fans were pissed that she sat down for her photoshoots and didn't stand up or touch the fans. There are a LOT of vile comments, retweets, and engagement in general with this post in particular, but...

The fan said Millie was sweet to her, hugged her, and signed her wheelchair.

79,000 likes. 2.6K retweets. Hating on Millie over a lie that someone who didn't like her made up because they didn't like her. And people ate that shit up.

Guys, I don't know Millie. I certainly don't follow her as much as I do Noah. But I think we need to be conscious of the fact that this is a woman who has been objectified and treated horridly by the public and the fandom since she was literally 12 years-old.

Let's not be the same people who are tearing Noah apart for breathing. You don't have to like Millie or be her fan. But please treat her graciously with respect and don't spread around unverified rumors or lies.

Especially if you care about Noah, because he cares about her.

#millie bobby brown #noah schnapp #will byers #eleven hopper #stranger things #let's be more gracious pls #these are real people and we don't know them

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guzmawife · 3 days ago

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🍓: he had no job when i met him but now he works at a high school as an errand boy / security (his children attend said school). hes the guy they call in when a real teacher needs to use the bathroom so he can watch the class. or to retrieve some papers from the printer. go get me that thing boy.

🍒: probably just chilling at home with snacks and movies and fast food. or chillen at the beach. 🏝️

🍎: tapu cocoa.. we all know dis.. hot sweet drinks…

🍉: hes not religious other than believing that a higher power exists. hi arceus..

🍑: totally more comfortable giving gifts. hes used to taking care of others so it’s pretty natural for him to be giving. he has no issue receiving but its not rlly a priority since he didnt come from much so hes used to not rlly asking for much.

🍊: i make him peel it. he knows my paws and claws have to stay clean… he’s comfortable with getting dirty and i am not!

🥭: no i domt think so. his dad was a prick and said shit like. Youre not a woman so you dont need those. fuckkkk that guy.

🍍: probably him being mentally manipulated and abused! 😿 killing all the people that taught him he wasn’t anything and made him feel like he had to act out in order to prove himself to others. hhhggffg. he deserves to be loved.

🍌: he likes to be in the dark. das it. no specific reason why.

🍋: he would probably change his hothead nature bc he doesn’t like how quickly he gets upset and makes bad decisions. and his hairline.

🍋‍🟩: he tells people if you squish bugs more will keep showing up. as a joke. heehe. sorry im gonna squish them still im a pussy.. thats probably why they keep showing up though. i have an actual curse. maybe he’s right man…

🍈: he thinks fate is bogus and if you want something to happen you have to make it happen.

🍏: hes bisexual and questioning demisexuality, he learned of his bisexuality through being in denial of liking the same sex and being like. This is ruining my tough guy personality. This can’t be. but then it kept happening and he was like man fuck this whatever. what the hell sure. he became normal. he’s still figuring out the demisexuality, to put it simply he just doesnt want to engage in sexual acts with anyone unless he has a genuine connection to them. it also just feels better for him. sorry for airing out your business Anywayyyyyy. Anyway.

🍐: he’s a nail biter its kinda gross sorry man. his nails are short always so i make him do short nail tasks since my nails are usually pretty long. i think he bounces his legs sometimes too. he knows i hate that shit thou so he tries not to. usually i just leave so he can shake all he wants. then hes like what wait no….

🥝: he would totally let me do his makeup. we’re both pretty lazy when it comes to makeup so we don’t so anything complex. i just do mascara and corner highlights and SOMETIMES lipstick and that’s it. #autistic i cant stand having too much shit ok my face. this isn’t even about me brah. he does simple makeup too since he’s just not super experienced. he just tries things sometimes but he’s not a professional. he just wants to look cool.

🫒: he’s a big hugger he squeezes too tight but it feels good though…. (´ ω `♡) he likes to be hugged too! yey!

🫐: definitely more of an artist he actually keeps a sketchbook. right brained yeah.

🍇: if we never met i think he might still be getting himself into some trouble tbh. he’s pretty stubborn.

🥥: he draws he plays games. he works out. he cooks. i think he would want to get into gardening but his location doesn’t allow for it since it’s always fucking raining.

🍅: i think he would get me testosterone or something that i can’t possibly get safely right now. or like. my own living space. or some rare pokemon card / plush that costs more than an organ online. sigh. or probably 1 billion dollars. muhehw.

🌶️: he drinks ginger ale. ginger ale the ultra cure.

🫚: hes not picky. he cant eat beans bc hes allergic to them. but i dont think hes picky since he has to make sure his kids eat first. so he eats whatevers left from them. leftover amalgamation.

🥕: he didnt like them but he ate them anyway bc his parents were mean :(

🧅: he cries when hes angry like super fuming. and when hes thinking about his past. hes just mad at himself for what happened and how he handled things. Basically. getting manipulated and taken advantage of makes him upset and he cries. he doesnt cry at movies unless he relates to them.

🌽: does bugs counts as animal. He likes dogs. and isopods. and other sea creatures.

🥦: pet peeves are getting called ‘boy’ or ‘kid’. i used to call him boy all the time just by habit and he would Not like that. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man. stop callin me dat…” okaaayyy whatevar. he doesnt have an issue with me calling him dude tho. despite being his lover. which is a little funny. um what else. people not knocking before entering. leaving empty cartons and stuff in the fridge or cabinet. ppl telling him he looks tired. or people calling him old. not that he has an issue with old people (😽) but its like. How did you even reach that conclusion.

🥒: hes afraid of ultra beasts a little.. specifically uh whats its name. nihilego. that bird that i hate. middle finger emoji. hes like. a little more hesitant with UBs than regular mons. he’s also got a fear of getting lost.

🥬: beige flags auumm i hate his ugly fucking sunglasses. and when he says. ya boy (pinches the space between my brows). peeing with the door open. he does that thing where u can feel him looking at you waiting to turn around during the movie so he can kiss you. theres probably more. im very good at complaining.

🫛: he loves to think of new pet names for me to see how i will react. he’d be like. “goodnight honeypie” and id be like “oh…. yeah… 😽” he also likes them too but most of the time i just call him musham or guzma bc i like saying his name. then he’s like. Why dont you call me anything else…. (sad puppy eyes). he likes when i call him mumu or honey. i calll him princess sometimes but its rare. princess is like his top pet name for me. meeooww. sometimes i call him Boss. thats For when. Im teasing Him. That one Makes his Ears turn Red. For special Occasions. meow.

🫑: he’s had a number of near death experiences so he’s pretty afraid of death. he has no lofty life goals. he just wants his family safe. wants to travel too and have good genuine relationships.

🥑: not super niche but cosmetics and nail art. he also likes cooking and insects and drawing. just things he grew to like from being around his family. or trying to distract himself from his own issues.

🍠: he likes to go to the beach and sit listening to the waves (same). he also likes to paint his or others nails when he’s bored. “gimme yer hands i wanna try sumn”. yknow.

🍆: favorite scent is meeeeeee… i kid i kid. probably like. Ugh. baked goods. Sugar smell. Rain smell 👎🏾 i hate rain smell but he likes it. i don’t think he has any specific least favorite smells other than the usual like peepee and caca yknow.

🧄: allergic to beans

🥔: he makes japanese curry a lot. easy to make in large portions for his 75million children. i like rice so he usually makes rice dishes for me. i don’t cook very often but when i do its cultural foods since he doesn’t know those recipes. he likes those. yom. he wants to learn baking but just hasn’t had the chance or motivation.

🍄‍🟫: i think he would wanna be a mewtwo or something. super strong and cool nonchalant. if we’re talking irl mytho creatures, cerberus. that guy cool as shit. #swagger.

this took me three whole days to answer. enjoyable experience rlly made me think. sorry for any typos i used swipe typing for parts of this 😿.

@sylvie-wants-your-dogs hi : )

the ULTIMATE f/o infodumping ask game!

(this is gonna be a long one...)

🍓 - disregarding the career your f/o currently has, what other career would they consider going into, if given the chance?

🍒 - if your f/o and you spend a day doing anything, anything at all, what would they do and why?

🍎 - what's your f/o's favorite drink? any drink, alcoholic or non alcoholic!

🍉 - is your f/o religious? what's their opinion on religion or spirituality?

🍑 - is your f/o more comfortable giving or receiving gifts? why? do they have any preferences on gifts they like receiving?

🍊 - if you asked your f/o to peel an orange for you, what would they do?

🥭 - did your f/o have stuffed animals growing up? do they still have stuffed animals? do they have a favorite?

🍍 - if you could change any one thing about your f/os backstory/character, what would you change? why?

🍌 - does your f/o have a vendetta against The Big Light™? what kind of lighting do they prefer?

🍋 - if your f/o could change one thing about themselves, what would they change and why?

🍋‍🟩 - is your f/o superstitious? is there any habits they follow or quirks they have to follow said superstitions? like not opening umbrellas indoors to avoid back luck?

🍈 - does your f/o believe in fate? do they thing everything is preplanned out by the universe or a higher power, or do they think that the idea of fate is bogus? why?

🍏 - if you have any queer headcanons for your f/o, how did they realize they were queer?

🍐 - does your f/o have any nervous ticks or idle quirks they do? like mindlessly tapping on a desk or fiddling with their hair when they're stressed?

🥝 - would your f/o ever let you do their make-up? what does their make-up process look like? is it simple? complex?

🫒 - what kind of hugger is your f/o? do they give good hugs? do they like hugs? do they like receiving hugs?

🫐 - is your f/o more of a writer or an artist? would you say your f/o is more left or right brained?

🍇 - if you and your f/o never met, what do you think your f/o would be doing right now?

🥥 - what hobbies does your f/o have? is there any hobby they would like to get into that they haven't tried out yet? what is it?

🍅 - if your f/o could buy you any gift in the world, whether it exists or not, what would they buy you? or, if they could make you something, what would it be?

🌶️ - does your f/o have any remedies they follow when they get sick? like taking a shot of whiskey to get rid of a fever?

🫚 - is your f/o a picky eater? is there any foods they will not under any circumstances, gun to their head, eat?

🥕 - when your f/o was little, did they dislike vegetables? do they still dislike them?

🧅 - what makes your f/o cry? do they get emotional at sad movies or books? do they only get emotional under very rare circumstances?

🌽 - does your f/o have a favorite animal? what is it? are they scared of any animals?

🥦 - does your f/o have any pet peeves? things that just really really get on their nerves? what are they and why?

🥒 - what's your f/o afraid of? do they have any phobias? anything minor they're scared of?

🥬 - what are some beige flags your f/o has? so, not bad, but not nessecarily good either. just. "oh. you do This."

🫛 - how does your f/o feel about pet names or nicknames? do they like them? hate them? what are their favorites and least favorites to be called and to use?

🫑 - how does your f/o feel about death? are they afraid of it? is there anything specific they'd like to do before they die?

🥑 - is there any niche topics your f/o is interested in? what are they and why do they like them?

🍠 - what are a few of your f/os favorite pastimes or things that they do when they're bored?

🍆 - does your f/o have a favorite scent? why is it their favorite? do they have a least favorite scent?

🧄 - does your f/o have any allergies? food or otherwise?

🥔 - does your f/o have any food dishes they make often? is there any foods you make for your f/o that they enjoy?

🍄‍🟫 - if your f/o could be any mythological species, what would they be? if your f/o is already a mythological species, would they ever want to be human?

I recommend practicing reblog karma ! people love infodumping about their f/os :) I also recommend sending more than one emoji at a time,,, there are Many here...!!!

#😾🪲#🪲#interactive #loredomp

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certified-sleep-deprived · 3 days ago

Text

In the club

Part one: The Club

Authors note: sorry this took so long to post. I was going through a slip in grades, a writers block, and just a general unhappiness with some parts of this story. I've rewritten a good portion but I'm still unhappy with the smut, so any tips or comments would be greatful! This is being divided into two parts as I don't know how long the second one will be. If it's anything like this one? It'll be awhile.

Wc: 6500+

Warnings/additional tags: closet sex, cunnilingus, fingering and oral (r receiving), strap-on (r receiving), Agatha is a scheming little shit, Rio fucked both these ladies once, Reader and Agatha are so down bad for eachother, mommy kink, voice kink (?), r has an obsession with Agatha's hands (don't we all), top Agatha, bottom Reader, Reader has a name but it can be overlooked easily :)

Miami is home to many kinds of people. Average citizens, thugs, hookers; and then there's you: a crime boss. You had an iron grip on your assets, even had a good relationship on the side with your girlfriend, Rio. Although, I should say ex-girlfriend now that she had betrayed you and turned you into the police.

Six years in prison wasn't a light sentence by any means, especially when you were thrown into a literal concrete box with no light and no human interaction.

Your sentence was for life, but you only spent six of them thanks to this rookie looking for a mentor in crime, who would eventually turn out to be your friend.

He was the one to coax you out of your forced retirement. You should have been laying low, staying away from your life of crime, you had argued; but he wasn't taking it. There were people who had moved in on your turf, and you needed to take it back. As the younger guy was persistent as he was infuriating, the idea was tempting, so here you were four years later as you continued to rebuild your crime empire from nearly the ground up.

Tonight though, you were sipping a glass of wine from the balcony of your penthouse overlooking the Miami skyline. The sunset was like a Bob Ross painting. Streaks of orange and pink tangled in the clouds in a tango, the sun illuminating through them like stained glass in a chapel.

You never knew how much you missed it when you came out of prison and back into the world. Now, you never took another sunset for granted, as who knew which one would be your lazy?

“Ellie!!”

The out-of-world trance you were in from the skyline was broken by the sound of one nagging apprentice.

Your friend has been insistently bugging you about going out to a nightclub to blow off some tension, maybe hook up with someone as a bonus. There were certain things that required attention, you had argued, and they couldn't wait, as they had a time frame. Did your friend care? Hell no! He practically tuned you out and left you with no other choice but to go with him to the nightclub he had been raving on about.

It was dangerous to go out to just any nightclub in the bustling city of Miami without doing research on its owner. Hell, it's dangerous to go to just any nightclub period, no matter where it was. It could belong to a drug cartel, a narc looking for vulnerable prey, or even worse, her.

Agatha Harkness.

She was your biggest competition in the crime world, and she was always two steps ahead of you. When you had escaped from that concrete box, she was the main onr who had made moves in on your turf.

She was just as aware of you as you were aware of her. It felt like she knew more about you than you knew about yourself sometimes, like she was living in your mind.

At the scene of where your jobs and crimes should have been, is a nicely painted note on a wall or a piece of paper from her that usually says something along the lines of, ‘better luck next time, sweetheart’, with a purple heart attached.

Every. Single. Time.

Truth be told, you unfortunately came to admire her when it came to how she would work. But it also frustrated you to no end. It's as if she somehow knew your intricately prepared jobs beforehand. Almost like she was a psychic or a fortune teller. And the worst part? She would leave no trace of evidence it was her behind, except for the hand-painted notes she left for you after.

It irks you more the fact that nobody has seen her face. Ever. She was more incognito than a drop in the ocean. This information also meant that she likely disguises herself as an everyday Sue. And there were many of those around Miami. So you had no idea what she looked like, and your friend could be dragging you directly into her web tonight.

Only one way to find out, you suppose.

So, here you were now, putting on a flowing, black dress that went ankle-length, and held a sewn-in pocket on the off-white inside. The dress had a slit in the front that stretched from the bottom to just above your knees, making it easier to not trip from limited leg movement. It was also strapless to prevent irritation from rubbing against your shoulders all night.

You had debated not putting on a wig, because who would recognize you? But then it dawned on you that it maybe wasn't best to stand out with turquoise dyed hair, especially if there was a certain rival there to spot you. So, it was a natural-colored wig for you tonight.

You placed a pocket knife in the cushioned slip inside your dress for safety measures. You never know who or what you'll encounter in a crowded nightclub. Especially in a city like Miami.

Upon standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom, you realized that, wow, you'd certainly bat a few eyes, to say the least. The dress hugged your curves in all the right places like it was suffocated saran wrap. And between the makeup and your hair? Bellissimo! Anyone who would see you wouldn't be able to take their eyes off of you, and you didn't know if that was going to be a good or bad thing.

The voice of your friend from the other side of your door breaks you out of your self-admiriful state,

“Hey, uccella canterina! If you spend any longer in there the club will go out of business!”

His exaggeration elicited a chuckle from you,

“I'm coming, I'm coming! Go start your car!”, you call out to him.

The faint sound of the front door closing indicates he's gone, and so you make sure you have everything before giving yourself another look over in the mirror. Please don't attract the wrong kind of attention, you think before exiting your room and heading for the front door.

The cool air nips and flows across your exposed skin as you step out of the doors to the outside. They close behind you with a click and the sound of a car revving its engine breaks the near silence of the night. Your friend is waiting in front of his sports car, and once he spots you, he sends a whistle your way.

“Damn, girl! You'll have ladies all over you tonight with that outfit!”

His words are genuine and they hold no underlying intentions. You get into the car still putting on your coat before replying to his statement,

“You really know how to make a girl feel special. I could say the same for you, dude! You're dashing, and I think you'll definitely have guys and gals all over your dick tonight.”

He shakes his head with amusement before pulling out of the driveway and looking behind him before taking off in the streets.

“You're too much, sometimes, girlie.”

The wind battles your put-together hair as your friend sped through the streets to the nightclub. Nighttime air did wonders for calming your racing mind.

There was something about the crisp ocean air that brought a calm mood upon you. Maybe it was the smell of saltwater, or maybe it was the cooler temperature of the air at night. Whatever it was, it was able to calm you, unlike the stuffy, humid air of the daytime. The air had such a powerful calming effect it was lulling you to sleep, almost like magic.

You hadn't even noticed that the car had arrived at its destination until your friend gently shook you awake by the shoulder,

“Hey, we're here. Come on!”

His voice betrays the excitement and anticipation that courses through his body, but he still tried to be gentle with waking you.

Your eyes took at least a minute to adjust to the bright lighting of the outside of the nightclub you were at. To say it was blinding was an understatement. It was like a flashlight was being shone in your eyes, and it burned for a moment until your eyes fully adjusted from your power nap. Only then, did you realize the nightclub your friend took you to.

It was E11even. The most exclusive club in Miami.

Your breath was taken away by the beauty of it. In your entire time of clubbing and doing jobs, you had never made a stop at E11even before. You've heard stories, but never ventured in yourself.

And the fact you haven't been here before worried you.

Who knew what kind of people lurked here? It was downtown Miami, after all.

Your friend was next to your door and seemed to notice the worry etched in your brow. His hand finds its way to your shoulder in a soft squeeze of reassurance.

“Hey, don't worry. I've been here before, and I can say nobody will recognize you. You blend in like a basic bitch any- ow! What was that for?”

You punch his arm at the playful jest with a shit-eating grin on your face.

“It felt necessary.”

He huffs and shakes his head before opening your door for you to get out.

“I don't want any wrinkles in this suit, stronza. You're lucky you're my best friend.”

You step out of the car and he closes the door behind you before locking it with the button on his keys.

It's only about ten minutes you both are waiting on the line for the door when you get to the entrance. Expecting to pay, you pull out your phone, but your friend says his name to the bouncer before he guides you in with a hand on your back. Your head swivels back to the bouncer fading from your view and then back to your friend with confusion. He laughs when he notices your perplexed state and says,

“I'm on the V.I.P. list.”

A smile paints its way on your lips before responding in a mocking tone,

“Look at you, climbing up the rungs of the ladder. Maybe you aren't the amateur I met three years ago.”

His unamused side-eye tells you he's unimpressed, but he shakes his head before leading you to the bar and sitting down.

The dance floor to your right was loud and bright; the exact opposite of the bar you were sitting down at. Lights over your heads were so dim you could barely notice them. Maybe it was a contrast done on purpose, or maybe it was a coincidence. You'd never know, but it was a nice feeling to not be under all the hot and bright lights of the main floor.

The bartender comes over to order your drinks. Your friend orders a couple of shots of tequila and you order a shot of vodka. His gaze turns back to you as the bar keep pours your shots.

“Hey, I've come a long way since then. I haven't been an amateur since I convinced you to shadow me-

“More like you cajoled me, but same thing I guess.”

He kicks your leg under the lip of the bar with a smug smirk.

“Payback, huh? You always were petty”, you say as the shots come back to you.

Your friend watches from beside you as you gulp the shot in one swallow with high regard. He huffs with amusement before turning to his two shots of tequila.

“You still know how to keep the party going.”

“That's because I don't crash from the first sips of alcohol, like you”, you jest with a shoulder bump.

“I may have been in prison for a while, but it's been a long time since then. I still know how to live it up.”

He knew you were right, declared by his lack of words after, but he continued to down the last shot of his drink before placing the shot glass back on the counter. Your thoughts wander back to your paranoia for a moment, but thankfully you're pulled back when a guy approaches your friend and looks him up and down with a hungry gaze.

The guy is clearly inebriated as he flirts with your friend.

“Hey, the name's Ruben. But you can call me anything you like.”

A chuckle escapes your lips at the flustered state of the companion beside you. His cheeks were dusted a light red as Ruben holds out a hand to him to take.

“I think that's your cue, amico”, your voice takes on a teasing tone as the guy, Ruben, practically drags him to the dance floor. Both stumble and eventually blend in with the crowd so much you can't spot them anymore.

The minutes seemed to drag on with shot after shot of vodka as the effects started to settle in.

Only when an older woman sat herself next to you, were you temporarily broken from your inebriated trance. She was the most ethereal thing you've seen. Long, wavy, chestnut locks that flowed around her. High cheekbones that just screamed confidence and power. A deep purple tailored suit jacket hugged her shoulders tightly with matching slacks and a white dress shirt. And, to top it off, her eyes were a captivating cerulean, and they were pulling you in like quicksand.

She caught your lingering gaze and gave you a hungry look up and down with a smirk. Her eyes dragged from top to bottom before they finally settled on your own eyes. Time seemed to stop as this happens, everything around you feeling like it was slowing down. It's not often, if at all, a stranger can get you this flustered by a look alone, and it made you feel small… vulnerable.

“What's a pretty girl like you doing here? First time clubbing?”

Her voice is raspy, but smooth like butter. And, fuck, did it do things to you.

A fire ignites itself in your gut and it's heat spreads throughout your body, making the room suddenly feel hot. You shift in your seat slightly to try and center yourself and get a grip. A random woman's (who you literally just met) voice shouldn't be making you feel like this. It's a stark contrast to your usual bravado, and it scared you.

You couldn't tell if it was just her, or the vodka, or even both, but whatever it was, it was doing things to you.

The clearing of her throat brought you back to the present and out of your intense staring competition with the bar counter. It reminded you that she had asked you something.

“Just looking to alleviate some stress, I guess. As for first time…? It isn't my first time clubbing, but it is my first time here.”

Your voice shakes slightly as you respond to her earlier question. What the fuck was wrong with you? You were never this nervous or jittery when you drank. Did this woman have you under a spell or something? This isn't like the fierce, cold crime boss you are.

A sly-smile dances across her lips as she takes in your reaction, like she's cornered her prey. She leans an elbow on the bar counter and places her hand on her palm and looks at you with an unreadable expression. But it's almost like she's analyzing you, picking apart every tissue, every cell in your body and studying them. She brings her shot glass of tequila to her lips and takes a big gulp. As the burning liquid slides down her throat, it bobs and you didn't think she could get any more captivating.

Her eyes snap back up to yours in a heated gaze, pupils dilated and full of hunger and want. It sent shockwaves of heat directly to your core, and your breath was stolen away until she spoke again,

“Well, that makes sense. I haven't seen you here before.”

And your voice cuts through before you could think,

“You a regular?”

She seemed to contemplate her answer for a second.

“I suppose you could say that, sweetheart.”

You turned your head away from her to hide your burning cheeks, not wanting to show how open you felt at that moment. And the way she said the word sweetheart felt oddly familiar, and it sent chills down your spine. But before you could question it further, her hand comes up to the side of your jaw and tilts your face to turn back towards her. Her hands. God, they were so rough yet tender at the same time.

Your heart felt like it was about to beat out of your chest when she looked you in the eyes again. The beauty of her eyes were like a siren call, wanting to pull you into the depths of their ocean.

Her eyes flicker down to your lips as her face inched closer. Slowly, but surely, you found yourself leaning in as well, as you knew this woman had you in her web, and there was no escape from it. At this moment, it didn't matter enough who she was or even could be.

Just as her breath ghosts over your lips, she pulls away and you just about whine until she speaks in that honey-smooth voice of hers,

“Let's take this somewhere more secluded, shall we?”

She offers a hand out to you, and you took it almost immediately, desperate for any physical contact with her. It wasn't just the vodka talking at this point, it was her. She had you wrapped around her finger like a thread, and she fucking knew it too. You would soon be wrapped around her fingers quite literally.

The way her fingers interlaced with yours as she gently guided you to wherever she was going felt so intimate, making you feel so fluttery inside. You'd gladly follow this mystery woman to the ends of the earth if it meant you could have her.

She eventually brings the both of you to a small storage closet in a more secluded area. The lighting was dim, and it wasn't spacious, but it would have to do.

As she turned to face you, you brought your free hand, the one not intertwined with hers, up to her face and your eyes scrape over every line, every contour of her face as if you were trying to burn it into your memory.

“Has anybody told you that you are absolutely bewitching?”

You are now the one to catch her off guard, her resolve nearly crumbles at the sound of your voice and your words. But, she composes herself and shoots back another witty remark,

“I could say the same for you, sweetheart. You are enthralling, like an enchantress.”

Her free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head before she closes the distance and finally, finally, presses her lips to yours in a burning kiss.

It was tender and soft at first, but soon dissolved into a desperate need and hunger for one another. Your hand gripped hers tighter as she backed you up into a table, your ass pressing into the refined wood. The kiss deepened as she lifted you by your thighs onto the table, tongues dancing together in a heated tango, and your bodies bumped and rocked against one another.

You wanted to commit the taste of her to memory as best as you could. Because if this was just a fleeting one-night stand, then you'll be damned if you don't make the most of it.

The buzz of your phone almost breaks you from your heated interaction, but as you go to reach for it, the woman grabs your wrist in a firm grip.

“Live in the moment honey”, she let's go of your hands and trails it slowly up your thigh, teasingly.

“I can make you feel so good”, her voice is the only other sound in the closet besides your combined breathing.

“Do you want that? You want me to make you feel good?” You nod your head frantically, so desperately. It was embarrassing, so pathetic, but you could care less at this moment.

She has you under her control and willing to obey every command she gives you.

“Take off your jacket. I want to see that sexy dress of yours being hidden from me.”

Her voice is dominant and commanding action, washing over you like a spell. And like so, you immediately start shedding the outer layer that is your coat. It was almost pathetic at how fast you got it off and on the floor of the closet. A chuckle escaped her lips, but then her breath hitched as the sight of you in your form-hugging dress greets her.

Her cerulean eyes danced over your body that was fitted by the dress. It accentuated all your curves and dips so well, and it made the hunger for you by this woman skyrocket. If it wasn't clear she was pulled to you before, then it should be now.

She takes notice of how you slightly spread your legs, as if almost on instinct, and her hands are immediately on your thighs, spreading them further for her to get leverage.

As she speaks, her hot breath fans over your face,

“You really are a gem, sweetheart. I might just have to keep you all to myself, don't I? But then again, you'd probably like that.”

She runs her hands up and down your thighs under your dress before using them as leverage to pull you flush to her. The table scoots from the wall a bit at the sudden movement. As you come in contact with her crotch, you feel the outline of a strap under her slacks, and by the judge of it, it's big.

The stimulation against you clit leaves a hitch in your breath, and she smiles through peppering kisses on your jaw.

“Someone seems excited. I'll have to work you open first, baby”, she drawls, “bet you haven't had a good fuck in awhile by anyone, haven't you?”

You don't want to admit it, but it's been ages since you've felt this way, been in this position.

It's been too long.

Her lips graze your earlobe, gently nipping at it before moving slowly down your jawline, and eventually the junction of your neck. The feeling of her tongue and teeth marking up your neck was a sensation you were once positive you wouldn't feel again, but here you were, under this woman and she was giving it to you.

Embarrassment flooded through your veins at the prospect of admitting how long you've been denied an orgasm, but it was inevitable. So as you nod your head, she coos in an almost-teasing way,

“Poor thing. Seems like mommy will have to change that then, yeah?”

Holy fuck.

That word.

Mommy.

You think your soul just left your body and ascended at the way she called herself ‘mommy'. Normally you wouldn't fold like this for anyone. Anyone. But with her? It just felt so right. The tight resolve you always had crumbled away in an instant for her and you only met her not even ten minutes ago. She has you under her spell, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You feel her lips graze a certain spot on your neck before biting down into it and sucking harshly. A gasp leaves your throat at the sudden sensation, but instead of it hurting like it should, it actually felt really good.

Fuck, you thought. Did you have a pain kink now?

The way her lips nipped and sucked at your neck felt heavenly, it was like she was staking a claim over you. Your friend would have questions come tomorrow, but you could care less. All you cared about in this moment was this divine woman hovering over you right now.

Her lips roughly pull away from your neck with a ‘pop’, a trail of saliva connecting her lips to a newly forming bruise on your neck. A satisfied smirk lit up her face, but something told you she was far from over.

Her fingers trailing on the inside of your thighs and inching closer to your core is what brings you back to earth. With this close-up, you might have a new thing to obsess over on her: her hands. They appear like they have aged like fine wine, with how taut the skin around her veins were, and the sheer power that exuded from them.

Her long, elegant fingers dance and stroke along your inner thighs so light it felt like she was almost tickling you. It was intentionally teasing, and it was driving you up the wall (almost literally!).

The teasing hand strokes along your thigh for a moment longer before dipping in the waistband of your underwear and pulling them straight down your legs. And you swear a moan escaped her throat as she caught just how wet you were through the widened slit in your dress.

“Fuck, baby you're dripping. This all for me? For mommy?”

If it was possible, her words made you even wetter. Possibly you also had a newfound voice kink for this captivating woman, amongst other things you'd discover tonight.

She gets on her knees in front of your core and her left hand was stroking along the inside of your folds, gathering your wetness as a lube for her fingers. Her hand stilled for a moment before she pushed two of those amazing fingers in your dripping hole, and the sudden action made you throw your head back with the most obscene sound you've made in your life. The pace was slow at first, but quickly built a crescendo as her lips attached onto your clit and began to suck on it.

It was intense the way she fucked and twisted her fingers into you, and every bump and ridge of them hit the right spots. Her lips were still wrapped around your pearl and continued their sucking motion while her tongue mapped something out, a word maybe. Her name? There was no way you could tell.

“You taste so good, sweetheart. Absolutely divine”, she all but groans out. The vibration against your bundle of nerves seems to stimulate it more, and it sends shockwaves throughout your core. A raging inferno pulsed through you. An unstoppable inferno, at that.

“Your pussy is so delectable. It tastes like it was made for me, and it's all mine.”

She soon added a third finger without you noticing, and the initial stretch burned so good.

“Oh! Oh, shit. Oh my god!”

Your breaths are coming out in ragged gasps as her fingers curl and uncurl into that one spongey spot inside of you, and she drags another sinful moan from your throat. She revels in every millisecond of it with a dark look.

Liquid fire felt like it was coursing through your body with every curl of her fingers, and every suck of her lips on your clit. It felt absolutely divine. Her lips and fingers combined were the eighth wonder of the world. The world you stood on and shared with her.

Her fingers played you like a violin. So intricate, but still holding great power behind them. Still so quick, anticipating the next second ahead. She was anticipating the next second of your approaching release like reading ahead in her sheet music. You were her sheet music.

Your release approaches quickly, and as you're about to tip over the edge, she rises up from her spot in between your legs and crashes her lips on yours, still fucking you in a harshly fast rhythm with her fingers.

“I'm so close. Please, let me cum!”

Your words seem to have a deep effect on her as she looks at you through hooded eyes.

“Go on. Cum for me, baby. I want to see and hear you as I bring you to the edge.”

Those words are what broke the camel's back, and it feels like a tsunami crashing over you with how strong your release was. Your entire body jerks and arches into hers as you grasp onto her shoulders, trying to steady yourself through what may be the most powerful orgasm you've had yet.

The aggressive waves of your high soon became shallow pushes against the shore as you came back to your senses. A soft brush of her fingers tucking your hair behind your ear was what eventually brought you back down from Mars.

Your new obsession stood over you like a statue, pupils dilated and a deep fire in her eyes as she raked over your disheveled state with pride. She gently withdrew her fingers from your cunt with an unholy sound, and a small whine from your throat.

“God, you're so beautiful, and you taste so good”, she moans as she sucks the residue of your orgasm off of her fingers, and looks you in the eyes as she does so. The sight of her licking and sucking your essence of her fingers could have made you cum again from how hot she looked doing it.

“I can't wait to see how well you fit around my cock, pretty girl.”

One of her strong hands comes up to caress the side of your face, her thumb stroking your cheek in a loving way almost, before pulling you upfor a quick, messy kiss. Her other hand trails down to her slacks and undoes the clip and zipper binding them together. She pulls away from the kiss and uses her other hand to push the slacks down her thighs and to pool at her ankles.

Around her hips and thighs is a buckled harness, and in the center of it was a large, purple dildo. It was definitely larger than any strap you've taken previously, and the thought of it stretching you out further than her fingers had made your mouth water like a starved woman. She caught you staring the strap down and with a knowing look, she simply tilted your chin up so the only thing you could see was her blazing, lustful eyes. Most of the cerulean of her irises was blown out by her pupils, and it looked like she was a feral animal in heat, but still holding some semblance of control. There was no way this was just a quick fuck in a closet, or at least you hoped.

“You're a big girl. You can take it, can't you?”

Her words were more on the teasing side, but, nonetheless, it was still a genuine question. All you could respond with is a nod, as words weren't coming to you at the moment. But this woman wasn't having it as she gripped your chin between her pointer finger and thumb as she made sure you weren't able to look away.

“I want words, sweetheart. You can take mommy's cock, can't you?”

Fuck, did her voice do things to you. You naturally had to obey her, like it was your job. Who knows what would happen if you didn't? Her alluring voice seemed to have a hypnotizing effect on you, pulling you further into the dark depths of her ocean.

“Yes, mommy.”

Your voice was still shaky from the remnants of your previous orgasm, but it still conveyed the point to her as she lined up the tip of her strap with the entrance of your cunt. Her eyes seem to glaze over with an unfamiliar look, like something has stirred inside of her. But it is only for a moment, because as soon as it appears, it disappears just as quick. She starts to glide in, and as she does, she groans in pleasure almost as if she could actually feel you clenching around her.

Of course, she can actually feel you, but where's the fun in telling the person, who is your rival, just exactly who you are? Why would she give herself away when she knows you'll eventually put two and two together. By the time you will, she thinks, it will be too late. The thought brings a smile to Agatha's face at the thought of the grand reveal to you. Not only is she your rival, who you've been fuming over (but also admiring), but she is also a witch. It takes everything in her to not let it show on her face, trying to gain some self-control over her thoughts. Once her plan unfolds, you'd be at her mercy and she would have finally won.

That self control is thrown out the window when she feels your walls flutter around her strap, and it draws a strangled groan from her lips.

The pace she sets is far from gentle, and it's partly because she felt you had enough preparation from her fingers and her tongue. So, why the need to be gentle? It wasn't necessary in her eyes. After all, it was your fault that she lost her control. But it was also partly for the fact she lost control in the first place.

Her hands fly to your still clothed breasts and gives them a firm squeeze as her hips plow into you relentlessly. The jarring motion of her rough thrusting keeps making the table you're plopped on hit the wall, like a metronome gradually increasing its tempo. As she starts feeling you slide backwards on the cool wood, her hands move from your tits down to your ass, and she grabs onto your cheeks and yanks you forward, holding onto you.

The force of her thrusts start to increase as she chases her high. It's far, but so near at the same time. In this moment, she needed you like the air she breathed. All your curves calling out to her like a prize to be taken, the platinum trophy for her hard work.

When she looks down at you, Agatha feels something inside her stir slightly.

Originally, her whole plan was to lure you into her nightclub and fuck your brains out, then blackmail you with the threat of going back to prison. But, looking into your fucked-out face, she begins to second-guess her motives.

Sure, you encroached on her hard earned territory, tried fumbling with her assets, and overall you were a massive thorn in her side, but she found a weird attraction to you. Sure, it was her who had stolen your territory and you were rightfully warning it back, but still. She wanted to cut you open and watch you bleed, like any rival would, but she couldn't find it right to do so.

What was wrong with her? Is she really feeling something for you, her rival? The thought is laughable. No way would she let one time fucking you into submission change her heart. She is still going to go through with her plan, no matter how much her gut is screaming at her not to.

Good thing she had Wanda, her second-in-command to get your friend excited to drag you along here, because now you were in her sticky snare with no means of escape.

One of her hands snakes from your ass, around your waist, and slips between your folds to find your clit. The slight graze of her fingers on your clit, while she continues pounding into you with bruising force, is enough to make your hips buck into hers.

You were still sensitive from the orgasm she pulled from you with her tongue and fingers just before, so your next was quickly approaching on the horizon. Agatha originally thought of torturing you, and dragging out your orgasm, but she decided against it as she was desperate for release herself. Also, she was tired from managing a nightclub while devising a plan against you, so she decided to go easy on you tonight.

The swipes of her thumb become faster and more rough as it presses harder into your bundle of nerves, which strangles a pornographic moan out from your lips. The sound did wonders to her own impending orgasm, and a low groan came from her as she felt her peak near closer. Her powerful thrusts were so jarring in their force that you were convinced you'd have bruises, alongside the ones on your neck.

Agatha found herself enamored with you, unable to get enough. Her glass would seem to never be full when it comes to you. She just wants more and more, and more; she was so greedy to drink in every last drop of you until there was nothing left.

The signs of her impending orgasm were clear as day when her thrusts started becoming sloppy and uneven; there was no set tempo and obscene sounds were coming out from both of your mouths. And they blended together so much so you couldn't tell who's moan came from who's mouth, and vice-versa. it was like an ideal choir; sounding like one voice.

Your voice was a pleading chant as you begged this goddess of a woman to give you what you so desperately craved.

“Oh- fuck! Mommy! Mommy, please, I need- I need to cum!”

‘Mommy’ came off your tongue like a sin never to be uttered. But if it was a sin, why did it felt so good? Because, with this woman, you found you'd commit any sin in the world for her.

Lips collided, tongues tangled, and hands flew anywhere they could find purchase to gain a sense of ground. They flew to hair, faces, and elsewhere they touched. It was a comboluded and tangled mess of limbs.

The messy drive of her hips falters for a second, before they resume their sloppy movement until stilling completely a moment later. A drawn out, pleasure-filled groan leaves her lips as her orgasm completely overtakes her entire body.

Agatha has never cum this hard or fast for any woman in her life, not even Rio, but you seem to be the outlier in this scenario. You're the unknown that she can't tell if she hates or is now genuinely interested in. Her plan was to blackmail you into giving all your assets to her, and leave you bleeding, but here she is second-guessing herself yet again. The thought of doing that to you isn't sitting right with her the longer it marinates in her thoughts.

Fuck. She needs to get a grip.

Her hair drapes like a curtain over her face, concealing it from all sides except facing your own face. Speaking of your face, yours was totally and utterly wrecked. Your cheeks and neck held a deep, crimson flush that spread like a wildfire. It was so hot it even felt like a wildfire.

Agatha's cerulean eyes travel and map your entire face, as if she was committing it to memory. There was a hint of desire still lingering in her blown out pupils, but there was a hint of something else; it was something you couldn't put your finger on.

The last thing you felt before you slipped into unconsciousness was a purple haze surrounding your mind like a thick cocoon.

#agatha x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness #agatha all along #crime boss au #lesbian

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princessefemmelesbian · 1 day ago

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One thing I wish MRAs and transandrophobia truthers understood is that the statement “women are seen as more innocent/valuable/worthy of protection” is not a universal truth and is in fact a belief steeped in whiteness. Whiny men who want to pretend that they’re oppressed for being men simply LOVE to claim that women are privileged in society because we’re seen as more innocent and given the benefit of the doubt for some things, or are seen as less dangerous, or are “cared for more” by society, or can use our “tears” to manipulate men and get ourselves out of trouble. And while sometimes this can have some basis to it, like how some people believe that women can’t rape men, or when they say “women and children”, for instances, in the majority of cases it has not been true, and I am slowly realizing why. It’s because that idea(at least in the West) has only ever been applied to white women.

Women of color NEVER get the advantage of being seen as innocent, soft, or worthy of protection, especially Black women who are stereotyped instead as strong, hardworking, mannish mules due to slavery, as well as adultified and sexualized. The same applies to other races of women like mestiza-Latina women who are seen as “spicy” or East Asian women who are seen as innocent and childlike but not in a way that inspires protection like in white women, but in a way that lets them be seen as “submissive” and thus open to be fetishized and exploited/discarded by white men as well.

Women of color are also raped more than white women, specifically due to the idea that we are inherently more sexual and less innocent than white women and always available for sexual domination and don’t deserve our virtue and dignity protected the way that white women do, but also, more twistedly, due to the idea that we are inherently more “tough” and less dainty and feminine than white women and are built to withstand brutalization, thus we can be treated roughly and abused more harshly than white women, because women of color aren’t “real” women you see? You can beat them and sexually abuse them and even murder them as aggressively and inhumanely as well, they can take it! They like it rough! They don’t deserve protection and safety and love, because they aren’t real women, y’see, they aren’t even human! And we all know about white woman tears, that isn’t anything new.

Really women of color are never given the advantage of being innocent or being catered to like princesses the way MRAs and transmisogynists claim, it is really a western/white-centric viewpoint above all else and it bothers me to see people parrot it without realizing that this only applies to white women. It’s like they only consider white women when they talk about women, it’s really sad and maddening but hey there’s white femininity for ya. It makes sense, though, because both groups are comprised predominantly of angry sensitive white men who are upset because they feel like society doesn’t coddle them enough, rather than that it coddles them too much, and take out their insecurity over their manhood and inability to reckon with their male privilege out on the more vulnerable women in their communities, whom they irrationally see as to blame for their frustration and hurt feelings. They don’t give the slightest shits about women of color, and especially not about trans women of color, because acknowledging women of color’s existence would completely upend their worldview and force them to confront the fact that they are not the ultimate victims of the planet, and that they have the power to oppress someone else and they don’t like that! If nobody’s coddling their ass 24/7, then that means that the entire world is against them, doesn’t it? And women become the enemy for pointing it out. That’s honestly all this is at this point. So done.

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avifaunaa · 3 days ago

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i tasted ash and knew [ it was you ] [ r.v. ] [ p.3 ]

Authors Note: Well, shit. Glad to see this garnered some attention and that you guys liked it 🫡 as per usual please keep an eye on the content warnings and take care of yourselves.

Some more useless history facts nobody wanted:

• Remedies for illnesses in the fifties were a mixture of at-home and rising industry cure-alls. Many people used sponge baths for fevers and hot water bottles for aches while taking their Asprin. It was an awkward middle ground of well-known techniques and modern medicine.

• Nail care was also becoming more popular in the fifties, as with everything in society now that a war was not a concern. In 1954 a dentist was the creator of the first fake / artificial nail since he was tired of his own nails breaking lmao. Most women took care of their own nails and painted them with practice, for the most part. Women also started reshaping their nails in the process of the upkeep!

• The fairs we know today and see as a sort of larger aspect of a season were a lot more deeply involved in the local communities back in the day. Fairs were used to bring many — or just one — communities together and often made a show of selling local goods by those who lived within the county it was held in. It had a large focus on the region’s agricultural culture as well and it wasn’t uncommon to see livestock at these events. This is how some fairs ended up being hosts to many beloved country events that go on today, like rodeos. The classic carnival rides we love were still used even then — but mostly had limited options that included Ferris wheels, bumper cars, the whip, and some games that may or may not still be found in today’s fairs!

• Cotton Candy was invented in 1897 by a dentist and a candy maker. There’s a joke in there somewhere.

• Funnel cake was brought over to the States by the Dutch as drechderkuche around 1879 and they themselves had gotten it after the dish spread in popularity across Europe after initially being dated back all the way to the medival worlds of the Persians known as zalabiyeh. Only in 1947 did it make a grand entrance to the carnival and fair life as a snack of wonder!

Masterlist

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART FOUR

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Fem!Reader

Summary: Rio’s really done it now. She’s created a monster of herself and broken her most important rule and revealed her lies to you in doing so: her inability to create life. Allegedly. Death becomes your dueling partner as all you can do is grapple for some semblance of control between her moments of appearance as she works double time to keep you — and now whatever she thinks grows inside of you — alive.

Content Warnings: Dark, so expect the usual — internalized homophobia and gender norm expectations in flashbacks, panic attacks, self-harm [ not graphic but it’s there ], angst, forced impregnation, misuse of magic [ Rio, always Rio ], manipulation, obsessive behavior, threats of violence [ R —> Rio ], Stockholm Syndrome taking effect, TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES

Word Count: ~5.2k

2024

You awoke with the curtains pulled open and the sun glaring across your face which really only added to the pounding in the front of your skull that welcomed you back to the world of the living.

Gods — it wasn’t just your head that pounded. Your entire body felt like a dump truck came through the house and just meandered over your unconscious body and left behind whatever was left of you.

The pain alone was almost enough to convince you to go back to sleep, to try and escape it longer and what you knew it would mean by getting up.

Because you remembered last night — down to what Rio had whispered to you with deadly promise and such conviction that it still was too much for you to think about right now.

You should have known better trying to kill Rio. You were smarter than that, most days. You knew to some extent how powerful she was and that you had no true capability to so much as give her a paper cut if she didn’t allow it.

You drew your arm from under you and rested your forehead against it, still facedown against the pillows and refusing to move from your position. That would be . . . It would be admitting a lot of things to yourself, never mind Rio.

The wetness on your skin is how you found out you were crying. Quiet tears, falling directly onto your arm before your brain could catch up with the severity of your emotions.

You dug your teeth into the skin of your arm to silence any noise that would dare try to leave your chest. These tears would have to come and go without trace, and this would be your only acknowledgment that they were ever there at all.

Your body shook only slightly as you willed your crying to end and just let the anguish and loneliness be your friends for this single moment before you had to return to this endless game of brutality with Rio.

When you could cry no more and you were sure you could breath without shuddering, you pulled your teeth from your arm and assessed the damage.

You had dug in deep enough to bruise — it was already turning red and had left deep tracks, unforgiving in the proof of your inability to hold your emotions in.

You wipes the wetness from your arm and did not wince when a throb from touching the mark was returned. It was a small price to pay, and it would be a good grounding-point to slip out of bed.

At least your emotions were back to normal. . . They were regulating now.

That’s what you told yourself as you sat at the edge of the bed and stared at the plants on the shelves across from you on the wall.

The ache between your legs that matches the one deep in your chest beyond flesh and bone were ones that you knew well — from your previous marriage and then with Rio. Both with positive and negative connotations attached — at first.

Now you weren’t sure there was anything left to recover from those feelings. Not when you could reach up to your neck and practically touch the hum of magic that kept you tethered to her.

You flexed your fingers and dug them into the mattress as you tried to even your breaths again. The tears were long gone, but the breathing —

She took, took, and took and never once thought that she was taking. She only cared what it did for her and how it made her happy, to appease her immortality? The despair it brought with her to be alone so long?

You hated that it was you.

You used to love that it was you.

But the thing with Rio is that her affections are animalistic and not grounded in how it will hurt everyone else. You realized that when she collared you the first time and you had to escape under the cover of night and get the magic removed quietly and quickly.

She is selfless in her selfishness and that is her most dangerous attribute. A patient hunter who knows the game after a long time playing it.

“Mow.”

Billy was sitting in front of you, just inches away with intense eyes and his fluffy tail curled at his paws. He seemed almost curious.

You unclenched your fingers from the sheets and reached out, offering a hand passively.

He blinked at you, owlish, then stood and rubbed his head against the stretched hand and down your arm. Loud purrs soon filled the quiet surroundings and his tail vibrated as he chirped at you.

“Are you hungry?” you asked him, watching his flank ripple as your fingers ran through it. Your mind was quickly able to release despairing thoughts and the pit that sought to drag you deep.

A loud mrow was your response and you took that as an initiative to stand and find something comfortable to wear and pointedly ignore the pain left behind by Rio and ignore the fact that it was as though she was never there at all.

1954

You hid upstairs long after Rio had returned from her job. You folded laundry and ironed some, then refolded others again. When that was done and you couldn’t really make an excuse to just constantly fold laundry repeatedly, you locked yourself in the bathroom you had been using and decided to “organize”.

You had heard her inquiring calls from downstairs and had chosen to ignore them in hopes she would . . . Well, you weren’t entirely sure. Your mother’s news had been unsettling and left a sour taste in your mouth.

Why did you have so many lipsticks, now? You had five in your palm and three on the ground where you sat on your knees. They were in varying shades of reds and pinks and relatively new — all from Rio. She sometimes liked to bring you gifts from the store.

Did you really care how many you had? Did it matter?

Your mother said Rio was never married — no records of it were recorded in the archives, no official obituary to be found under the name Vidal. You supposed she could have returned to using her maiden name . . . But —

“Angel?” A rap to the door shook you out of your thoughts and the lipsticks clattered to the floor.

“Shoot,” you murmured and began to scoop all of them up hastily, “h-hang on, Rio. I’ll be just a moment.”

“It’s no problem, sweetheart, really. I was just concerned when you didn’t come to see me when I got home.”

You stacked everything back into place and lifted the container before setting it back into the medicine cabinet-mirror duo and shutting it. Your reflection startled you.

You had regained some flush to your cheeks and a light to your eyes after the death of your husband — even you could see it without it being pointed out. Nobody did, though. It would’ve meant implying something — something that was never meant to be discussed in the open.

But even as you stared at yourself you could hardly believe the difference that you found in your reflection.

“. . . Sweetheart?” Rio prodded from behind the door, tone gentle but more firm.

“I’m sorry, Rio.” You pushed off the sink and unlocked the door, swinging it open and smiling at her. “I haven’t been myself today. I think I’m just a little under the weather.”

She softens and steps closer to you, eyes roaming over you. The inspection felt intimate and you shelved the way it made you feel and reminded yourself that those feelings aren’t natural . . . And you were just a mess in general.

She seemed to be satisfied with whatever she found and leaned against the doorway. “You should’ve called me. Maybe I could’ve brought something home — heated lemonade is all the rage for colds right now.” She rubbed her hands together.

You smiled meekly. “That’s sweet, thank you, but it really only started when — oh, perhaps after I left lunch with Mother.”

She tilted her head, a black strand of hair floating from her updo. “Oh I remember you telling me you were meeting up with her. I’m glad you did — it was a beautiful day.”

You looked away from her and fiddled with your fingernails. Once nervously bitten and torn, now kept well-managed under Rio’s careful eye and money as she ordered you to a woman in town who knew how to do them from her home. You brought your own polish, but she did well with keeping them intact for you.

“It was a good lunch,” you answered carefully. “She — my mother has my best interests at heart.”

“Of course she does,” Rio agreed easily, pushing off the doorway and considering you with that gentle look of hers. “Did something . . . Did you two talk about something difficult?”

You didn’t immediately answer because you weren’t sure you wanted to go down this road with the other woman, in truth. She had been so helpful and the shame that filled you for feeling so useless and meek coiled tight inside of you.

But somehow you found yourself telling her anyway, without considering how you wanted to word it, “We talked about . . . My husband. Settling his affairs, mostly. Making sure I won’t see trouble down the road.”

Rio relaxed slightly as she eyed you. “That’s good, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have been so distressed during that period if I’d had my mother to help me.” She smiled a little, her silent support.

But if your mother was right in that Rio never had a husband — much less a husband that died in the war — then why would she be going through all of this trouble? How did she manage to make you feel so less alone in the agony you’ve been clawing your way out of?

“She’s been wonderful,” you say to her, reaching up to fidget with an earring. Her eyes followed the movement with hawk-like observance.

“Anything else that seems to be on your mind, angel?” Her head tilted slightly, curious and full of wonder. Like she was having a hard time getting a read on you — and maybe she was. Your moods weren’t subject to change so often and this one in particular was rare after moving with her.

“No, no just that.” You released the earring and smiled at her fully, returning to the present to be with Rio fully. “I’m sorry I wasn’t downstairs to greet you. I just got so caught up in finishing some things up here. I have so much lipstick, Rio . . .”

Her gaze drifted to the cabinet thoughtfully then slipped back to you. “Put some on — and dress somewhat warm,” she finally told you, unstrapping the straps that hooked over her shoulders to her pants. “Something pretty for me.”

Your cheeks heated even as you frowned at her. “What ever for? It’s such a waste to use when we’re not going anywhere.”

Rio chuckled. “Angel, we are going somewhere. The fair’s in town, remember? You’ve been eyeing the newspaper article on it all week.”

You brightened considerably in front of her, darting forward to grasp her arm. “Really? We’re going to the fair? You’re sure?”

The black-haired woman grinned down at you, tilting your chin up with a finger, “Very sure — if you can get ready before the field fills up on parking.”

You nodded rapidly and pulled back, filled with a sudden renewed vigor. “Oh I have the perfect scarf I’ve been waiting to match with that pair of pants you got me. The ones with red stripes.”

“You’ll look beautiful, I’m sure.” Rio winked at you and you made a point to ignore the weird fluttery feeling that crossed your chest at the action.

You’d felt that once — an old boyfriend who kissed you under the stars on top of his brand new Chevrolet before he returned you home and made sure to leave some of those stars in your eyes.

You’d married that boy once upon a time, and it ended up nearly destroying you later.

Rio left you to get changed and you busied yourself with finding the perfect outfit for such an outing. It was chilly outside during the day and so you expected it to be even more so overnight. It wouldn’t be wise to go out without layers, even if you planned on some festive rides to warm you up.

Oh and you so hoped they had spiced apple cider that they kept warmed at the stalls like they’ve been doing in the recent years. The drink was dangerously addictive and you indulged in the past when your husband inclined to go with you to the fairs. It always left a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest after having a cup.

You were just pinching the scarf carefully into position when Rio reappeared. She hadn’t changed completely from her work attire, but she did cozy up. She made no move to disguise roaming eyes.

“Hmm I worry for the wandering gazes I may have to hide you from tonight,” she muses lazily.

You despised the way she managed to made you feel things a woman should never feel from another of her gender — despised that you were drawn to the way she somehow carried herself like she owned the world and could protect you from its’ angry realties. Despised the way she wasn’t a man and therefor kissing her is not allowed, not desired.

You despised how you were forced to feel the disgust in your stomach at how heavy with want it left you when you saw her and found what you could never give your husband.

“Perhaps I will be able to catch the eye of a wealthy man,” you got out, refusing to meet her eyes and instead finding your own in the mirror. “And you will surely catch the finest of attentions. You could have anyone you wanted and not blink before it was in your hands.”

Rio hummed at you. The footsteps on the flooring creaked until she was still behind you, chin just brushing over your shoulder as her eyes forced yours to meet together in the mirror. You were trapped between her and the sink, unable to escaped unless she willed it.

Or maybe you just made no effort to try.

“You speak as though I yearn for another man to warm my bed,” the black-haired woman crooned lowly, ruby red lips twisting upwards mockingly, “to handle my finances and give me the world.”

“Surely every woman wants that — wouldn’t you get tired of working?” you asked her boldly despite the tremble that threatened to shake you down. She was so close and you feared she would hear your heart’s cries if she got any further.

“Angel,” she started, the same tone, eyes becoming mischievous and glittering under the light above, “why would I seek out that which I want from a man when I can just get it myself?”

Your throat constricted and for a moment there was a terrible feeling you were a prey to a dangerous, deadly predator.

Rio. This was Rio — your only friend, the woman who shielded you when you nearly crumbled under the weight of the world when you realized what being a woman without a husband meant.

“I just — Rio?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you have any pictures of him?” you asked as you fought off the urge to sink into her from where you held onto the surface like a lifeline. “Your . . . Your husband. You’ve not told me his name, and you don’t even have photos of him.”

Her fingers reached up to capture a stray wisp of your hair that had fallen from the position you’d had it in. She held it delicately and observed it, wrapping it around her pale finger.

“Rio?”

She tugged suddenly and it left a minor sting when she did. Then she released it, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness opposite of the previous action.

“His name and face live in the past and I seek to march into the future,” she finally told you, however no warmth remained in her voice. Only clear, concrete assurance. “Having either in my present keeps me from which I aim to go, so I decided a while ago to put him to rest for good.”

She moved away from you in order to give you some space and tucked a hand into one of her pockets. “Don’t take too long, Angel. I want to ride the Ferris Wheel with you while the stars are bright.”

She was gone and now alone, you tried to process what she laid before you but found that nothing was answered when you asked her those questions.

2024

You peeled open a can of wet food and scraped it into the fancy cat bowl Rio had conjured up. The little shit had dry food still full, but seemed to think he needed the good stuff two times a day.

Leaving him to scarf down his breakfast, you opened the French doors in the dining room. The dining room which, by looks of it, had been meticulously put back together as though you and Rio hadn’t tried to rip one another to shreds.

You weren’t entirely positive you could claim much of the damage anymore, though, looking back. You had the human ability to shove, break, and throw but Rio was above that in ways that made your predator senses switch into the brain of prey. It made you think of a time you saw a program — a lynx playing with its prey right before it decided to kill it.

Rio had been playing with you — perhaps leaking some frustration without realizing it. But you were stupid to believe that you could have the upper hand in any regard.

Your hand drifted up to your neck and rested there as the hum from the magic collar vibrates against your fingers, a warning that you were touching the invisible but powerful mechanism that kept you caged to this place. To her.

The bird feeders outside caught your attention from the open doors. Ten birds of varying colors, chirping happily and fluttering about as they picked their way around the feeders you filled the day before.

Was this to be your life now?

What did Rio intend to tell you about the status of your job? It wasn’t . . . It wasn’t like you adored it but it kept you busy, you sort of enjoyed it on some days.

A huff greeted you to your right.

Your eyes drifted to the source of the sound and knew it wasn’t Billy — who felt he was too sophisticated for such a noise and was still tinkering about in the kitchen with his bow and bell collar.

No — no, this was not him.

Instead a new object has been tucked into the corner of the dining room. A large, fluffy dog bed of a soft brown coloring and cream innards.

The source of the sound was the sleek looking canine laying there, head on paws and eyes watching you closely.

“A dog,” you said aloud as the two of you stared at each other. He was a light brown with black markings on his long legs and face. Pointed ears and a thin, long tail.

You’ve seen these dogs before — you knew they were used mostly in the military and police force. Similar to the German Shepard but smaller and leaner.

She got you a fucking protection dog — and she did it to taunt you. Because she knows not even the most trained, intelligent dog will be able to keep her from.

“Okay.” You got to your knees and the sun soaked into your body from doorway. The dog watched you. You watched him. He already had a thick leather collar with tags on it and it made you wonder if, like you and possibly Billy, she took him too. “Who are you?”

He didn’t respond, of course.

You got back to your feet and hesitantly made your way over. He lifted his head to watch you until you bent down next to him and carefully scratched behind his ears. He seemed to like it, and so you flipped his tag to read his name. TOMMY was stamped into the gold metal.

“She did you an injustice with that name,” you told Tommy, but kept petting him anyways. He sighed.

You eventually left Tommy alone to nap and went out to sit in the garden, your heart heavier now. The way she used things as a way to mock you was like an extra knife digging deeper and deeper each time she added a new aspect.

You sit for a while then make some coffee and down some plain toast to fight the nausea. You hated how lonely the house you were caged to felt but refused to break and call out for Rio to end the feeling.

You would bear it rather than face her and yourself and the night before. It was all too much and it would explode eventually, with angry sobs and violence like it always did.

But until she forced you out of your self-induced exile of silence and singularity, you would pretend like you’ve handled it and it’s over.

Even if it would never be over.

Rio heard naught when she returned from her duties that night. The lights were on but there was a lack of cooking to be found. None of the smells that brought her a great deal of comfort when you were behind the stove, no warm smile to greet her, and certainly no kiss to the cheek or anywhere else.

“Angel?” she called out, but was only greeted by the dark and watchful eyes in the kitchen’s entryway by the animal she had bestowed upon you before leaving that morning.

He stood stock still and regarded her with a type of cunning that almost made her wonder if she should’ve gone with a dumber breed to avoid issue. His hackles were raised down his spine and a low, vibrating growl was echoing through his chest.

Rio simply stared back at him. “I brought you into this house, creature,” she told him, continuing closer. “Angel please call off the dog.”

“No.”

Ah, so you were just feet away as suspected. A small grin pulled at the corners of Rio’s lips as she came to a stop just inches from the stiff dog. His tail was as rigged as the rest of him — and though Rio didn’t know dog language relatively well, she knew the universal language for “I do not fucking like you.”

“I don’t want to have to take him away after giving him to you so soon, my sweet,” Rio started sweetly, fingers reaching out to the curled lips of Tommy. Her tone hardened, “But I will if you can’t keep him in line.”

There wasn’t a reaction given to her in the first few seconds after she spoke, and the dog had become more hostile in those seconds. Rio was ready to snap him into another room and use that fear when she heard a soft, call.

“Tommy, come.”

Like a flipped switch and without any effort the dog seemed to rear away from Rio as quickly as he had been ready to try and maul the witch. He trotted back into the kitchen and so the pale figure followed.

He curled at your feet where you were rewarding him with slices of raw meat mixed in a metal bowl, prepped ones seemingly laid out for burgers ready to be grilled at any point.

Tommy took the offered pieces carefully from your fingers as you locked gazes with Rio.

“I see you two have bonded once you’ve made your introductions,” Rio concurred as she opened the refrigerator and looked through the contents. All of the bear she had to magic back in was once again gone.

Rebellious, angry little thing you were. It didn’t matter. She waved her hand and a cold beer appeared between her fingers instantly.

“Is there never consequences for what you do with that? you asked her quietly from across the room.

“Mm.” She slowly makes her way over to you, a twinkle of something dark and insidious covering her features. “There’s a consequence in everything of this universe, Angel. If you tie your shoes the wrong way, it can have a massive impact on someone else in another world.”

“Then why the fuck do you be so careless? I never asked — not before when I thought I could love you. But now that I know there’s always a price to the things we do . . . Why?”

The anger, the rage she fell so deeply for — she felt the fire in her chest when she saw a flicker of it again. “Because I can,” she told you simply, lifting the bottle to her lips. “I can, so I did. I have the opportunity and why would I leave it untouched?”

Your hands slammed on the table. “Because it means for every day I get to live someone else dies early!”

Rio rolled her eyes. “Is that what this is about? How long do you plan on mourning over the ones you never know about that take your place? They’re nameless to you and can’t bring the guilt that bears your name.”

“Because it’s my life, Rio,” you bit out. She looked closer and realized you had been crying, “and my ticket was punched a very long time ago but for some reason you won’t take it. You refuse my entry every damn time, and then you play with magic and ignore that it has its own prices and can—“ you suddenly pressed fingers to the bridge of your nose and breathed out shallowly.

Rio removed the rim of the glass from her lips, taking care to observe your actions. You stood without saying a word, eyes closed, as you experienced whatever it is went through your body while Rio simply watched.

And smiled.

1954

The music and the lights were overwhelming in the best of ways. There was so much joy to be found and the giggles of children darting through the crowds covered in cotton candy and fisting sacks of what you assumed to be allowances to go and play games.

You kept a polite distance from Rio despite the pestering urge to hold her hand and lean into her for warmth during the cold night.

You wished you could be a couple — but it simply wasn’t possible. So you maintained your space and pointed out stalls to stop at as she kept an unmoving look of amusement on her face.

You were elbow-deep in overly powdered dish that you’ve never tried — colorfully labelled the Funnel Cake — and you found that it was almost on par with your apple cider drinks you adored so. Rio seemed fascinated with it as well and the two of you shared the one you bought.

You did find the cider you so sought and made Rio get one too, even after she complained of having a full stomach.

“It’s rather good, Rio,” you begged as the two of you stood in line. “If you don’t like it, I’ll just drink your share.”

She arched one perfectly sculpted brow at you as a smile rose to greet you. “Oh, you will will you?” she asked.

The shine in your eyes must have been answer enough, because she ordered two of the drinks but ended up finishing half of it.

She seemed to enjoy it, but relinquished it to you on the claims that she couldn’t possibly fill her stomach any longer.

“More for me,” you commented like you’d gotten away with stealing something valuable. Rio barked out a laugh as her arm brushed against yours.

It was entirely too true that right now, you had no cares about how close she was. You were having fun with her and she with you as you talked and drank cider.

She won a little bottle game that was 50¢ a turn and she didn’t have to spend another quarter in order to fetch you a duck you had pointed out.

“How did you do that so well?” you asked her, beaming as you held the stuffed toy like gold. “I’ve seen children run screaming from their parents once they emptied their pockets.”

Rio tapped her temple. “All in the head, Angel. I wanted to win, so I won.”

“If only it were that easy!”

She simply smiled those red lips at you and pulled you toward the Ferris Wheel. The stars had become as bright as they could be while the fair was open and she wasted no time in deciding on what she wanted to finish it off with.

“Do you fear heights?” she asked you as she waited with two quarters in hand, back of the line.

“No,” you said, and you liked to think you were right in your belief. “No, I don’t think so. Not if I feel like there’s not a reason to be afraid of them.”

If you hadn’t been so focused on the way the wheel was spinning with its flashing lights, you might have been able to catch how Rio seemed to think over your words. But as quickly as the line went, so did your conversations and laughter.

The teenager in a red and white striped shirt waited expectantly at the till as Rio uncapped her hand over his to drop the two coins into his palm.

He led you both through the gate blocking access to the ride and waited for the Wheel to stop until a car came down and emptied the contents of its seats. Then he hastily ushered you in and pulled down the security bar.

“Hands and feet inside, no wiggling around,” he said with a sigh. “Enjoy the ride.”

Rio was startlingly quiet on the way up as she and you both took in the view. It was truly breathtaking -- and you could both see Westview in all it's small twinkly lights the higher up you rose.

Rio nudged you with her wrist. "I can see the house."

"You cannot," you scoffed at her, leaning into her to try and get the same view as she was.

Before you realized what was happening, an arm was being wrapped around your shoulders and you were being tugged close.

"Rio." You tried to tug away from her, a small swell of panic rising as you glanced around. You were close to reaching the top of the ride and the closest to the stars you would ever be for the first time. "Rio, the people above us can see."

"They can't," the older woman murmured as she bent her neck down to look at you, squeezing your hip reassuringly. "I wouldn't let them. It is just us."

"The people below . . ." you glanced down, wondering if the other cars would be able to see and hear you.

"Stop." She lifted your face to yours and gave you the softest of expressions. "Hey. It's okay."

And then she leaned down to kiss you.

Rio and Reader will return in Part 4

PART FOUR

#rio vidal x reader #rio x reader #rio vidal #dark fic #itaakiwy #agatha all along

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l1ndseyper3z · 2 days ago

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More gallavich headcanons cause you're tweaking about them just as much as I am

- they kind of become the new kev and v

- mickey ends up owning the alibi (kev sells it to him because he knows mickey knows what he's doing)

- ian still misses being an ENT so he kinda becomes the new nurse V.

- I get the vibe ian becomes a youth worker, him and Trevor probably stay kinda friends and Trevor gets him a job because he knows he genuinely cares about the kids

- Tommy and kermit actually think they're kinda sweet (in their own fucked up way)

- they become the designated babysitter for franny because franny ADORES mickey

- debbie will be like "franny come on we need to get you to school" and she'll be clinging to mickeys leg

- mickey goes soft around franny

- ian sometimes just stares mickey (kinda like when he was tryna see the look in his eye in like s2 or whenever)

- ian ends up getting a tattoo of mickeys name in the same spot as mickeys (also spelt wrong)

- probably like micey milcovich or something

- mickey gets all smiley and giggly when ian gives him a kiss on the cheek or head

- I mean you all saw him in 4-11 when ian kissed him on the head he looked so happy

- they don't have their own draws or closets they take what's mine is yours and what's yours is mine very literally

- like boxers and socks and everything

- they've had each other's dicks down their throats they do not give a shit about clothes

- mickey sleeps infinitely better as long as he's got a tiny bit of contact with ian

- you've seen their little touches

LOOK AT THEM.

- ian subconsciously nuzzles into mickeys neck every time they hug

- mickey makes fun of him for it but if he doesn't do it he'll bitch and whine

- they also constantly hold hands during sex

- like every single time

- initially mickey wouldn't have initiated it but wouldn't care if ian did it

- s9 and forward mickey initiates it and bitches if ian forgets

- after their lease is up on the west side they buy a 2 or 3 bed house in the southside and they're much happier

- mickey runs absolutely freezing so he's always stealing ians hoodies

- ian just brings a hoodie with him everywhere he goes just to make sure mickeys warm

- mickeys a surprisingly good cook and he always makes sure ian (and a potential bipolar kid) has good food with the meds

- ian fiddles with his ring constantly cause he doesn't wanna loose it again

- he finds it so endearing that mickey cares so much about the fact that their married

- he likes that its not a piece of paper to him anymore

- mickey asks without really asking ian to put eyeliner on like he did when he worked at the fairytale

- whenever ian goes through one of his downs if his meds are out of balance mickey handles it like a PRO

- whenever mickey does anything sweet or really thoughtful ian gets all smiley and mickeys like "the fuck u smiling about gallagher?"

- I love them 🙁

#ian x mickey #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless

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utilitycaster · 18 hours ago

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beau's backstory arc really does take 2 episodes and its not even motivated by beau. its nott why we even go up there. beau, like laudna does not desire to solve anything in her backstory. but unlike laudna she does have current goals (learning to people, learning to monk, impressing her teacher, her spy gig, just learning in general) and future goals (cobalt soul, mage rangling, kid having).

Correct...I'm not sure why you mentioned this? Like, I said as much as well, and that's not a problem because Beau has goals and interests, and she could have still had a meaningful story without visiting her family (though it certainly adds a lot).

With that said however this does feel kind of inadvertently an opportunity to point out the care with which Matt treated character backstory in the Mighty Nein vs. the lack thereof with Bells Hells. Beau said she was taken to the Cobalt Soul and her father paid someone off. She was on the run from her home with no reason to return and plenty of reasons to stay away.

In the Mighty Nein's story, not only is she carefully brought back to her home by a thoughtful interweaving of her and Nott's stories; Matt also looked at her cobalt soul backstory, said "does this match up with the Cobalt Soul as it exists in the world," came to a conclusion of "no, this isn't how the institution generally works," and had Dairon look into it, leading to a very satisfactory conclusion that happened without Beau's involvement but still meant a lot to her! Hell, you could even call it a consequence; Beau complaining about it all the time eventually got through to someone!

For Bells Hells, it was always just "YOUR abilities are ALSO kinda tied to the moon and/or you need THIS macguffin." The shards were nice but like...it felt this was a golden opportunity for Fearne and Ashton to serve as heirs to the titans in a re-binding or proper banishment of Predathos but in the end they were just essentially a variation on Cool Magic Items. Neither of them even did anything significantly Titan-related in the end; the But The Titans refrain meant jack shit. And you know, I felt that Imogen, Laudna, and Ashton's complaints about the gods rang hollow...but what if they hadn't? My argument was always "this doesn't match up with what we know of the gods from all other lore" but I think what is notable is that I wasn't proven right...but I wasn't even proven wrong. What if the gods had addressed this? What if Imogen being a Ruidusborn DID mean she was either beyond the reach of the gods/could not be heard or that they felt it was better she suffered? What if the gods feared what the Hishari had done in terms of resurrecting the titans? What if Ashton were textually unable to spend time in temples, rather than this just being theorized by people desperate to prove the gods were bad?

The problem is that, on some level, improv was barely happening. Matt didn't say Yes And or No Actually, he just sort of barrelled on with his original plans and world without addressing any of the things his players brought up (again, lack of consequences, good or bad) and so we have no real answers, Bells Hells do look like selfish jackasses because in the absence of new information I'm continuing to believe the old, certainly when the characters were so unkind in the end, and everything feels flat, unexplored, and dull as compared to the lively and rewarding and meaningful stories of Vox Machina and the Mighty Nein.

#answered #anonymous #cr spoilers

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drinksglue · 1 day ago

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Chiming in because as of late this is something that's been really bothering me.

The big problem is that the people who claim to be the Enlightened Neutral Party in pro/anti discourse:

Have been acquainted with the discourse for no more than three collective minutes, so they have no idea what it's about or what kind of behavior has been surging in frequency in the last decade or so --- and because of that, they are unable to process the real-world ramifications of these talking points becoming popular (parallels to real-world hate groups who push for censorship, for example)

Have been fortunate enough to not be harassed over their ships (or watch someone they care about be harassed) to the extent that others have been, if at all

Assuming we're talking about people who are clueless and not people who are antis who don't want to be loud and proud about it, they have no actual experiences to go off of when it comes to this debate, so to them it's just "online discourse". They believe there are no real-world consequences, being either willfully or unintentionally ignorant of the fact that people do get doxxed and stalked in real life over petty fandom morality bullshit.

No halfway decent person is going to watch somebody beat the tar out of another person, and when the person getting beat finally punches back, try to "both sides" the situation and insist they're both in the wrong because "it's just a stupid fight. Just stop fighting, idiots!" Meanwhile, the person who is getting beaten up on very much agrees! They would LOVE for the fight to stop! But they did not start the fight, and the person who did has no intention of stopping. The victim is blamed for the aggressor's refusal to stop being an aggressor.

Pro-ship and pro-fiction folks also think fandom discourse is fucking stupid! We agree! But as long as antis keep causing issues instead of just blocking shit they don't like, the pro/anti discourse is going to continue.

And again, all of this is caused by the fact that neutrals are either antis who won't admit it, or people who have not seen the full scope of the problem. They try to speak on the subject, trying to sound enlightened and "above it all", despite not knowing anything about it. They do not see, or pretend to not see, people being doxxed over ships. They do not see, or pretend not to see, cases like IAmLunaSol where artists are stalked IN REAL LIFE over fictional characters. They do not see, or pretend not to see, the people who have attempted and/or successfully committed suicide as a result of witch-hunts led by antis ever since the early days of modern fancop activity in the Steven Universe fandom.

TL;DR if you're "neutral", you're either an anti and trying to hide it, or you have no idea what you're talking about and should either take the time to talk to us to learn what's been going on, or you should keep your pseudo-philosophical faux-enlightenment to yourself.

Still really hating those posts that are like "not anti or proship but a secret third thing; an adult with a job" Like??? I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you this, but most adults with jobs still care about people getting harassed until they kill themselves. 😭😭

#reblog #purity culture #rant #in the past I tried to be understanding to people who considered themselves neutral #as long as they were respectful #the problem is that none of them really are #and the few that are all still have some views that are innately anti-profic

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hyperions-light · 8 hours ago

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even though I was VERY predictable and ended up romancing Lucanis first (irresistible tragic wet cat energy) I actually did not decide until the second act because literally every single time a new companion was introduced I was just

😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍

and I fell in love instantly

I was like OOOOH but Harding is so sweet and adorable! Look how she takes care of everyone! Look how competent she is with her bow, and how protective and dedicated she is to this cause! Look how she's so adorably excited about her powers! Look how she DESTROYS enemies with them, (holy shit, not to be a lesbian, but--)

OOOOHHH but L👀K at Neve and her compassion for common people, and how forgiving and sweet she is, even to the worst people you meet, and how nice she is to Rook, and how she loves cats and she can't cook and she takes so many notes and she always tries her best and--

But there's Bellara OOOOH look at her brilliance and how much she cares about her friends and her people, and how passionate she is about her history and her culture, and how creative and inventive she is, and how much she wants to help and understand all of her new friends, and how SAD she makes me all the time OH NO I'm going to trip and fall into love--

OHH there's this sad wet assassin and his demon hitchhiker, look at his tired eyes and his trauma and how he can't even ask you to come plan his grandmother's funeral with him, and look how sweet he is buying everyone presents (oh my god) and making everyone food because he loves taking care of people, and--

But have you SEEN Davrin, OHHH, he is so protective and caring and he just wants to do a good job for his new son he keeps insisting he didn't mean to adopt except Assan loves him and follows him everywhere and he goes and gets special truffles for him, and he's leading Rook around the forest and being vulnerable and wishing to return to his roots and to protect everyone like a prince from a fairytale--

And look at this dapper professor we found in a crypt with his skeleton son, OHHH, he's so polite and gentlemanly and solicitous, and look at jewelry and his unlimited well of compassion and kindness and empathy for everyone around him, and look how he's inexorably drawn to death despite being afraid, and look at his brilliance and--

OH MY GOD, yeah, Hey, to you, too, Taash, WOW, you are so tall and so competent at murdering those bad guys and making friends with this dragon and also at breathing fire??? I didn't know they could DO that... but awww look how they are with the birds! Look how gentle and sweet they are, and how much time they take to understand and make space for other people, and how they're learning about themselves and how wiling to address their problems they are, that's really impressive--

anyway, that's about how it went. It was the longest time I ever took to decide in a BW game, tbh.

#this is a shitpost but I will do normal tags I suppose lol #dragon age #veilguard #lace harding #neve gallus #bellara lutare #lucanis dellamorte #davrin #emmrich volkarin #taash #I fell in love instantly is a nightvale quote btw

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rafesweetie · 3 days ago

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track viii. DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS! (feat. jj maybank and reader)

“ flashbacks waking me up, i get drunk but it’s not enough “

it’s a small town, you’re bound to run into jj. in fact, it happens a lot. it still hurts the same every time you make eye contact.

he broke up with you before he went to south america, claiming that he’s putting you through too much with his stupid adventures. he didn’t want you to have an emotional attachment to him, just in case something happened. a breakup couldn’t fix your feelings for him though, he was silly to think they’d just… disappear. you felt lonely without him, you missed him.

you had a nightmare one night — you’d had them a lot recently, actually. but this one was different. it started with the chandelier flickering in a dark prison cell, with no one around. beer bottles are scattered around you, empty ones. you’re the only person who could’ve drank them. you look around, then see him — jj. he’s staring at you through the bars, looking at your hands. only then do you glance down. small paper cuts. they’ve barely broken skin, but they sting. only then do sheets of paper appear floating beside you, personified, the paper that must’ve cut you. you look back at jj.

“jj? what’s happening?” you ask him.

he glances back up to your face. “you’ll be alright, it’s just a thousand cuts.”

you wake up in tears.

unfortunately, as mentioned earlier, you’re lonely. so the only person to call for comfort is jj, the only person who you ever truly felt comfortable with.

he answers, and you’re surprised you haven’t been blocked this whole time. “y/n?” he asks your name sleepily and confused, because you’ve woken him up. “what’s up?”

“nightmare,” you answer with a sniffle.

he tries to wake himself more. “what was it about?” you’re also surprised he’s instantly here for you.

“um, you,” you answer honestly. “well — mostly me, you were just… there, i dunno. and there were sheets of paper who were alive and cutting me, and you said i’d be alright— i’m sorry i woke you, it sounds dumb now that i’m saying it out loud.”

“yeah, uh — it kind of does,” he admits.

“… i miss you,” you say softly, out of nowhere.

there’s silence on the other end. “that why you called me? is this nightmare a lie?”

“don’t be mean. i don’t think i could make up personified paper, anyway,” you say softly.

“…shit,” he sighs, and you can tell he’s thinking. “i miss you too, okay? obviously i do.”

“so can we get back together?”

a breathless, sleepy chuckle from the other end. “straight to the point, huh? i don’t know, mama, what if we get back together, and i end up dying? would rather you say ‘my ex died’ than ‘my boyfriend died.’”

“you won’t die, thought you were done with the gold anyway, you found it,”

“m’just saying,”

“so you’ll be alright. jj, i’m dying over here, okay? i can’t pretend i’m okay, i’m not okay without you,”

you not being ‘okay’ gets him, because of course he still cares way too much about you. “i’ll come over tomorrow, to talk, okay?”

you know you’ll end up with your legs spread as you scream and confess how much you missed him, but you play along anyway. “okay, please do,”

“see you then,” then he hangs up.

you sleep peacefully for the rest of the night, knowing that you’ll be alright, the morning will come and he’ll be your baby again.

#‎♡‧₊˚ isa’s valentines day event #this is awful and not proof read #obx #outer banks #jj maybank prompt #jj maybank obx #jj maybank smau #jj obx #jj outer banks #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank

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lilbitofsomthin · 3 days ago

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Dead Pixel Anya and Tiny Crispy Curly

⚠️CURLYA RANT INCOMING⚠️

TLDR: I only ship Curlya after the crash in a happy ending AU I made up :D

Okay so imma take this opportunity to rant about Curly and Anya’s relationship and the ✨only✨ time I will ever even entertain the thought of Curlya as a ship (cause like most of it is what I see pre crash and I’m like ✨no thank you✨)

First off forget and I mean FORGET anything pre crash. My mans is not ready for all that is Anya. He’s the definition of unworthy. Has not had his ✨arc✨. Has not truly drank his fair share of respect women juice 😔

When it was Curlys turn to care for Anya he failed spectacularly, like a main plot point of the game is how bad he fucked up by standing aside and letting J*mmy hurt her. So BAM he becomes cosmically and ironically put into a mirror position to Anya’s in their relationship.

Because now, in an instant, his very life is now in HER hands. She is literally the only one who can save him. Idk all of the medical knowledge to understand just how royally fucked up Curly was, it’s safe to say that keeping him alive at any rate would’ve been difficult to do. So that fact that she did it, with only the bare essentials of medical supplies, by herself, is nothing short of incredible.

She worked herself to the bone for months to keep him alive. After knowing that he failed her. After knowing her didn’t protect her. Knowing, for a FACT, that he wouldn’t do the same, and she still saved him anyway.

I mean, I’m sure at some point Curly must have realized that too.

And like THATS the part where I’m like “if I was Curly I would’ve fallen in love with her a little bit”. Not in the “oh you saved me I’m indebted to you” or “severely trauma bonded” way, I’m speaking in the characters being able to kinda analyze even in crazy stressful situations (like all the monologues and stuff being very well written and deeply metaphorical gives me the idea that their all capable of self reflection (except of course for J*mmy but that’s not the point).

So like I imagine that Curly can reflect on the fact that, after he failed her, over and over and over again. To the point where everything literally blew up in his face. And when the tables were turned and it was his life in Anya’s hands? She held no resentment, no malice. She saved him over and over and over again. And he had to have realized how incredible of a person she was at that point.

But only now that he finally realizes it, he can no longer say do or say anything about it. And listen that’s not even getting into J*mmy revealing his more obvious abusive tendencies to Curly. Because now not only does he have perspective on how strong of a person Anya is but how horrific the abuse was from J*mmy while being on the receiving end of it. That’s like a double serving of empathy and understanding. I’d like to imagine that, if we got to play as Curly, he’d go through that realization. 🤷

Okay now that THATS out of the way let’s get to FANON SHIT!!!! Time for the happy ending aus baby! Listen I love the game but I wanna see the characters I love get to resolve their traumas cause they deserve it!! I KNOW WHY CANON IS THE WAY IT IS I JUST WANNA PLAY PRETEND ON THE INTERNET!!

Just a quick psa, okay back to it.

I like to imagine that in those rescue aus they happen riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight after Daisuke gets out of the vent and finds Anya (btw I’m gonna say at this point her body was under too much stress and she lost the pregnancy). Apparently overdoses can be reversed so let’s say our rescue team is able to work hard and save Anya and patch up Daisuke.

The rescue team is also clocking J*mmy immediately cause this is all REALLY fucking sketchy

“why’d you send the intern into a vent shaft that you knew was dangerous”

“oh Captain said if I did I’d make my boss proud 😄”

🧍🧍🧍🧍 “dude your like 40 why’d you send the intern half your age that’s fucked up”

like that alone is enough for them to be suspicious but once Anya’s up all bets are off. I mean the shit show J*mmy “captained” the Tulpar to mostly speaks for itself but once Anya can tell someone what happened to her they can put enough together to put him in whatever space brig they have. That’s because we got a rescue team of space feminists who believe victims baby!!!

“And who funded this whole rescue hmmmmm??” I hear you say? No one. Nope. 🙂‍↔️ Capitalism doesn’t get to take the fun out of my character study so imma say their “Volunteer Rescue for International Cosmic Waters” or something idk 🤷. That’s not the point. The point is that this is a big shit show that got revealed by people that Pony Express couldn’t pay hush money to. And when I mean revealed I mean, this became a huge news story cause it had such a great hook. I mean that was the whole advertisement for the game!

“Crew lost in space forced to eat mouthwash while their former captain has been mutilated in the crash”

I mean I saw that on like 5 different thumbnails. Anyway people love a good story and the one Mouthwashing tells with a RELIABLE narrator at this point is tragic BUT salvageable.

Like Curly is gonna have like serious medical intervention and Daisuke will probably need stitches for the gash in his arm and Anya will need to be hospitalized from the stress of keeping Curly alive alone. Swansea might need like, idk a Tylenol or something idk? But like they CAN recover, the wrongs that Pony Express allowed can’t be made right but can at least be helped out with.

I imagine that this news story is like planet wide news. If I know humans, we love to help when we have a target and this story was popular as hell. So id like to imagine that they could the crew with whatever financial troubles they would be having. Curly could afford operations, Anya could afford medical school (which she doesn’t need because you better believed she got full ride scholarships for SAVING A MAN MUTILATED FROM THE CRASH FOR MONTHS WITH A GLORIFIED FIRST AID KIT), Daisuke could go to college (I know some people headcanon engineering or art so take your pick) Swansea could even retire if he wanted idk.

And we get the rare satisfaction of getting to see someone like J*mmy to be revealed for exactly what he is on a global scale. He’s tried, prosecuted and the world is on the crews side and they become micro celebrities (kinda like those news stories where everyone talks about it and pushed a bunch of support for like 2 weeks then moved to the next thing) cause fuck you capitalism human nature is enriched in empathy 😤

So here’s where I like to imagine where fix it fics start. The stage is set, therapy bills are paid and while everyone gets a nightmare or panic attack every now and again, things have officially been given the “happy ending au” stamp. So call “my version” of the story an angst with a happy ending rather than the original tragedy and cautionary tale 🤷

So like NOW we can START on the POSSIBILITY of curlya.

That’s right the idea of these characters getting together is a tick that has crawled in my brain and I am cursed.

Because now Curly has his chance to drink respect women juice. And you better believe my man’s gonna chug that shit. And honestly I can see Anya respecting Curly for trying to grow. Like everything is 1000% platonic (I mean maybe a little one sided crush on Curlys side and maaaybe something develops later on) and the main 4 crew are all kinda hanging out for a few reasons (interviews and meet and greets or whatever people who survive major news stories do) and also like they DID go through a shit storm together so their a little trauma bonded but in a found family way.

Anyways THIS is where I imagine all Curlya stuff to take place. This fun low stakes “we made it through the storm and now we can rest on the shore” kind of happy ending zone.

And like maybe they can get up to shenanigans and work through their trauma and love and support each other. That’s like where my fan content takes place 🧍

⚠️SO IF I EVER POST ANYTHING AND TAG IT AS “CURLYA” THIS IS THE CONTEXT IM PUTTING IT IN!!!!! I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT ANYTHING THAT WAS OFFICIALLY RELEASED IN CANON OR IN THE CONTEXT OF THE GAME!!!! I SHIP CURLYA AS A PURELY FANON CONCEPT⚠️

Like idk if this is media literacy or brain rot at this point but that’s my rant thanks for reading :D

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nereidprinc3ss · 16 hours ago

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I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ��not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

#fic recs #that should be me #fic motherfucking recs

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