#comfortable flats SENSIBLE flats

[babsvibes]

You’re laughing? This beloved baby boy wants to crawl in a hole and die after his mom revealed to the whole crowd that he’s a single virgin loser, and you’re laughing??

[reidmarieprentiss]

No More Misunderstandings

Summary: You have a big crush on Spencer, everyone can see it except for Spencer himself.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Tech Analyst fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: crushing, (un)requited feelings, bad communication, Spencer trying to flirt, gay Elle, Rossi not Gideon, happy ending, Elle is out but reader doesn't know

Word count: 9.4k

a/n: if this man ever asked me to hang out i would say yes in two seconds flat

main masterlist

Every day, you settled into the hum of computers and the soft glow of monitors that painted the walls of the BAU's technical analysis hub, affectionately dubbed the "bat cave" by those who knew it best. Your role as a tech analyst found you working side-by-side with the brilliant and bubbly Penelope Garcia, a woman whose personality was as colorful as her wardrobe. Despite the comfort of being shrouded in the semi-darkness of your tech-laden sanctuary, a certain type of light seemed to elude you—the spark of acknowledgment in Dr. Spencer Reid's deep, thoughtful eyes.

You harbored a crush so palpable that even the air in the room felt charged with your nervous energy whenever Spencer was near. However, your shy demeanor cloaked these feelings in a veil of secrecy that somehow, miraculously, Spencer himself never managed to pierce through. Everyone else on the team had noticed, from the knowing smiles of Derek Morgan to the gentle teasing of JJ, but Spencer remained blissfully unaware, his attention often drifting towards Elle Greenaway with an intensity that tugged painfully at your heart.

Penelope, ever the observant friend, never missed a beat. "Oh, honey," she would whisper, "it’s like you’re sending Morse code with those blushes and he’s living in a blackout."

Her words were gentle, tinged with humor and affection, yet each jest felt like a pinprick to your already tender sensibilities. Whenever Spencer visited the bat cave to discuss case details or gather information, your heart raced as you tried to provide him with everything he needed without tripping over your words or, heaven forbid, your own feet.

"Hey, Spencer," you would start, your voice a careful mixture of professionalism and the warmth you couldn’t keep at bay.

"Hello," he would respond, his eyes scanning the screens filled with data. His focus was razor-sharp, dissecting information with the same precision he used on everything but the emotional currents swirling around him.

Each interaction was a dance. You would inch towards openness, leaning in to catch a whiff of his cologne or to appreciate the subtle shift of his hair when he ran his fingers through it in concentration. But as soon as he glanced up, those hazel eyes like windows to an enigmatic soul, you would recoil slightly, cheeks aflame, words retreating as quickly as they had dared to emerge.

Later, as the screen showed live feeds of the team moving through their environments, Penelope would nudge you gently with her elbow, her voice low and teasing. "You know, if we had a dollar for every time you fumbled around that man, we could retire and buy an island in the Bahamas."

You’d offer a small, embarrassed laugh, grateful for the low lighting hiding the worst of your blush. "I just... I don’t know how to act around him, Penelope. What if he doesn’t..."

"Feel the same?" she'd finish for you, her tone softening. "Sweetie, the heart’s a funny creature. It doesn’t play by the rules of logic that Spencer loves so much. But who knows? Maybe one day, he’ll surprise you and actually look up from those case files and see what’s right in front of him."

The comfort in her voice was soothing, yet each day ended the same—with you watching Spencer, Spencer watching Elle, and Penelope watching over you, a guardian angel clad in technicolor, armed with an arsenal of jokes and just the right words to keep you smiling through the uncertainty.

—

The day had been rolling along as usual in the BAU's bat cave, the rhythmic clicking of keyboards providing a steady backdrop to the glow of computer screens. Penelope had excused herself for a quick bathroom break, leaving you alone amidst the towers of technology. Just as the door clicked shut behind her, the shrill ring of the phone sliced through the quiet, startling you slightly. Calls from the field were usually Penelope’s domain, her cheerful voice a soothing constant for the team. Today, it seemed, you would have to step into her shoes.

“Y/N speaking, what can I do for you?” Your voice wavered slightly, anxiety bubbling up as you prepared for your usual toggle through databases and security feeds.

When Spencer’s voice responded from the other end, a different kind of alertness prickled across your skin. “Hi, Y/N, we need to cross-reference known associates of the unsub with recent flight records. Can you pull up the lists and cross-check for any matches?”

Your heart thumped erratically, his voice weaving through the receiver like a familiar song that never failed to stir your soul. You tried to maintain a steady tone, hoping your voice didn’t betray the sudden nervousness that his presence, even just over the phone, incited. “Sure, Spencer, just a moment.”

As your fingers danced across the keyboard, the professional mask you wore each day slid comfortably into place. You were adept at your job, a fact that never faltered, even under the weight of your emotions. Quickly pulling up the necessary records, you began the process of cross-referencing, your mind briefly detached from the flutter in your stomach.

“Looks like there’s a match. Michael Davidson, on a flight from Atlanta to D.C. this morning,” you reported, a trace of pride threading through your words at the efficiency with which you’d located the information.

“Great, Y/N. Thanks,” Spencer’s voice came through, a hint of relief palpable even through the static of the connection. His appreciation, simple and straightforward, filled you with a warmth that went beyond professional satisfaction.

Hanging up, you let out a breath you’d been holding. Penelope chose that moment to breeze back into the room, her presence as effervescent as ever. Catching the tail end of your smile, she quirked an eyebrow playfully.

“Spill the beans, buttercup. You look like someone just handed you a golden ticket,” she teased, settling back into her chair.

“It was just Spencer needing some quick info,” you shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant as your heart continued to beat a staccato rhythm against your ribs.

Penelope’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with unspoken understanding. “Oh, just Spencer, huh?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, trying to brush it off casually. “Derek would never betray you by talking to me,” you teased, hoping to steer the conversation away from your flustered feelings.

Penelope’s eyes sparkled even more as she winked at you. “Oh, he’s allowed to have side pieces, my love. I’m a generous goddess.”

You burst out laughing, your nervousness momentarily forgotten as Penelope’s playful banter eased your tension. “I’ll let him know you said that,” you shot back, turning back to your screen, trying to focus on anything other than the residual warmth from talking to Spencer.

Penelope, never one to let you off the hook easily, leaned in closer. “Should I let Spencer know he isn’t allowed to have any side pieces then?” she asked, winking at you again, her tone as sweet as honey but with a hint of mischief.

“Penelope!” you gasped, feeling your face flush all over again. The blush you thought had faded returned with a vengeance as you turned away, hoping she wouldn’t see just how red you were.

She laughed, clearly pleased with herself. “I’m just saying, babe. The boy’s got options, but I think we both know his best one is sitting right here.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands as you let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Just doing my part to make sure he doesn’t miss any signals,” Penelope sang, tapping her keyboard lightly, her grin as wide as ever. You couldn't help but smile too, secretly grateful for her teasing. After all, it was these moments that made the crush a little more bearable.

—

During one of Rossi’s famed pasta-making sessions, a relaxed atmosphere filled his spacious kitchen, with the rich aroma of tomato sauce simmering on the stove and the sounds of laughter mingling with soft Italian music playing in the background. Rossi, the consummate host, guided everyone through the steps of making the perfect pasta dough, his hands moving with the ease of long practice.

You found yourself stationed next to Spencer, who was diligently kneading a mound of fresh pasta dough. His hands, beautiful and dexterous, worked the dough with a precision that was mesmerizing. The veins on his hands stood out, accentuating every deliberate movement, and you couldn’t help but be captivated by the fluidity of his motions. It wasn’t just his intellect that drew you in; even his seemingly mundane physical actions had a way of catching your undivided attention.

Derek and JJ, who were partnered up on the other side of the kitchen island, caught your fixed gaze and shared an amused look between them. Derek’s smirk grew as he nudged JJ, whispering loud enough for you to overhear, “Looks like someone’s more interested in the handwork than the handiwork.”

JJ chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she joined in the teasing. “Yeah, I think Y/N’s planning on writing a thesis on the manual dexterity of certain geniuses.”

Flustered, you tore your eyes away from Spencer’s hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. You attempted to focus back on your own portion of dough, which had begun to stick to the counter more than it should. Spencer, oblivious to the exchange, looked up and noticed your struggle.

“Hey, you need to dust a bit more flour on the surface,” he said, his voice gentle, unaware of the reason behind your distraction. He reached over to sprinkle some flour on your dough and then on the countertop, his fingers briefly brushing against yours. The brief contact sent a pleasant jolt through you, further flustering you.

Rossi, ever the observant host, noticed the playful dynamic and decided to rescue you from your embarrassment. “Alright, everyone, let’s focus on the art of pasta! Y/N, why don’t you help me with the sauce?” he suggested, giving you a knowing smile as he handed you a wooden spoon.

As you helped Rossi stir the simmering sauce, carefully blending the herbs into the rich, aromatic mixture, you couldn’t help but cast furtive glances across the kitchen. There, Hotch had taken up the spot you vacated next to Spencer, now deeply engaged in the art of pasta making under Rossi’s enthusiastic instruction. While Hotch was methodically following Rossi’s guidance, Spencer’s attention occasionally drifted.

Across from them, Elle was rolling out her dough with a confident flourish, laughing at something Hotch had said. You caught Spencer's eyes as they met Elle's, a shared glance of amusement passing effortlessly between them. The ease of their silent communication was stark, their smiles syncing in a moment of private jest that seemed to exclude the world around them—including you.

That simple, silent exchange felt like a punch to the gut. The laughter and camaraderie around you suddenly seemed a bit dimmer, a bit more distant. It wasn’t just jealousy that twisted in your stomach—it was the aching realization of how much could be said in a single look when there was a real connection; a connection you feared might never form between Spencer and yourself.

You turned your attention back to the sauce, the spoon moving mechanically in your hand as Rossi continued to chat about the nuances of Italian cooking. He didn’t seem to notice your distraction, caught up in his culinary passion. But inside, your thoughts were swirling as tumultuously as the sauce you stirred.

Trying to shake off the sinking feeling, you focused on the positives—the laughter of your team, the comforting weight of the wooden spoon in your hand, the delicious smell that filled the kitchen. But despite the festive atmosphere, a part of you remained reserved, quietly nursing the tender hope that maybe, just maybe, one day Spencer would look at you with the same warmth and understanding he so effortlessly shared with Elle. Until then, you resolved to keep smiling, keep stirring, and keep hoping.

—

The BAU briefing room felt unusually empty without Penelope's vibrant presence, Elle's keen insights, and Derek's charismatic confidence filling the space. With them on vacation, the dynamic had shifted, and you found yourself stepping into roles that stretched beyond your usual behind-the-scenes expertise. The weight of Penelope's responsibilities now rested squarely on your shoulders, a challenge you accepted with both determination and a hint of trepidation.

As the team gathered for the briefing on the new case, Hotch turned to you. "Y/N, could you walk us through the case description and the current leads?" His voice was calm, authoritative, yet imbued with a supportive undertone that did little to ease the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

Nodding, you stood, remote in hand, feeling every pair of eyes in the room settle on you. Public speaking was not your greatest fear, but it was hardly your favorite endeavor—especially not with Spencer's intense gaze locked on you. It was as if his eyes were a pair of spotlights, illuminating not just your words but every minute reaction and emotion that flickered across your face.

As you began to outline the case, detailing the patterns and possible psychological motivations of the unsub, Spencer's scrutiny never wavered. His stare was not judgmental nor dismissive; rather, it was analytical, perhaps even a bit curious, as if he were trying to read the nuances of your presentation, to understand not just the facts but the person delivering them.

"Based on the geographical profiling and the behavioral pattern, we believe the unsub may be operating within a ten-mile radius of downtown," you explained, pointing to the map projected behind you. Your voice steadied as you delved deeper into the analysis, the familiar terrain of data and evidence providing a solid foundation beneath your initially shaky confidence.

Spencer's focus, rather than rattling you further, began to foster a sense of resolve within you. You found yourself speaking more confidently, your nerves tempered by the realization that this was still your team—your family in all but blood. They weren't here to judge; they were here to listen and to learn from what you had to offer.

As the briefing wrapped up, Hotch nodded in approval. "Good work, Y/N. Keep us posted on any updates from Garcia's systems until she returns."

You nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. Glad it was over, you were already preparing to scamper back to your office when you heard a voice that sent a familiar shiver down your spine.

“Y/N?” Spencer's voice, calm yet inquisitive, caught your attention.

You spun around to face him, trying not to let your fluster show. “What’s up?”

“Can you put the map back up on the screen, please?” he asked, already standing by the large projection screen.

“Ye–yeah, of course.” Your fingers fumbled with the remote as you quickly reactivated the display, bringing the map back onto the screen.

“Here,” Spencer said, still not looking back at you. “Come look at this.”

You walked over to stand beside him, your eyes inadvertently drawn to his long fingers as they traced paths along the map, pointing out specific areas. The same hands that had mesmerized you earlier were now gliding over the screen, drawing you into his thought process.

Spencer started talking about the geographical profile, rattling off information with his typical rapid-fire brilliance. But what took you by surprise was how he spoke to you—not as the team’s tech analyst, but as if you were another profiler, someone he wanted to consult. This was new, and it left you momentarily stunned. He’d never done this before.

“Spencer?” you asked quietly, your voice barely audible in the spacious room. He hummed in response, still focused on the map as he tugged thoughtfully at his bottom lip—a gesture you’d come to adore and envy.

“Why are you asking me about this?” you continued, your curiosity growing along with your nerves. “Why not Rossi? Or Hotch?”

Spencer paused, finally turning to face you, his eyes filled with the same focused intensity he usually reserved for solving cases. “Because you see things differently,” he said softly. “You have a different perspective, and that’s valuable. Sometimes it’s not just about profiling. It’s about how we approach the data, and you… you understand patterns in a way that’s unique.”

His words caught you off guard, but they filled you with an unexpected warmth. You weren’t just the tech analyst who plugged in the data—they saw you, Spencer saw you, as part of the team, as someone with valuable insights.

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you held his gaze for a moment longer than you intended. “Thanks, Spencer,” you whispered, trying to suppress the blush creeping up your neck.

He smiled, a small but genuine curve of his lips, before turning back to the map. “Now, what do you think about this area here?” he asked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for you two to be collaborating like this.

For once, you weren’t just lost in thoughts of him—you were part of the conversation, and it felt good.

After you felt you'd helped all you could, you excused yourself back to your office, ready to sink back into the more solitary part of your work. However, Spencer seemed to have other plans, as he walked alongside you, his footsteps synchronized with yours, indicating he wasn't quite done talking. His expression was one of mild concern, a usual precursor to his deep dives into various subjects.

As you walked, he continued to unravel his thoughts about the case, tying loose ends and circling back to previous points with a precision that was nothing short of impressive. It was typical of Spencer to thoroughly dissect each aspect of a case, often taking tangential routes in the conversation that surprisingly led right back to the main topic, a testament to his prodigious mind.

However, as engrossed as he was in discussing the case, his next words veered sharply from the professional to the personal, catching you completely off guard and momentarily stalling your mental gears. The shift was so sudden that it took a moment for you to register what he was actually asking, pulling you out of your case-focused mindset and into a more introspective space. This unexpected question not only showed his human side but also reminded you of the depth of his observational skills, not just in work but in personal matters as well.

"How is Felix, by the way?" Spencer asked, an innocently curious tilt to his head as he regarded you, his pace slowing slightly.

"What?" The name jolted you, an echo from a past chapter of your life you hadn’t opened in ages, and certainly not one you had expected Spencer to know anything about. You blinked, momentarily confused, trying to piece together the leap in conversation.

"Felix? How are they?" Spencer repeated, his interest seemingly piqued by your reaction—or perhaps just his natural inclination toward thorough understanding.

You paused, standing now in the doorway of your office, the background hum of computer servers providing a soft soundtrack to this unexpected moment. "Um, I don't know," you admitted, still trying to navigate the strange turn the conversation had taken.

"Oh, I’m so sorry, did you two separate?" Spencer’s tone was filled with genuine apology, his face reflecting concern.

You managed a small, somewhat awkward laugh, finding both the absurdity and the sudden intimacy of the conversation slightly overwhelming. "Well, yes. A long while ago." Your response came out lighter than you felt, the surprise of the question making your heart race for reasons other than your usual nervousness around Spencer.

As Spencer absorbed your response, his expression remained unreadable, a common trait when he was deep in thought or processing information. He nodded, perhaps filing away the conversation for later reflection, before excusing himself with a polite but somewhat distant farewell. His departure was quick, efficient, the way he typically transitioned back to work, yet it left a trail of questions in its wake.

You watched him go, a blend of relief and curiosity mingling in your thoughts. The inquiry into your personal life was uncharacteristic of Spencer, who usually maintained a strict boundary between professional and personal discussions, at least when it came to initiating such topics himself. The interaction lingered in your mind, an outlier in the usual pattern of your interactions.

"Maybe it's because Elle isn't here," you thought silently, turning back to your computer.

After leaving your office, Spencer quickly texted Elle to update her that you were no longer seeing Felix, contrary to their assumption. Elle replied enthusiastically with two thumbs up, urging him to ask you out soon or she would take the opportunity herself. 

—

Throughout the week, with Penelope, Elle, and Derek away, the dynamic at the BAU shifted noticeably. Spencer seemed to step out of his usual reserved demeanor, engaging more frequently, particularly with you. His attempts at conversation often appeared to teeter on the edge of something beyond mere professional interest, though it was so subtle that it often flew under your radar.

Tuesday morning, Spencer leaned against the counter, watching you struggle with the temperamental coffee machine that had decided today was the day to revolt. "You know, statistically, manual coffee presses have a lower failure rate compared to electric ones," he commented, a slight quirk to his lips.

You glanced at him, chuckling lightly, "Is that so? Maybe I should switch, then."

"Yeah, and they make better coffee. Maybe I could show you how to use one sometime?" His tone was casual, but there was a tentative note to it, almost hopeful.

As the coffee machine finally sputtered to life, producing a somewhat decent cup of coffee, Spencer’s offer lingered in the air, subtly altering the atmosphere between you. His suggestion about the manual coffee press had been light, almost playful, but it carried an undercurrent of personal interest that left you unexpectedly flustered. Despite this, you masked your reaction with a casual nod, trying to maintain an even keel.

"Sure, I could always use better coffee," you responded, your voice steady despite the slight quickening of your heartbeat. You focused on fixing your coffee, adding just the right amount of cream and sugar, using the mundane task as a moment to collect your thoughts.

Spencer watched you for a moment, perhaps sensing the shift in your demeanor but respecting the boundary you subtly enforced with your nonchalant reply. His smile was gentle, not pushing further, as he too turned his attention back to preparing his own drink.

Wednesday at lunch you sat in the break room flipping through case files, Spencer slid into the seat across from you with his own lunch—a homemade sandwich seemingly crafted with meticulous care. "I read somewhere that sharing meals can enhance group bonding and individual rapport," he began, looking directly at you with an earnest expression.

You looked up, smiling at the factoid, you loved hearing Spencer talk. He was always so endearing. "That sounds about right. Food does bring people together."

"Maybe we could test that theory. There's a new Thai place nearby that’s supposed to be great," he suggested, his voice smooth but slightly hurried.

"That would be an interesting experiment," you agreed, your thoughts inadvertently glossing over Spencer's subtle personal invitation. Instead, your mind wandered to the social dynamics of the team, or perhaps more pointedly, the possibility of Spencer going out with Elle without having to extend a direct invitation—an idea that stoked a twinge of jealousy, burning in your stomach like an ugly green monster. 

Spencer nodded, his expression shifting subtly as he detected the undercurrent of your thoughts, interpreting them as disinterest in a personal outing. He tried to mask any hint of disappointment, maintaining his typical composed demeanor. Internally, however, he wrestled with the sting of what felt like another missed connection, another attempt at reaching out quietly rebuffed.

"It would be a great way to explore some new flavors... maybe just the two of us first, to see if it’s worth recommending to the team?" His tone was measured, carefully modulating between casual and sincere, revealing his hope that this might pave the way to a more personal connection between the two of you.

Despite his clear wording, your mind twisted his intentions, clouded by the assumption that his ultimate aim was to impress Elle upon her return. This idea gnawed at you, the thought of being potentially used as a stepping stone in Spencer’s strategy to engage Elle more personally. It tainted the sincerity you might have otherwise perceived in his proposal.

"Yeah, that sounds like a good plan," you responded, trying to mask your feelings with a nod and a polite smile. "Testing it out sounds sensible... then we can tell Elle and the rest if it's good." Your voice carried a hint of forced cheerfulness as you inadvertently redirected the focus back to Elle, reinforcing your misinterpretation of Spencer's motives.

Spencer noticed the subtle shift in your tone, the slight stiffness in your smile. He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his features as he tried to gauge whether his message had been misunderstood. "Yes, of course," he agreed, his voice faltering slightly as he picked up on your emphasis on Elle. Disappointment edged into his heart, sensing a barrier he hadn't anticipated—one that perhaps wasn't his to cross just yet.

He nodded slowly, offering a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll send you the details later then," Spencer added, stepping back to give you space, his mind busy piecing together where the conversation had veered off track.

Thursday while you were digging through old case files in the archives, Spencer wandered in, ostensibly looking for a book. He lingered by your side, helping to shift the heavy tomes. "You know, there's this book on cognitive science I think you'd really like. It talks about pattern recognition and emotional intelligence in ways I think you'd find fascinating," he offered, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed you a different file.

"Sounds intriguing," you responded, your attention still partially on the file in your hands. The hint of a smile played at the corners of your mouth, touched by the realization that Spencer was not only paying attention to your interests but was actively thinking about ways to engage with you on a more personal level.

"I could lend it to you. We could discuss it over coffee?" Spencer's suggestion came with a hopeful undertone, as gentle and tentative as the expression in his eyes.

Your reaction, however, was immediate and unexpected—a sudden choke on your spit as his words caught you off guard. A brief fit of coughing ensued, and Spencer's concern was quick to surface. He reached out instinctively, placing a comforting hand on your back with a gentle touch. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with worry.

The unexpected contact made you jolt, a reflexive response to the sudden intimacy of his touch. Realizing your reaction, Spencer quickly withdrew his hand, a flash of disappointment crossing his features as he stepped back, giving you space.

"Yeah, I'm fine, sorry," you managed to laugh it off, though your cheeks burned with embarrassment. You tried to smooth over the moment, still recovering from the unexpected cough and the even more unexpected contact.

Spencer's response was gentle, a soft nod accompanying his words. "It's okay, I'll, uh, see you upstairs," he said, stepping back with a hesitant smile. His decision to not press the coffee invitation further reflected his respect for your comfort, but inwardly, he felt he might have missed his opportunity for the day.

As he turned to leave, the brief contact and your embarrassed reaction replayed in his mind, leaving him wondering about the right approach to take next time. His intentions had been straightforward, but the execution hadn't gone as smoothly as he hoped. The way your eyes had widened, the laughter that followed the cough—it all suggested a mix of emotions that he couldn't quite decipher.

Watching him walk away, you felt a pang of regret. His retreat made you realize that your reaction might have been misinterpreted as discomfort, rather than the surprise and nervous excitement you actually felt. The idea of discussing a book over coffee with Spencer genuinely appealed to you, and you wished you could convey that without the awkwardness of the moment overshadowing it.

Gathering your thoughts, you considered reaching out to him later to clarify your interest, maybe even suggest a specific day for that coffee. The day hadn't gone as either of you planned, but it wasn't over yet, and perhaps there was still a chance to turn it around.

Friday afternoon as you both waited for the elevator, Spencer tried again, this time a bit more directly. "Did you know that the probability of meeting someone compatible is surprisingly high within work environments?"

You raised an eyebrow, trying to steady the rapid thumping of your heart. "Really now? I guess we’re in the right place, then."

"Yes, exactly," Spencer agreed, a bit more eagerly than you expected. "It’s like... finding the right piece in a puzzle."

"Like solving a case?" you asked, your voice shrinking with uncertainty, afraid that, once again, he had someone else in mind—someone who fit into his world effortlessly, maybe a profiler like Elle.

"Yeah," he smiled warmly, his eyes soft as they focused on you. "Just like solving a case."

Your heart cracked a little at his words. You interpreted the metaphor differently, convinced he was searching for someone like the other brilliant profilers on the team—someone you believed you could never be. With a forced smile, you said quietly, "Well, looks like you need a profiler-shaped puzzle piece then."

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as you stepped into the elevator. He stood there, frozen, not understanding the weight behind your words or why you seemed so distant.

As the elevator doors slid shut, he replayed the conversation in his mind, his heart sinking as he realized something wasn’t connecting. He had been trying to tell you, in his own way, that he was interested in you, that you were the piece he was talking about. But somehow, despite his best efforts, the message kept slipping through your fingers. Why weren’t you getting it? Why did every attempt seem to fall short?

Spencer watched the elevator descend, a sinking feeling settling in his chest. He had been so certain of his feelings for you, and yet, with every attempt, it felt like they drifted further away, lost in the unspoken misunderstandings between you.

—

When the freshly bronzed trio returned from their vacation, Spencer, seemingly on edge, wasted no time in seeking out Elle, his face etched with a mix of hope and frustration.

“So? Did you do it?” Elle asked eagerly as soon as they were within speaking distance, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Did she say yes?”

Spencer’s response was laden with disappointment. “Every time I try to ask her out, she thinks it’s a friendly suggestion, or—or she even mentioned you one time like I was thinking about you!” He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation, clearly puzzled by the recurring miscommunication.

Elle couldn’t help but laugh slightly, though her lips were closed, trying to mask her amusement at the situation. Spencer, on the other hand, whined in annoyance, “What?” He genuinely didn’t understand what he was missing.

With a fond smile, Elle prodded further, “Reid, how did you ask? And what did she say?” Her voice was gentle, coaxing him to unpack the details.

Spencer recapped all the moments from the past week—the coffee machine incident, the lunch invitation, the casual chat in the archives, and the awkward elevator conversation. Each retelling showcased his subtle, cerebral approach to what he thought were clear invitations.

“Oh, boy genius,” Elle said teasingly once he finished, her tone light but her words cutting to the heart of the issue. “I think I see the problem here.”

“What? What is it?” Spencer asked, desperation and confusion in his voice.

Elle placed her hand on his arm, a gesture meant to be comforting but one that did not escape your notice, intensifying the ache in your heart. “She thinks you’re interested in me!” Elle revealed, her insight sharp.

“Why would she think that?” Spencer asked, his bewilderment evident. The connection between his actions and your perception seemed utterly foreign to him.

Elle’s explanation was straightforward, “Because, Spencer, every time you make an attempt, it’s so subtle and wrapped in layers of intellect that it’s easy for her to miss the romantic intent.”

Her words seemed to pierce through the fog of confusion surrounding Spencer. The realization that his attempts at expressing romantic interest were getting lost in translation—or rather, lost in his own intellectual approach—was a revelation. He nodded slowly, the gears turning as he processed this new insight.

“Plus, if she’s mentioning me and no one else, she must think you’re looking for ways to take me out!” Elle added, emphasizing her point with a light chuckle, though her eyes remained sympathetic to Spencer’s plight.

The weight of Elle’s explanation settled heavily on Spencer. It dawned on him how his interactions, though well-intentioned, might appear to others, especially to you. His style, inherently analytical and often indirect, had inadvertently sent the wrong signals, steering your thoughts towards a narrative where he was interested in Elle rather than clarifying his feelings for you.

This misunderstanding struck a chord within him. Spencer had always prided himself on his communication skills when it came to the nuances of unsubs and case theories. Yet, here he was, stumped by personal emotions and interpersonal communications that veered off course.

“Okay, so... I’ve been too subtle,” Spencer acknowledged, almost to himself as much as to Elle. “And she’s misreading the subtlety as disinterest—or worse, interest directed at someone else.”

Elle nodded, squeezing his arm gently. “Exactly, Spencer. You’re thinking like a profiler trying to decipher hidden meanings, but sometimes, directness is key. Maybe it’s time to just tell her how you feel, plainly and clearly. No puzzles, no hints.”

“But—but what if she’s not interested?” Spencer stammered, the creeping sense of insecurity wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. His confidence from earlier was starting to erode. “I mean, she did turn me down on multiple occasions,” he added, his voice softening with self-doubt.

Elle sent him a playful glare, her expression one of disbelief. “Be serious, Reid,” she said, her tone firm but affectionate. “Everyone here can see that she’s into you. Ask anyone.”

Without giving Spencer a chance to stop her, Elle raised her voice, calling across the room, “Hey, JJ!”

Spencer's eyes widened in panic, his face flushing. “Elle! No!” His voice cracked as he tried to stop her, but it was too late.

JJ approached the two of them, a curious smile on her face as she looked between Spencer and Elle. “What’s up, you guys?” she asked, her easy going demeanor not yet aware of the situation she was about to walk into.

“Do you think Y/N is into anyone? Should we set her up?” Elle asked with a mischievous smirk, clearly enjoying Spencer’s discomfort.

JJ’s reaction was immediate—she burst into laughter, glancing between Elle and the now-mortified Spencer. “Are you kidding?!” she laughed, unable to believe the question was even being asked.

“No! Do you have anyone in mind?” Elle pushed, her smirk widening as she kept the act going.

Spencer looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, his mortification plain as he stood there frozen. His mind raced, desperate to find a way to steer the conversation away from himself. But JJ, still chuckling, fixed her gaze directly on Spencer, her expression turning to amused confusion.

“Spencer? Duh! She’s basically in love with you!” JJ declared, her blunt response leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Spencer blinked in disbelief, his mind stumbling over the directness of JJ's words. "W-What?" he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest.

JJ just shook her head, laughing softly. “Reid, it's so obvious. Trust me, you should ask her out.”

"Right," Spencer exhaled heavily, the weight of his nerves tangible in that single word. His eyes followed JJ as she walked away, her knowing smile and shake of her head a clear sign that she was rooting for him.

Elle, observing the entire interaction, turned back to Spencer with a look of determination. “Do you believe me now? You just need to be blunt,” she said firmly, reinforcing the advice with her unwavering gaze. Her stance was one of staunch support, wanting to push Spencer past his habitual overthinking.

Spencer nodded, feeling a bit more fortified by the support of his colleagues. Elle’s insistence on being blunt was exactly the nudge he needed. It was clear that subtlety had not served him well in this arena, and it was time for a change in strategy.

—

Throughout the week, Spencer made several more attempts to ask you out, each time with a bit more directness than the last, but somehow the message never quite landed. Each time deepening his frustration and your oblivious disappointment.

Spencer joined you at the coffee machine again, a site of many a casual encounter but today, he was armed with determination. "I was thinking," he began, carefully measuring his words, "that maybe you and I could try that new café downtown this Saturday."

You smiled, stirring your coffee absentmindedly, your mind on a deadline you were close to missing. "That sounds like a great break from work. It’ll be good to get the team out and about. Should I send an email to everyone?"

Spencer’s heart sank a little. "Uh, well, I meant more like a... never mind. Yes, let’s get everyone involved," he conceded, hiding his disappointment.

In the midst of discussing a particularly complex case, Spencer tried to weave in a personal invitation as naturally as he could. "And after we wrap this up, maybe you’d like to join me for dinner? I know a place that’s quiet, great for discussing... cases."

You nodded, focused intensely on the case details. "Oh yeah! I already told Pen I’d grab dinner with her after the case, do you want to join us?"

Spencer’s heart sank just a bit as he adjusted his glasses, a gesture that had become a telltale sign of his internal resignation. His intention of a quiet dinner, meant to create a private space for you and him, vanished with your invitation to Penelope. Still, he managed a smile, not wanting his disappointment to show.

“Sure, that sounds great,” Spencer replied, trying to keep his tone light and cheerful. Inside, however, he was strategizing his next move, wondering how he could ever convey his feelings without the constant backdrop of the team.

As the day progressed, his mind kept circling back to the conversation. He appreciated your inclusiveness—always making sure no one felt left out, a trait he admired deeply. Yet, he couldn’t help but wish for a moment where it could just be the two of you, away from the dynamics and distractions of the team.

As you both walked to the parking lot after a long day, Spencer decided to be as clear as he could. "I enjoy spending time with you," he said earnestly. "I was hoping we could maybe go out this weekend, just you and me. What do you think?"

You paused, turning to face him with a puzzled smile, unaware of the mounting frustration behind his calm demeanor. "Sure. What do you want to do? I heard of a nightclub that's supposed to have a disco on Saturdays, we could see if everyone is interested?”

Spencer’s patience, worn thin from repeated attempts, finally faltered. “That doesn’t really sound like my scene,” he replied, a note of desperation creeping into his voice as he motioned between the two of you. “Could we go somewhere more subdued? Just us?”

The simplicity of his request, paired with the intensity of his gesture, made you pause. "You want to hang out? With just me?" you asked, a hint of confusion lacing your words.

“Yes!” Spencer exclaimed, his voice echoing a bit louder than he intended in the quiet space between conversations around you. His hands were in the air, a gesture of his exasperation and earnestness. Realizing how his reaction might have seemed, he quickly lowered his hands and softened his tone. “I mean, yes, I would like to spend time with you. Just us. Maybe somewhere quiet where we can talk. Just... talk.”

Your heart was beating so fast you could barely contain it, “Just the two of us?” 

The realization struck you fully now, the words "just the two of us" hanging in the air, tinged with possibility. Spencer nodded, his eyes earnest and hopeful, watching for your reaction.

"Yes, just the two of us," he confirmed, his voice steadier now, filled with a quiet intensity. His gaze never wavered from yours, as if trying to convey all the sincerity he felt directly into your heart.

Your heart raced with the understanding of what he was asking, the implications of this simple request suddenly reshaping the narrative you had constructed in your mind about his feelings. The thought that Spencer, with his brilliant mind and shy demeanor, wanted to spend time alone with you, not for a case discussion or team outing but for something personal, sent a thrill of excitement mixed with nervous anticipation through you.

"Yeah, Spencer," you grinned, your heart still racing but excitement slowly overtaking your nerves. "That sounds nice. Um, I'm free Saturday."

"Saturday works for me," Spencer nodded, his own smile broadening with quiet confidence. "I'll call you?"

You nodded quickly, almost too eagerly, but you didn’t care. "Yeah, mhm, that sounds perfect."

For a moment, you both stood there, a shared anticipation buzzing in the air between you, neither wanting to break the connection just yet. When Spencer finally turned to leave, you found yourself smiling uncontrollably, the prospect of Saturday lingering in your mind, a warmth spreading through you that hadn't been there before.

—

Your excitement about the upcoming date with Spencer bubbled within you, yet you chose to keep it close to your chest. The thrill of it all felt so fragile, like a dream you didn’t want to jinx by sharing too soon with the rest of the team. This cautious optimism marked your days, turning ordinary moments into a series of hopeful glances at the calendar as Saturday approached.

Meanwhile, Spencer found himself seeking counsel from Elle, who was all too eager to lend her expertise, not just on potential date activities but on the more intimate aspects of dating as well, particularly women. Knowing Spencer’s limited experience��his only kiss having been with Lila Archer during a particularly intense case—Elle took it upon herself to offer some advice.

“Okay, Spencer, listen,” Elle began, her tone both serious and sisterly. “If the moment feels right and you think you want to kiss her, make sure you read her signals. It’s all about mutual understanding and respect, right?”

Spencer nodded, absorbing every word. Elle continued, “Make eye contact, see how she responds. If she seems receptive, maybe lean in halfway and let her meet you the rest of the way. It’s a two-way street.”

“Halfway,” Spencer repeated, mentally noting the advice. Elle’s directness and her willingness to discuss these details without any embarrassment provided him with a strange comfort.

“And, Reid, just be yourself. You’re a great guy. Let that show,” Elle added, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

Spencer felt nerves and gratitude at Elle’s advice, it was straightforward and practical, and helped ground him. He trusted her judgment, appreciating her sharing of her personal experience, especially when it came to navigating relationships—something he found infinitely more complex than the most puzzling cases.

—

The phone call on Saturday morning added to the bubbling excitement of the upcoming date. Spencer’s voice was clear and a tad nervous, which you found endearing. He promised a unique experience and asked you not to wear black, a request that piqued your curiosity and set your mind racing with possibilities. What kind of place would require such a specific dress code? The mystery only heightened your anticipation.

You quickly texted him your address, along with a playful note about your curiosity regarding the attire guidelines. Spencer replied with a simple smiley face, keeping the details of the date under wraps, which intrigued you even more.

As you prepared for the evening, you chose an outfit that was comfortable yet charming, avoiding black as instructed. The time leading up to Spencer’s arrival seemed to crawl by, each minute stretching longer than the last. You found yourself glancing at your reflection, adjusting your hair, and double-checking everything, ensuring you were ready when he arrived.

Finally, the sound of a car pulling up snapped you out of your reverie. Glancing out the window, you saw Spencer stepping out of his car, looking around with a nervous excitement that matched your own. 

As you stepped outside, your nerves fluttered slightly, but your smile was genuine when you saw Spencer waiting by his car. Waving shyly, you greeted him, "Hi, Spencer."

Spencer looked up, his eyes lighting up as he took in your appearance. "Y/N, you look great," he breathed out, his compliment wrapped in a warm smile that seemed to ease some of the tension between you.

"Thanks, I like your cardigan," you replied, noting the soft, well-worn cardigan he wore that somehow made him look even more approachable and endearing.

His smile widened at the compliment, and he seemed to relax a bit more. "Thanks! It's an old favorite," he admitted, holding the car door open for you. 

As you both stepped into the cozy, softly-lit space filled with the gentle sounds of purring and the occasional meow, Spencer immediately began sharing interesting facts about cats. “Did you know that ancient Egyptians considered cats sacred and even had a goddess named Bastet who was depicted as a lioness?” he said, looking into your eyes as you walked past a playful tabby.

Your response was a mix of admiration and amusement. “I didn’t know you were an expert on ancient cultures too,” you teased, feeling comfort and excitement as Spencer chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the opportunity to share his knowledge.

While playing with a particularly friendly cat, Spencer used the opportunity to flirt in his unique way. He gently lifted the cat, holding it out towards you. “It’s interesting how animals can facilitate social interactions, isn’t it? For instance, it's been found that people are more likely to engage in conversations in the presence of animals. They act as social lubricants.”

You laughed, reaching out to pet the cat and feeling a bit flustered by his proximity and the way he looked at you when talking about social dynamics. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you needed a furry wingman for our date?”

Spencer grinned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Maybe, but it seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

“I don't know, say lubricant again,” you teased. Spencer's grin widened at your playful challenge, and the atmosphere between you sparked with a shared humor that made the moment light and enjoyable. 

He leaned in slightly, adopting a mock-serious tone, "Lubricant," he repeated, emphasizing the word, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

You laughed even harder, your eyes bright with amusement. "Hearing you say 'lubricant' is so funny!"

Spencer, caught up in your joy, couldn’t help but laugh along. “Why?” he asked, his own grin wide as your laughter proved infectious.

"It’s just... it can be a dirtier word," you giggled, trying to explain through your laughter. "And I can’t imagine our resident genius using the word lubricant!"

Spencer's laughter joined yours, ringing out genuinely as he caught the playful jab. The lightness of the moment brought a relaxed glow to his features. "I assure you, the application of the word was purely scientific," he teased back, still chuckling. 

The café around you seemed to buzz with the warmth of your shared amusement, creating an intimate bubble amidst the quiet hum of other patrons and the soft padding of cat paws. "I suppose," Spencer continued, his smile lingering, "I should be more careful with my vocabulary around you. You're giving me a whole new perspective on language."

Your laughter gradually subsided into a series of light chuckles, but your eyes were bright with delight. "I think I like this side of you, Spencer," you said, a playful sincerity in your voice. "It’s nice to see you in a different light, not just as the genius profiler but also someone who can joke around about...lubricants."

Spencer's eyes softened, clearly touched by your words. "I'm glad," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of appreciation. "It’s not often I get to show this side, and I’m happy to share it with you." 

As you observed the cats seemingly gravitate towards Spencer, who seemed both amused and delighted by their attention, an idea sparked in your mind. It was the perfect segue into a lighthearted flirtation, mixing your shared love for animals with a touch of mystical charm.

"You know, it’s said that animals, especially cats, have a keen sense of good and bad," you started, watching Spencer's reaction as a particularly fluffy cat chose his lap as its new throne. "They're often drawn to people with good auras. I guess they must sense something pretty great about you."

Spencer looked up, his expression a mix of surprise and pleasure at your comment. He laughed softly, a sound that warmed you to the core. "Is that so? Well, I must be on the right track then. Maybe they sense my excellent choice in company for this evening," he replied smoothly, his gaze locking with yours in a moment charged with a gentle intensity as a cat nuzzled its way into your lap as well.

Your heart fluttered slightly at his words, and you smiled, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks. "Oh, so we’re using cat behavior to gauge our decisions now?" you teased back, leaning in a little closer. "In that case, I think they’re on to something because I’m feeling pretty good about my choice too."

Spencer’s smile widened, and he reached over to gently nudge a playful kitten back onto the table, his actions thoughtful and tender. "I'll take that as a high compliment, coming from someone who clearly knows her way around cats and their mysterious ways," he said, his voice soft but filled with an underlying warmth that suggested he was as affected by the exchange as you were.

As the evening wound down, and the café began to prepare for closing, Spencer drove you home. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and you found yourself sharing little anecdotes from your childhood, while Spencer listened intently, always eager to learn more about you.

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of your home. The end of the evening had come too quickly, a sentiment you both silently acknowledged as you lingered at the doorstep, not quite ready to say goodbye.

"Y/N...I had a really nice time today," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to wrap the evening in a perfect close.

"Me too, Spencer, thank you for asking me. I was kind of shocked," you admitted, your words sincere and open. The evening had unfolded beautifully, but part of you had still been wrestling with the disbelief that it was all really happening.

"Really? Why?" Spencer's curiosity was piqued, his gaze intent on you, wanting to understand more.

You smiled shyly, a nervous habit kicking in as you rubbed behind your ear. "I just... liked you for so long, I never thought you were interested in me too," you confessed, the words tumbling out more easily than you'd expected. The truth had been a quiet companion for so long, and saying it aloud to Spencer felt both freeing and terrifying.

Spencer's expression softened even further, a gentle understanding coloring his features. "Y/N, I’ve been trying to ask you out for two weeks," he confessed. His chuckle was light, trying to ease the tension.

Spencer's revelation brought a mix of relief and amusement. "Really? I had no idea you were trying," you replied, a smile breaking across your face, reflecting both the surprise and joy of the moment.

He nodded, a bit of sheepishness showing through his usual composed demeanor. "Yes, it turns out I'm not as skilled in expressing personal interest as I am with criminal profiles," he admitted, his light laughter mingling with yours.

The air between you felt lighter, a shared understanding dawning that, despite the initial miscommunications, there was a genuine and mutual interest. "Well, I'm glad you kept trying," you said, your tone sincere. "And I'm sorry I didn't pick up on it sooner. I guess I was just scared to get my hopes up."

Spencer reached across the small space between you, his hand hesitating just a moment before gently taking yours. "No more missed signals, okay? Let's promise to be more straightforward with each other," he suggested, his gaze steady and reassuring.

You nodded, squeezing his hand in agreement, feeling a warmth spread through you at the contact. "It's a deal," you responded, your heart feeling both settled and exhilarated by the new promise laid between you.

“So... in honor of being straightforward…” Spencer began, his voice soft but steady, a shy smile playing on his lips. He stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours, a quiet vulnerability in his gaze. Gently, he took both of your hands in his, his touch warm and reassuring. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart raced, the moment feeling both tender and surreal. The way he held your hands, the genuine care in his voice���it was everything you'd hoped for, wrapped in Spencer’s uniquely thoughtful way. You felt yourself nod before you even spoke, your breath catching slightly. “Yes,” you whispered, smiling softly, your eyes never leaving his.

Spencer’s smile deepened with relief and excitement. Slowly, he leaned in, his movements deliberate and gentle, giving you every moment to close the gap as well. When your lips finally met, it was soft, sweet, and full of the promise that had been building between you for so long. The world seemed to pause, leaving just the two of you in that quiet, intimate moment, finally aligned in your shared feelings.

When you pulled back, there was a brief silence before you both laughed lightly, the tension melting away completely. "That was… nice," Spencer said, his voice low, his smile radiating warmth. 

"Yeah, it really was," you agreed, still feeling the butterflies in your chest as you held onto his hands just a little tighter. 

“Oh, and for the record,” Spencer chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he took in your reaction, “I don’t like Elle—romantically, of course. She’s my best friend.”

Your face flushed with sudden embarrassment, realizing he'd caught on to your earlier assumptions. “Oh, I—well, uh...” you stammered, struggling to find the right words.

Spencer's smile remained soft and reassuring. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he said warmly, squeezing your hands gently. “Elle is super gay, not sure how you missed that, and... I really like you.”

His words, so genuine and direct, melted away the last bit of tension you’d been holding onto. You laughed lightly, the awkwardness dissolving into relief. “Well, that’s good to know,” you said with a grin, finally allowing yourself to fully relax into the moment.

Spencer's grin mirrored yours as he added, “I just wanted to clear that up. No more misunderstandings.” His gaze softened as he looked at you, the weight of unspoken feelings now out in the open. 

“No more misunderstandings,” you agreed, feeling the warmth of his words and the certainty that everything between you was finally where it should be.

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tag list <333 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic

[diejager]

Hiii，I really like your story about Ghost x bunny！reader.Can you please do moreee🥺🥺🥺💖🐰

Needy Bunny Cw: heat/mating cycle, breeding kink, rough sex, mating press, doggy style, unprotected sex, PinV, tell me if I missed any.

You clawed at the sheets, hips bucking back, rutting against the heated palm of his scarred and calloused hand, fingers filling you so well. Your bed smelled like him, something familiar you associated with comfort and safety, gorging on his rich and powerful scent. He smelled like blood and gunpowder, itching you sensitive nose, and the soft tone of something woody —an addictive bourbon and calm sandalwood.

You crooned softly, burying your face deeper into his many shirts, mask and blanket, all infused with his aged scent and sweat, masking you in his scent, drowning in the delicious smell of him. You were clouded by a primal need, to be bred and nurse little kits in your stomach, you didn’t have any sensible thought inside your head, all you wanted was to smell like Ghost and bear his kits by becoming his.

When thrown into the throes of your heat - vicious and unforgiving - you became dumb and needy, wandering the halls of the base for Ghost and pawing at him until he brought you to his room. The moment he closed and locked the door, you were naked and kneeling on his bed, face down on his pillow, drooling over the musky cloth and ass up, showing him how wet and needy you were, cunt winking and clit throbbing from the cool air in his room —it helped with the warmth you exhumed from your heat, body burning so much calories to sustain you during it.

You were deaf to Ghost’s degrading words, uncaring by how mean his words were or how rough he was, all that mattered was that he was using you, his fingers straight as they drove in, hitting your g-spot. Slick dripped from his wrist, your sweet cunt oozing it, transparent and salty fluid tasting sugary on his tongue, his mask rolled up his nose to press the flat of his tongue against your twitching nub, swirling around it wile he pumped you with three, thick fingers.

You whined when he pulled out his fingers, tongue pushing into your hole and slurping down your slick, swallowing your sweet cum in gulps. He drank up your little mewls, sound more like a cat than a bunny, his hand roved over your thighs and around the swell of your ass, spanked red from acting like a little whore in front of other men, and grabbed your snowball-like tail, harshly pulling on it to get a reaction out of you. You yipped loudly, back arching and trying to get out of his tight hold on your sensitive tail, the twitching ball stuck between his fingers even as he pressed the round head of his cock against your clenching hole, tip nudging your entrance —teasing you.

“Please-” you wailed, sobbing for relief you knew that only he could give you, something to fill you up and keep you full until this heat passed. “Ghost, please-”

He kept you still, one hand on your hip and the other still tugging at your tail, he drove in with a sharp snap, thrusting his whole length in one, rough go that had you keening, loud, whorish sounds slipping from your tongue as your eyes rolled back, walls squeezing him as you came. He was warm, cock snugly sitting inside of you, he was as heavy as he was thick, the girth covered in veins and the base in trimmed, musky hair.

He took a few experimental thrusts, rough and unsteady, before he bottomed out completely, heavy balls slapping your engorged clit. Ghost set deep and hard pace, his sculpted hips snapping against your sensitive ass, using his grip on you to hold the pace, plunging in, the leaky tip of his uncut cock slamming into your spongy cervix, veins scratching at your clenching walls, frenum piercings, three starting from the base up rubbing you deliciously.

With how high stung you were, body shuddering and cunt spamming with another upcoming climax, it didn’t take you long before you came a second time. Bursting with a cry, legs kicking and trembling beneath you, you bucked your hips against him, pushing him deeper into you. You were squirming so much so that he had to turn you over, manhandling you from your presented position to a mating press, bent in half with your legs hanging from his broad shoulders, taking him again and again - even as you came twice or thrice, coating him in your juice, his navel and balls wet down to his thighs - until he had his fill.

“You want a kit, is that it?” He growled, forearm pressing down on your throat without putting any lethal force, simply to hold you down, to keep you restrained to your nest, “Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll knock you up, yeah? Put a little rabbit in that cunt of yours, breed you nice and deep.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan

[loveemagicpeace]

Relationships & Other Things🦋🐚🌙

🍕Sagittarius Venus are actually more loyal in a relationship than most signs. They will be all in- in the relationship and give person the world. They are very devoted and when they love someone they are persistent in the relationship they have. They will share everything with this person. Many people do not understand this Venus and caress it enough in this position. For example, Venus in Aquarius is really hard to commit to a single partner for a long time - they will always look for freedom and something that will enrich their life and they are very independent in the things they do. Their love language is also quite different.

🥀Venus suggests a more adult level of affection and bonding - what we want others to appreciate and admire in us. The position of your Venus, by sign and house, as well as the aspects it makes to other planets, indicates what you find attractive and what you need in order to get on well with someone - for a relationship to work, there needs to be mutual appreciation of each other's desire nature. This is harder work of course if your Venus is, say, in Capricorn or in aspect to Saturn (suggesting a controlled and self-contained relating style) and your partner or friend has Venus in Sagittarius or aspecting Jupiter (suggesting an extraverted aesthetic and enjoyment of the good life),

✨Water moons feel loney souls. They sense when someone is a lost soul or when someone needs help. They have a very intuitive energy. Many times they feel much more than people think.

🍸Moon in 9th house- your home is somewhere else. These people often live somewhere else in another country because they can feel better there. They are often looking for their safe space. Many times these people feel as if nowhere is quite their home or as if they are constantly looking for their place under the sun. They may end up living far away from their family or somewhere you have to drive for a long time. But they have to feel home so that they can live in it.

🌛The Moon is perhaps the key planet of relationship in that it suggests how we form emotional bonds - how we nurture and care for others, and what we need from them in return in order to feel safe and comfortable.

🔥If your Moon is in a fire sign for instance, there is a need for life to be a colourful place of risks and potentials; if your partner or boss conversely has the Moon in an earth sign, your enthusiasm might well elicit an annoyingly sensible and risk-averse response that leaves you feeling flat. We are all driven by our basic instincts when it comes to our Moon.

🪐Saturn in Aries -they may be afraid of failure or they may be obsessed with achieving something. They tend to be competitive when it comes to themselves and their energy. They can often be in competition with themselves. Saturn shows where you are most serious and which area you take much more seriously than others.

🎳3rd house synastry many times indicates a person you knew from elementary school years. Or the person you met in high school. You have definitely met this person somewhere before, but you may not remember it right away. A lot of the people you share 3rd house with, you already met before.

🍬4th house synastry is often a person with whom you can create a cozy home and warmth. This house is most likely to make you think about living with this person.

🛼5th house synastry shows romance with the person and keeps the relationship alive. This means that you can fall in love with this person again and again. This house also reflects the fact that you think about children.

🌊8th house synastry you will share the darkest times with this person and they will help you in many things. This can also be the person with whom you can get the closest.

🎤Mercury gemini & libra love to talk and are quick to respond to messages. If you are interesting to them, they will keep the conversation with you. Aquarius mercury likes to talk about topics that are more controversial and not so much in the foreground. They will either write off quickly or not at all. Capricorn mercury mostly do not like to waste time on long conversations or texting. Virgo mercury likes to debate and talk about different things. If you ask them for advice, they will give it to you and tell you how they see it. But there are people who many times won't tell you directly if something bothered them.

🌨️Good & Bad side of zodiac signs☀️

💧Capricorn placements will do a lot for you because they are a sign of action and when you need something they will always be there for you. No matter what, they will always try to find a way. But their downside is sometimes that they devote too much time to career, success (in the sense that it becomes part of their life). They forget to enjoy life and sometimes know how to push themselves too much to the extreme.

🌬️Gemini placements are good at communicating, changing things, topics and everything. But their downside is that they change direction too quickly and don't focus enough on the person/thing. A person with a Gemini in Mars can often be prone to cheating if they do not have enough stable signs in chart.

🥨Taurus placements know how to do a lot for you, spoil you, buy you expensive things (they always buy you something you've always wanted). Their downside is that they can become too materialistic, stand up for money or put it first. And maybe sometimes they live a too monotonous life and don't want change.

🛁Virgo placements can sometimes be too obsessed with work, routine, order, perfection (they sometimes expect too much perfection from themselves and then consequently from their partner).The obsession health can be overwhelming at times. If someone will serve you things than this is them and a lot always about health, herbs.

🛍️Libra placements can sometimes adapt too much to society and to serving everyone before themselves. Sometimes it makes them a different person. You don't always need to be accepted into the circle or to be liked by everyone. Many times they can be obsessed with the fact that they should fix something on themselves even though they look beautiful (libra risings a lot of times). Sometimes they can look too much for balance and rationality in everything. It would be great if you could ever choose a side and not be on both sides at once. They invest a lot in the relationship and put the person they love first.

🥐Aquarius placements I think that they are often example of having commitment issues. I wouldn't say that they are the ones who want to be different or that they would repeat it too much. However, many times they have a specific opinion or view that is sometimes difficult to change, and many times they give an opinion about something that is not always appropriate. They are an intelligent sign and often accept and understand different things. They never find anything strange.

🩰Pisces placements I like their artistic nature, how they can swim in their own world. Their weakness is often that they look too much for some ideal of a person and when the person does not fit the description, they just leave. And that they can quickly find another person they like - I have the feeling with them that they are never fully committed to just one person. Many times they know how to manipulate and lie to others. It seems to me that one part of them is never fully visible.

🧩Cancer placements their downside is that they have their favorite people, whom they choose, and if you are not a person who is always available to them, they can quickly cut you out of their lives. Many times they can clearly show the difference between one person and another. And sometimes they don't feel bad if they gave one person more than others. But they know how to make a really warm and cozy home where you will always feel welcome.

🐬Scorpio placements sacrificed a lot for people that they love , they value their privacy and they are one of the signs that will never betray your secret and are truly devoted to you. Scorpio is all or nothing. They are a ride or die sign - forever sign. They share their soul with you and that's one of the most beautiful things about them to me. But it is their weakness that control, obsession, jealousy can take them over. They are quick to doubt people and things. Many times they have too much trust issues.

🍕Sagittarius placements have a lot of knowledge, they are one of the most optimistic signs and they can show you from a completely different perspective.Sometimes the problem with them is when they start looking for positivity in everything, in the sense that they don't allow themselves to be sad. Many times they are afraid that if they lose their meaning, they will have nothing to live for. They forget that sometimes you can live for others

❤️‍🔥Aries placements if anyone is braver it's them, they always take risks and know no shame. Their motto is do things - whatever will be will be. However, they can sometimes be too impulsive in their decisions. Sometimes they focus too much on themselves and forget how others feel. Many times they do to others exactly what they would not want others to do to them.They sometimes think that if they have done something a couple of times, that now you should invest even more. And if you don't invest as much as they expect, then they are like "okay bye". They have too high expectations sometimes.

🎬Leo placements are generous, youthful and love to do childish things. They know how to enjoy things without a bad conscience.And as they love you, they will always put you first. The bad side of them is that sometimes they want to be too much in the spotlight and that they relate everything to them. Sometimes they can be too irresponsible about their actions. Sometimes they don't know how to listen to the other person.

-Rebekah🍕🥨🦋

[live-laugh-lenney]

Can you please do a fic where the reader and George Clarke absolutely hate each other they always argue but she’s best friends with Chris, and she goes on a night out her girl friends leave her and she’s drunk and scared men are hitting on her hard so decides to ring Chris but he’s asleep and George answers his phone and comes picks you up it ends up them two arguing but also something where they hook up (wether that’s the same night or different) please??

the ending to this feels almost rushed but i know i've promised this a few times... let me know what you think!

"come on."

the words come out of yn's mouth as a low grumble but it was loud enough to catch the attention of the guy stood beside her in the pub's smoking area. the time on her phone said it was quarter to two in the morning, the street on the otherside of the road was empty and baron of people walking passed, and the pub was becoming less and less busy as people got into their taxi's and uber's and went off home to nurse hangovers in the morning.

yet, here she was.

stuck in the middle of the london, all by herself and in a vulnerable state, as she tried to call the one guy she wanted to see in her moment of need. her best friend. who was, no doubt, asleep because he was sensible and chose to stay in that night rather than spending it getting drunk.

"everything okay?"

"yeah," she mumbles it lowly to show her disinterest, her eyes staring at the screen of the phone in her hand as she scrolled through all of her contacts to find christopher dixon's home number because calling him mobile number hadn't worked, "i just can't get hold of a friend, i kind of need him right now."

"can i be of any assistance?"

"no," she responds bluntly and she could feel the way he was taken aback by her abrupt answer, "i just want to go home. my friends have left me here by myself, i have no way of getting home and no one wants to answer their phones to help me."

"it is almost two in the morning."

"yeah, i know that," she scoffs it out sarcastically and she rolls her eyes, landing on the home landline to chris' flat, "no offence but i don't need any company right now. cheers but-"

"not just gon'a leave a pretty girl in a pub by herself," the guy says and, for the first time since she heard his voice, she looked at him - dressed in jeans that were too tight for his legs and a shirt that he definitely chose in hopes to pick up girls with the way he had his muscles on show - as she held her phone to her ear and listened to the dial tone beep through the speaker as the other end rung through the flat, "i'll take you home."

"yeah... no thanks," she shook her head, her face contorted with a look of pure disgust at the repulsive invitation he was insinuating; what had started out as a girl's night was always going to end as a girl's night, not leaving with a bloke she had never met before and waking up in an unknown bed the next morning. "We all know how that invitation ends and i'm not after that, thanks."

"oh, come on-"

"no," she shook her head and took a step to the side, furthering herself away from him to give him a hint of how she was over being nice to him and how she was over the conversation that she never wanted to start. her attention turning towards the phone that was warm against her ear. "answer the phone, idiot."

as she was about to give up and press the red button in the bottom corner, coming to terms with the fact that he was most probably asleep and completely dead to the world, the sound of someone picking up brought some comfort to her racing mind.

"hello?"

"chris, it's yn."

"newsflash, it's george. you know, one of the other guys who lives in this flat and got rudely woken up by this call."

"oh."

she gulps thickly, the lump in her throat aching, and she really wished she hadn't bothered. it wasn't that she hated goerge; it was the exact opposite... he hated her, for some reason, and she had no idea why. she wanted nothing more to be friends with him, making it three out of three successful friendships that she'd made through chris... except he was having none of it.

"i'm so sorry, i just-"

"i told you, babe, you can always come back with me."

yn's eyebrows furrowed as she tried to hold back the upset tears that were threatening to spill from how scared she was, the interruption making her lose her train of thought, and it was only when george spoke down the line that she felt a little intimidated.

"who's that?"

"just some guy-"

"is he bothering you?"

yn sighs and takes a glance out of the corner of her eye, checking to see if the guy was still standing close to her, already knowing that he was listening intently to her conversation and hadn't any plans to go elsewhere.

"yeah, a little," she responds and, on the other end of the line, she could hear him rustling around and moving in a pace that she could tell was quick and in a rush, "i just, my friends left me alone in this pub round the corner from waterloo and i'm all by myself right now and the pub is closing and i'm out the front and he's just here and i don't know who he is and-"

"okay, alright. i'm coming to get you, okay?"

"i don't want to be a bother, george," she heard him grunt back in response to her and she could feel a tear slip down her cheek, "i was trying to get hold of chris but-"

"chris would rip my bollocks off if he knew i didn't help you when you called. especially when you're on your own in london, drunk, with some creep standing with you."

"but-"

"i'm leaving now, okay? send me your location and i'll be there as soon as i can, yeah?"

she couldn't tell if it was the happiness to know she was being looked after or whether it was the scared feeling that had overcome her - or both - but she struggled to keep back the tears that were burning her eyes.

"thank you, george."

it came out as a wet sob and she didn't care if anyone who looked at her and thought she was too drunk and weird. her previous problem of being hit on by someone she'd never met before, the same guy, didn't seem to want to leave her as he slowly sipped on the pint he had poured into a plastic cup.

"just stay safe until i get there, okay? go find a bouncer or someone from the staff and just say your taxi is on its way. stay away from the guy who's bothering you and keep to places where people can see you."

-

"yn?"

her head snapped up from where she was staring at her phone, to see george walking quickly down the street , his hoodie pulled over his head and he'd matched loose cotton shorts with it yet skipped out on pulling socks on as he opted for sliders, because he was in a rush to leave the house and had no time for trainers.

"yn. that's such a pretty name," she heard the guy say but she was no longer interested in anything he had to say, moving from her place on the bench she had chosen to wait upon and grasping the strap of her bag upon her shoulder, "oh, babe, it's a shame you chose him over me. he's got nothing to give you."

george felt his fists curl up under his sleeves yet he chose to not make the situation worse for her.

"when a girl says no to you, she means no," george calls out over to him, staring with a look of dark anger behind his eyes, "back off and maybe try being less of a creep, lurking around drunk girls, and you might just get lucky."

"george-"

"come on," he grabs her hand and tugs her away from the direction of the pub, desperate to get her away from the stare of the guy that was bothering her, "why the hell didn't you call any of us sooner? you were there for how long, by yourself, before you realised?"

"not long," she admits, "i'd only just realised as they were kicking us all out. i went to look for them at the booth we were in and they'd left."

"how many times have we told you to not hang around with those girls? they've been nothing but trouble for you," he reminds her and she rolls her eyes, legs burning from trying to keep up with his long strides back to the tube station, "what kind of friends do that to their other friends? bad friends, yn. they're not your friends-"

"i'm not a child, george," she interrupts him and pulls her hand free from his grip, standing still in the middle of the pavement as he came to a halt from her sudden movement, "don't speak me to like i am one."

he sighs heavily and brings his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips before dropping his arms back down to his sides, watching as she swayed to and fro from the way her world must have been spinning from alcohol.

"alright," he held his hands up in surrender, "i'm sorry."

"you should be," she retorts, "stupid."

"don't backchat me like a teenager and i won't speak to you like a child," he insists and turns on his heels, wanting to hop back into the warmth of the underground station and get back home as soon as possible, "now come on, i want to go home."

"my home. take me home and then go home yourself."

"no, my home," george calls back, hearing her scuffing behind as she tried to keep up with his pace so she wasn't left behind and out of his sight, "i'm gonna look after you, you can have my bed, and you can talk to chris in the morning because he's gonna have some choice words for those girls."

"i don't need you to make me feel worse."

"i'm not trying to make you feel worse."

"you are."

"yn," george sighs, "i'm too tired to argue with you, okay? can we just, we just need to get on the tube, do a couple of stops, then we're home. i'll argue with you tomorrow."

"i don't want to argue with you anymore," she frowns, "i just want to be friends with you. i don't like it when you're angry all the time with me. i've done nothing to you to make you treat me so badly."

"we are friends, idiot."

"no, we aren't. you're always moaning at me, you never say anything nice to me. i'm surprised you even came to get me," yn says, "only you, george. every other one of chris' friend's like me... television is my favourite but you-"

"i do like you, yn," george sighs heavily, "but this is a conversation we don't need to be having in the middle of the road, outside the train station."

"i want to have this conversation-"

"no," george shakes his head, "it's a conversation for when you're sober and not full of whatever alcohol you've ended up spilling down yourself."

he stares at her for a moment and she squints her eyes back at him, in a feigned annoyed look, feeling the chill in the air and the alcohol mixing in her system and as well as her belly. and she couldn't bring it in her to argue even more.

"fine."

-

yn stumbles through the front door and into the darkness of the flat belonging to the boys and she was thankful she wore flats opposed to the heels that were her second choice shoe for the night. a click of the lock filled the quiet as george closed the front door behind him, keys jingling with his keyrings as he dropped them in the bowl in the entryway, shuffling further into the room. as she slid her shoes off, not knowing where she was leaving them, a lamp flicked on and she took in the living space around her.

"you could have taken me home."

"not a chance," george grumbles lowly, shrugging off the over-layer he chose to brave the night air and draped it over the back of the sofa in the middle of the room, "i think chris would have murdered me in my sleep."

"i wanted to go home."

"and i wanted to get a full night's sleep but here we are," george shrugs his shoulders and she folds her arms across her chest, like a child in a tantrum, "you can have my bed, i'll sleep on the sofa."

"george-"

"please don't argue with me, okay? i'm giving you my bed, don't make me change my mind," he warns her and the interruption was enough for her to close her lips and forget about what she was about to say to him, "i don't know what you think is happening between us but i do care about you, okay?"

she could hear her heartbeat pounding behind her chest in the quiet of the room and she looks at him, properly, for the first time that evening.

"you don't show it."

"i don't know how," he scoffs and it's more aimed at himself than at her, his feet take him across the stretch of empty space before he stands before her, "you're chris' best friend... i'm not going to be the one to step in the way and ruin that."

"you could have treated me better. spoke to me nicer. actually made me feel like you wanted me around."

"you're not listening, are you? i like you, you idiot."

for the first time that night, she couldn't find the words to come back to his response. she stared at him, dumbfounded, with wide eyes that couldn't tear away from the way he was walking towards her. and she didn't realise her mouth had gaped open until his hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb pushing her the bottom of her jaw, lingering his touch that had her tilting her head into his palm.

"but-"

"you've always got something to say, haven't you?" and if he didn't have a smile twitching at his lips, hidden beneath the growing facial hair that grew from his upper lip, she would have taken offence to his words, "i wanted this conversation with a sober yn. not slightly drunk, in a mood because her friends abandoned her, in the middle of the night and stood in the middle of my living room."

"you-" she gulps back the lump in her throat and he smiles softly, "i don't believe you."

"are you trying to push my buttons?" he asks her, the gap between them slowly closing, "because it's working."

"and what happens if i push the last one?"

"i think you know already," he says it so softly yet it held so much behind it and yn couldn't stop the tingle in her belly that brought goosebumps to the surface of her skin and the way his breath washed over her face, warm and minted from when he'd done his nightly routine before bed, had her weak at the knees, "go on, push it."

her eyes dart between his, that stayed focused on her face, and the way his lips looked so inviting and soft. teasing and taunting her. her tongue slipping out between her lips and licking her own because they felt dry.

"what if chris finds out?"

"you're a grown woman," george mumbles softly, "i think you can make your own decisions, huh?"

it's the first time she feels a tremble in her hands as she brings her arms up, resting her forearms on his shoulders and letting her fingers comb through the hairs at the back of his head. soft strands so gentle against her cold hands.

and george seizes the opportunity to test the waters of the situation by pressing his lips against hers in a peck, quick and messy, before he pulled away and waited for a response... a verbal response... yet it never came.

because it came in the form of a reciprocated kiss, fingers digging deeper into his hair as she pulled him closer, his arms wrapping around her waist as he brought her into his chest and held her tight in a hold that made her melt. he wanted her to have control, on her own terms, to test herself out in what was happening.

"chris is going to kill me," she says softly, "you guys were off limits."

"he'll get over it."

yn laughs softly and drops her forehead to his chest, his arms still tight around her waist and just couldn't let go of her, and there was a comfortable silence that swallowed the two of them. the previous moments playing on their minds.

"fancy sharing that bed tonight?"

he grins at her question, hearing the hidden desire in her voice, and presses a kiss to her head.

"i'd love that." x

[theorist-fox]

Some type of skin (and two keys)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Currently crossposting previous works from AO3.

Inspired by "Some type of skin" by AURORA (I have an obsession and it's a Norwegian pale lady)

Summary: Johnny's passing has left you devastated. Simon is there to pick up the pieces, while you, although unconsciously, mend his tired heart.

CW: talk of grief, death and loss, angst, broken promises, hurt/comfort, soft Simon Riley but also angry Simon Riley. Mention of pharmacological drugs.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

The air felt clogged; thickened and uncomfortably warm. You tried to blame it on the closed window and the unrelenting sun that reflected against the glass, but the truth was that you felt awkward in your own skin. The uniform clung to your body like a prison. Once, it had been your armor: the breathable dark green cotton of the tee, the black leather of the belt cinching your waist, until the thick camo trousers. They all felt bulletproof.

Yet, ever since you’d witnessed that bullet tearing a hole into Johnny’s head, each piece of clothing had turned into something akin to a goddamn straitjacket. It replayed in your head ad nauseam until it turned into a living nightmare. Until you saw his bloodless face in everyone around you, until you felt a hole in your own skull, as if his death were an omen of your end, as well.

For the first time in the years you had worked with the task force, you were the one who called for a meeting. Well, it was an informal encounter more than anything. A text you had sent simultaneously to all of them.

“We have to talk. Room 4A in HQ 10AM?”

By mere habit, you’d also sent it to Soap; it wrecked your heart to see the red alert on the right side of your bubble, the small Not Delivered right below it. The cracks shattered further when you received the automated response telling you that the number didn’t exist.

How could it not, when you had accumulated thousands of hours on phone calls? How could it not, when you could scroll for days on the chat and never find the first text he’d ever sent you?

You had tried, one of many sleepless evenings: your thumb almost ached due to the mere motion. Fingertip up. Swipe down. Fingertip up. Swipe down. You found it, then. Something old, ancient. The bubbles were green because iPhones still didn’t have the feature that allowed you to text using internet between Apple devices.

“glad to have you on the team. big boss gave me your number. this is soap anything you need im a text awya.”

“aywa*”

“away !!!!”

You'd laughed and it quickly morphed into strangled cries, until your vision got foggy, and your lids yielded. You fell asleep clutching the phone to your cheek.

After having spread his ashes on the Scottish Highlands, everyone had made the sensible decision of taking time off – a sort of unsanctioned compassionate leave. On the other hand, you stayed buried in the tight office you had in Stirling Lines. You couldn't handle the silence that your empty flat would bring. Granted, that didn’t mean you spent much time talking to passersby here at the headquarters, strangers and colleagues alike.

You hovered around the hallways like a specter – paled and depleted. Utterly unavailable to anyone who decided, for reasons unknown to you, to waste their breath on your person. You’d hear grieving words tossed your way, and you'd nod warmly at those. Polite. Affable. Like you’ve always been, even now that the light had been sapped out of you.

Johnny brought it with him - the light. The sun of the team: beautiful yet deadly. Necessary, but dangerous. Lethal only to those who tried to unravel his equilibrium, warm and inviting to the ones who embraced his person.

Now that he was gone, there was darkness – the world dimmed to pay its respects.

It had been eight months. During those, you had worked tirelessly to concoct a plan to have your revenge. Price sometimes knocked on your door only to find you hunched over blueprints and notes. The look he gave you each time was nothing short of pitiful. He didn’t try to stop you, but you could feel the disappointment seeping through your bones and grating them to dust.

Gaz brought you coffee, sometimes. He often came to your office, knocked softer than Price – a knuckle against wood, compared to all four of them incessantly rapping against the door. Sometimes, it wasn't coffee. Sometimes, despite how bad it might have looked, Gaz spilled a few drops of Rozerem in your chamomile tea, hoping it would force your eyes closed for some rest.

All of them, drove from their respective homes only to come and check on you. You wondered if they had an unofficial shift schedule, shared between them both.

Ghost, though. Ghost stayed. 

Angrier than you. Insatiable. Raging. Went for runs at ungodly hours, when the sun wasn’t even about to peek from the horizon. He monopolized the gym of the headquarters; an easy task for him, all he needed to do was use his thousand-yard stare against the unlucky lad who dared cross the threshold. When he felt like the punching bag had taken enough of his gauzed fists, he would come to your office – sweaty and bruised. He rarely bothered to shower. He’d sit next to you, and he’d help.

Everyday.

Ever the detached bastard he'd always been, he grew closer against his better judgment. Albeit it had been years since you had joined the task force under Price’s will, Ghost had always stood several steps away from you. Yet, lately, he’d woven himself to you like a spider spinning an intricate web. He wrapped you in a cocoon, and differently from the eight-legged creature, Simon didn’t want to drain the nectar of life.

He wanted to be your armor. A panoply of rustproof iron: encasing you in chainmail, helmet, and all.

It’s why, now, as you sat on your own at the briefing room table with the increasing temperature in the room, guilt ate you from the inside. Termites feasting on wood.

The first one to enter was Kyle. Pretty brown eyes looked at you fondly, as if they were taking in a long-lost friend. He sat next to you, exchanged a few tentative words, and smoothed the hair away from your forehead. He didn't care about the grease clinging to them, instead, he grazed short nails against your scalp as he told you about his week.

You were eternally grateful for him and his tactful ability to make you feel normal when life seemed to have turned askew.

Price walked in a few minutes later. Stoic as ever, but with kindness in his blues. He held a tray in his hands, four paper cups of steaming coffee balanced on it. He set it on the table and slumped on the chair in front of you. He asked you how you were doing. You answered that you were fine. You asked it back. He answered the same. No one believed a single word.

Ghost made you all wait. You explained that he was probably at the gym, or having a late-morning run around the training grounds. If they were worried about you, the concern for Ghost was something even greater. While only Price knew of the intricacies of his past, it didn’t take a doctorate in psychology to understand that whatever had forced him to wear the skull mask was something that still haunted him in the present.

────────────

You remembered it vividly, that one evening. Life had battered you both, kindred spirits in what seemed to be the inability to grieve properly.

You, with your head propped on the armrest of the narrow couch in your office. He, slumped on the cushions as he cradled your calves in his lap. A hand absently brushed the thick cotton of your work trousers. His eyes were to the ceiling. His empty stomach growled incessantly, much like yours – both running on fumes, caffeine, and nicotine, or the occasional shared bite stolen from the cafeteria after its closing time.

As your eyelids were about to flutter closed, you heard the rumble of his voice vibrating in his diaphragm, close to where he held your feet.

“Hooked by the ribs,” he said.

The inquisitive look you sent him was missed because he didn't divert his eyes from the ceiling.

“Buried alive,” he strained, “Crawled outta my own grave.”

It hit you later, that he was sharing. You slowly sat up, pushing your torso with your tired arms. You moved gingerly, afraid a mere shift in the air would cause him to sew his mouth shut. While you had an inkling that whatever happened to him must have been gruesome and cruel, those few words (which you were sure, merely scratched the surface) already caused your stomach to churn.

“They used me, tried to break me and they did.”

Your jaw worked. Propped on your elbows, you gulped down the stone in your throat. Eyes glued to the unmasked profile – to the crooked nose, flattened by punches and butts of guns, to the divot between his lips, to the absent brown eyes with their halo of pale lashes. His fingers curled around your ankle and his thumb brushed over your sock.

“Killed my family,” he went on, and you wondered if he was talking to you at all, “Killed my nephew, too.”

Barely noticing how your eyes glazed over with treacherous tears, you bent your knees over his thighs and scooted closer. The only indication that he had acknowledged your presence and wasn’t simply musing out loud was how his palms shifted: from your ankles, up to your calves. He furled his fingers around the meaty part, while his other hand blindly went to look for your neck. He rested his palm against the side of it, let his thumb trace the outline of your jaw.

“Took everything from me, turned me into this,” he muttered, and his brows furrowed while his pupils danced over the chipped paint of the ceiling.

Half of the times you were given the luxury to gaze at the face beneath the mask, you’ve wondered where those scars came from. What kind of heroic deed had he carried out that caused each mark, or what awful act he must have committed that ended up leaving perpetual memories of it, etched in his flesh.

Never, not once, you thought someone else purposefully did it to him. Someone so cruel, so brutal, that made him regrow his skin – like a snake, shedding his frail past to build a thicker armor.

“The army left me to rot, y’know," he whispered, and although you weren't answering (truthfully, you were barely breathing) he knew you were listening.

“But not Price,” his thumb pressed into your cheek, “Not Price, nor Garrick, or you – or Soap.”

It was grimly ironic how such an idiotic callsign could bring this remarkable heaviness on your heart. The silence lingered after he uttered it, either a way to pay respect or a simple inability to continue right afterwards. Because that’s how it felt like.

Months ago, when his body flattened against the concrete of a forgotten underground tunnel, the word Soap met an end. Forever, there will be nothing else to add right after it, if not things you already knew, or heavy silence.

“Can’t lose any more people in this life,” he sighed, “Johnny must be the goddamn last, y’hear?”

You heard.

You craned your neck to the side so your cheek would slot in his palm. Saltwater dampened your skin and moistened his calluses.

“Deal,” you croaked.

He nodded, taking in your word, digesting it. A stupid promise, really. No one can pledge such a thing, but at that moment he cared very little for it. Especially when he felt your lips press against his palm.

“Deal.”

────────────

You bit your thumbnail in silence, then brought it in front of your eyes to look at the red indent around it. A droplet of blood seeped through the crack, and you suckled on it to soothe it.

Ghost abruptly walked in, the door almost flying off its hinges. He closed it behind him but didn’t take a seat. Instead, he rested his back against the shut threshold and folded his arms in front of his chest. A nod of his jaw that shifted the fabric of the balaclava was all he offered.

Now that everyone was in, the moment you had been dreading the most arrived. Albeit you had been planning this for weeks, your stomach still felt like it had swallowed a rock.

You stood up, wonky on your feet. The chair screeched as it slid back.

“I’m retiring.”

If the silence was thick before, now it felt like a boulder.

When volcanos erupt, it’s rare for lava to burst into the air and fall like sizzling rain over the landscape below it. What kills every living creature, it’s the dust that settles afterwards: it's scorching hot, stops life in its tracks.

The moment the words bubbled from your throat like molten lava, the residues puffed out of your crater and deposited on everything surrounding you. The room now felt like a ghost town, with each breathing soul inside turned into a forever statue.

The only thing that moved was Simon, who wrenched the door open and left.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Well, you did see him: Stirling Lines wasn't that big. But he didn't see you. He didn't knock on your door anymore and barely acknowledged your presence if he found you in his vicinity.

It felt pointless to continue your search for attribution if he wasn’t looking for it with you, so with a quick swipe of your arm, you trashed every blueprint, every post-it note, every map, and leaflet. Maybe that would grant Soap some rest as well.

A signature away from your departure, you were lying in your bed, ready to knock yourself out with a few droplets of benzodiazepine. The route to the comatose dreamless night that awaited you, though, was interrupted by a series of raps against your door.

After years in the military, you had developed quite the remarkable hearing – if one was willing to exclude the tinnitus. It meant you could recognize whose footsteps belonged to whom, whose breathing was coming from whose mouth, and which knock pertained to which hands. You knew these knuckles, indeed. Hastily tossing your legs over the edge of the bed, you padded your socked feet against the linoleum of your private quarters. Fingers shakily curled around the doorknob, and you yanked the door open.

It wasn’t like in movies, when after such a long absence time slows down when your eyes touch, no.

It was raw, irate, and spiteful.

Simon placed a thick hand on your shoulder and shoved you aside to barge in. You barely managed to recollect your balance when he slammed the door closed behind him. He looked around the room as if searching for something but not being quite sure of what. Habit, you thought.

Brown eyes that never showed much of the constant turmoil brewing in his head now landed on you sizzling with hatred.

He yanked the mask off. It fell limply to the ground.

His cheeks were flushed, whether from the warmth that had been building behind the cheap fabric of the mask or from hot anger, you couldn’t tell.

"We had a deal.”

It ripped the air from your lungs, vacuumed them clean, and ironed them flat. Your hand flew at the base of your throat, fingers nervously rubbing against your collarbone.

His voice was clouded by an unbreachable fog of anger. You felt as if you were sailing through the ocean on a moonless night, only darkness ahead of you and a single oar in your hands. That’s how it felt to navigate through Simon Riley, even now that you had managed to have a grasp on the person he was.

Your pupils traveled along his person to settle on his face, not jaded like usual but contorted in a scowl. The strain at the junction of his jaw wasn’t a new sight, nor were the taut tendons of his neck.

Sometimes, he’d fall asleep on the couch in your office; your head on his shoulder or cradled in his lap. You’d wake up then, at the sound of teeth grinding. Bruxism in his sleep, jagged sounds that made your hair stand on end. Gingerly, you used to lift your hands and press the tips of your fingers at his jaw hinge, massaging the spot until he stopped.

You wished you could do it now.

"I’m sorry," you replied calmly, trying to quell his spirits and failing spectacularly.

He took hasty steps around the room, pacing like a lunatic. You didn’t have the guts to walk closer to stop him, not yet. What left his lips next, though, made you want to crumble to the floor like a house of cards.

“Leaving ‘cause I told you all tha’?” he snapped, “’cause you can’t handle another broken case to add to your file?”

Fear of approaching him left your body like steam from a cup, indeed that’s what you did. As he relentlessly paced around the cramped space of a military-issued room, you stopped him with a gentle hand on his bicep.

He froze and yanked his arm away. Your palm like blistering coal against his skin.

You knew he was as hulking as they come, you knew he was built like a goddamned brick house, and you knew he towered over you (he towered over most, in your defense). Yet, nothing could have prepared you for the way he languidly turned to face you, looking down. You craned your neck back, otherwise your eyes would only meet his collarbones, peeking through the loose black tee he was wearing – casual comfort clothes he wore to sleep at night, those few times he did.

"Never think that,” you stated, stressing the adverb, “Never think that.”

You swallowed thickly, yet your eyes never wavered, "I – It’s complicated,” but it truly wasn’t.

Your expression softened, but you knew it would do little to smother the flames in his eyes, ready to flatten the entirety of the room.

"After Johnny, I couldn’t anymore,” you whispered, “I can’t, Simon.”

The defeated tone of yours had the bite of a skillfully honed blade. It cracked his ribcage open and stabbed the heart he didn't think he owned anymore.

He murmured then, eyes narrowed, “The fuck you mean you can’t?”

Your mouth curled down and you rolled your lips between your teeth. The tip of your tongue soothed a crack in the skin.

"I'm scared," you wheezed as if the words were difficult to utter. Scared of loss, scared of death, scared of pain, scared of scars, both physical and mental. Scared of the future, scared of your past and his, scared it would haunt you until you'd turn cold and stiff - all the people you've killed and those who survived. Fear, in its unfettered, most gut-wrenching form.

He tongued his cheek, somewhat irritated by the statement. He let the words stick like molasses to his eardrums, muffling each sound. Simon wasn’t a stranger to fear; he walked with it hand-in-hand, a faithful companion that never left his shadow. Yet, he hated that you were feeling it because in his mind you didn't deserve it.

He would have liked to tell you that, but words always failed him when he needed them the most.

"Thought you’d have grown thick skin by now," his voice was low, controlled, and deadly. Meant to hurt, meant not to graze but to cut. It was all he knew, how to hurt – especially when he was aching as well.

You looked up at him through the furrow of your brows, brief anger flashing in your eyes. You set it aside, instead opting to cast your gaze sideways. You cupped your elbows in a sort of self-reassuring hug, thumbs indenting in the flesh of your biceps.

"I wish I did,” you murmured, “Can’t grow that type of skin, it seems.”

He wanted to rebuild the cocoon he had so carefully crafted around you. He wanted to go back being the shield that kept you from any harm. The chainmail that prevented each stab.

He wanted to be that skin you didn’t seem to grow, like a reptile losing its inborn ability to replenish its flesh.

Johnny’s passing took his cold heart and thrashed it. The bond he deepened with you afterwards made it regrow. He wondered, when he'd look at you during those days, as you leeched your brain dry over blueprints and notes, if you were aware of it.

You scared him most delightfully, and he thought whether his heart should reveal itself to be more than a muscle, or a fist covered in blood.

That's why the resentful look in your eyes felt like fresh water on the fire in his chest. How could he let you drain yourself dry over this, when you had been the only light the moment his world blew out each candle.

So, his anger took the backseat, and he sighed. Drawn-out, long, and tortuous.

“Where you goin’, then?” he said, softer.

You felt it, the sorrow of his tone. It made your head swivel in his direction. You blinked, opened your mouth to answer, and hesitated.

“Bury,” you breathed, “Bury St. Edmunds.”

His eyes narrowed in thought: you could almost see the map of England he had cast in front of him reflected in his pupils.

“’s about a four-hour drive from here," his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," you mused, slightly confused by the abrupt switch in his behavior. But you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, were you?

Instead, your hands slid up your arms soothingly, "Found a nice flat there, in the city center.”

You shrugged, trying to act as if it wasn’t a big deal, although Simon could tell it was by the way your eyes twinkled at the mention. Something new, something fresh that promised a new beginning, away from bloodshed and loss, closer to warmth and familiarity.

Closer to home.

"It’s nice. It has a small balcony that faces the cathedral,” you went on, sounding almost bashful, “Was thinkin’ about growing my own herbs? Like basil, and such.”

He didn’t reply or move. Barely breathed.

Just stared.

Stared at the soft expression on your face, at the way your lashes framed your eyes. Stared at the way your lip trembled, ever so slightly, as you blabbered about such ordinary things like balconies, and churches and bloody herbs.

He could already picture you with dirt under your bitten fingernails as you dug into brown, ceramic vases, refusing to wear gardening gloves.

He could hear your bare feet padding against the hardwood floor as you went on to brew your tea. Or the squeaking sound of the cushions of a leather couch as you dropped on it, without a care in the world, holding a book by its spine.

You truly disarmed him in that simplicity – a dress he realized he would’ve loved to see you wear more often.

You seemed unaware of the subtle awe that glinted in his pupils, since you went on to add how the flat had a guest room – although it completely flew over his thick head. What did reach his eardrums, though, was what you said next, "And it has two keys."

He snapped out of his reverie and swallowed.

"Two keys," he echoed.

His willpower felt as thin as an ice slab under the blistering sun. It melted pitifully and turned into a warm puddle in his chest. Nothing could’ve stopped him as his feet marched to you, closing both physical and emotional gaps.

He palmed your cheek and whispered with certain hoarseness in his voice, "Two damn keys.”

Your heart swelled three times its size. You swore you felt the indents left against it by each rib. Leaning your cheek against his hand, like you’d done many nights before, the most subtle of smiles graced your features.

Simon vowed he’d fight tooth and nail to see it grow.

You whispered, then, "If you want, you can just drive those four hours 'n pop in. I'll make you a cuppa, maybe take you for a tour around Bury.”

His eyes softened – crinkles at the corners and brows twitching in the middle.

"Four fuckin' hours for a cuppa and a tour,” he mumbled, "What are you, the Queen of England?"

You huffed a chuckle, pretending to find his sarcasm annoying by adding a roll of your eyes. Truthfully, you’d pay good fucking money to hear it daily.

"I'm gonna need the spare key, though" he whispered, his thumb brushed your cheek reverently.

You lifted your hand to trace his often-cracked knuckles with the pads of your fingers, “Not a spare key – your key.”

Simon swallowed thickly again. He ran his tongue over his teeth, clamping his jaw shut. His gaze hardened, his pupils danced about your face, awfully concentrated, as if he were refraining from doing something.

His sudden silence made your resolve waver. You removed your hand from the back of his, curling your fingers as if you were touching some hot surface. It stayed there, furled in a loose fist in the space between your chests.

“You could come and spend your leaves there," you whispered tentatively, "Leave your things at my flat, so each time you come over they're already there."

It took all your courage to speak, but you knew the die had been cast already. The only thing left for you to do was to simply go for it and take the damage, or leave victorious.

"Until it's full of you,” you released a shaky breath, “Until it's your little flat, too."

Simon’s breath suddenly shortened. He'd never felt at home, not even when he was supposed to have one. He'd come close to it when his brother got clean and managed to build a family for himself, or when the task force was tight-knit, with Johnny chatting his ear off with his incomprehensible Scottish lilt. But it was never his.

This, though.

He’d be damned if he let it slip through the cracks of his fingers.

"Until it's our flat," he breathed.

His other hand reached out as well, and he placed it on your opposite cheek, "Until it’s our little flat.”

You’d be lying if you said those weren’t words you had been reciting in your head ever since you put in your retirement request. Ever since you started looking for a flat that could host two people instead of one.

Indeed, you’d naively thought that the moment they would be uttered (if ever) you would have been ready for them. But you weren't, not at all – they felt like a gut punch.

You had to bite your lip to repress tears that had treacherously made their way into your eyes, now glossy and a little wide. To think that you were able, somehow, to give him some reprieve from a life that seemed to not want him, gave you incommensurable joy.

"Our home," you croaked.

"Our home," he echoed languidly, with a thick voice, as if it hurt to speak, "Our bed. And our bloody balcony on the cathedral, and our sofa, our kitchen, and – “

He paused. Swallowed, seemingly torn. Words seemed to fail him again, but he didn’t let them – not this time. He’d fight through the fear of it all being the umpteenth joke life was taunting him with. Not you, never you – his one good hand in a lifetime of poor draws.

"And every – fucking – thing in between."

You chuckled. It’s wet with tears and disbelief.

Oh, to see him thrive in anticipation for something, instead of dreading what life has in store for him.

Your hand left the gentle grip it had on his knuckles, and you cupped his face as well – mimicking how he was holding yours.

"Every," you whispered, "Bloody, fucking thing," and nudged your nose with his, "In between."

Your lips landed on his instantly.

It was stupidly clumsy at first because you were both torn in half between what felt good and what was right. His tongue slipped between your lips as soon as you parted them for air; your teeth clacked together. You chuckled against his lips; he drank it like an oasis. His life parched of what you could give him, what you were giving him.

It took him a moment to get used to the sensation, to adjust to you. But when he finally did, he kissed you back ravenously, nothing shy from desperate. He craved your touch so fiercely. A push and pull of wandering hands, tangled in your hair and yours in his.

You were finally back where he wanted you, in the cocoon he crafted just for you, made with his flesh. He held you to his chest as if his ribcage could open and like bony fingers wrap around you and keep you safe.

He placed his foot between your legs, pushing them open. You complied when he gently nudged your knee so you’d fall back against the mattress.

Eventually, your lips parted, yielding to his, to a shared breath.

You were positively flushed, breathless, and limp in his grasp. He thought he'd never seen anything this breathtaking.

You smiled, all teeth and creases at the corners of your eyes, cheeks tipped pink as they pushed against your eyes – little crescents he’d look at for days on end.

Simon was left a little dumbfounded, though, when you squirmed under his weight to extend an arm. He followed it with his eyes and saw your hand struggling to fumble with the drawer of your nightstand. You pulled out a key and held it in the space between your faces. 

"Your key," you whispered bashfully, as if unaware that the mere sight sent Simon's heart into arrhythmia.

You placed a soft peck to his lips, "To our home."

Simon let out a staggered exhale. He wrapped his fingers around the key, closed his fist around it.

A symbol of a new beginning, one that Simon finally didn’t dread. Something good rippling through his life like fresh water, even amidst the mud of shared grief and loss.

We're good people,

And we both deserve peace.

"To our home," he whispered back, "To our home."

And let breath be air, 

And love the things I know might disappear.

And the last light of the sun

I let it slow me down

I'll crawl where everybody runs.

[shisasan]

Picking a single favourite quote might be an impossible task so which quote (or quotes) do you seem to come back to more often than others?

Picking a single favorite quote might truly be an impossible task because there are so many brilliant writers out there whose words have deeply influenced my life. These extraordinary souls have breathed new life into me when I was ready to give up on everything. Without any particular order, these quotes are not intended to enlighten or educate anyone but offer a brief insight into the words I turn to for comfort, inspiration, or understanding when I'm not at my highest self.

I'll begin with my most dearest Hermann Hesse, whom I like to call my Alpha and Omega. He transformed my life from a young age, opening mysterious portals to other worlds and making me feel deeply understood, embraced, with a true sense of belonging. His writing not only awakened my mind to new realms of thought and emotion but also offered immense solace and companionship through his exploration of the human spirit:

"A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal, and sterile life."

"I have always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions."

"We have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness."

Rainer Maria Rilke, a beautiful and tender infinite soul, whose writings deeply resonate with the complexities of the human condition and the relentless quest for understanding:

"I am dark, I am forest."

"I grow strong in the beauty you behold. And with the silence of stars, I enfold your cities made by time."

"Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

Novalis, who occupies a cherished place in my heart for his poetic and deeply insightful exploration of life and love.

"We are eternal because we love each other."

"I often feel, and ever more deeply I realize, that fate and character are the same conception."

"Sometimes with the most intense pain a paralysis of sensibility occurs. The soul disintegrates—hence the deadly frost—the free power of the mind—the shattering, ceaseless wit of this kind of despair. There is no inclination for anything anymore—the person is alone, like a baleful power—as he has no connection with the rest of the world he consumes himself gradually—and in accordance with his own principle he is—misanthropic and misotheos."

Egon Schiele, whose intense and raw portrayal of human emotion and beauty has deeply moved me, revealing the unfiltered essence of the human experience.

"I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds. I want to gaze with astonishment at moldy garden fences, I want to experience them all, to hear young birch plantations and trembling leaves, to see light and sun, enjoy wet, green-blue valleys in the evening, sense goldfish glinting, see white clouds building up in the sky, to speak to flowers. I want to look intently at grasses and pink people, old venerable churches, to know what little cathedrals say, to run without stopping along curving meadowy slopes across vast plains, kiss the earth and smell soft warm marshland flowers. And then I shall shape things so beautifully: fields of colour…"

Anaïs Nin, a force of nature and embodiment of feminine strength, whose deep exploration of inner life and boundless creativity has left an indelible impression on me. Her work continues to inspire and challenge me to embrace the fullness of my inner world:

"She was colour, brilliance, strangeness."

"I have the power to multiply myself. I am not one woman."

"Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous."

"I can only connect deeply, or not at all."

Carl Gustav Jung, one of the most brilliant psychiatrists, psychologists, psychotherapists, and empiricists in history. Jung's exploration of the collective unconscious and shadow self has offered me invaluable tools for self-awareness and personal development. His legacy continues to inspire and guide those seeking to understand the depths of the mind and the path to self-discovery.

"A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them. As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being. Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves."

"People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own souls. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious."

"The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the maddening genius with profound understanding of human nature and morality:

"If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself."

"People speak sometimes about the 'bestial' cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."

"People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones."

"I exist. In thousands of agonies—I exist."

"If there is no God, everything is permitted."

Virginia Woolf, a literary giant whose deep introspection and exploration of the human condition have left an indelible mark:

"No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself."

"What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one."

"I want to raise up the magic world all around me and live strongly and quietly there."

"Reality? Reality has never been enough for me."

Mikhail Bulgakov, a masterful writer and playwright, another troubled soul who faced censorship and persecution in his lifetime, with immense talent and a deep soul, fascinated me with his imaginary worlds that blend reality with fantastical elements, feeling both familiar and boundlessly expansive:

"But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light?"

"Kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, no, terror is useless, whatever its colour – white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system."

"Everything passes away - suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence. The sword will pass away too, but the stars will remain when the shadows of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the Earth. There is no man who does not know that. Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars? Why?"

"There are no evil people in the world, only unhappiness disguised as evil."

And then there is indispensable Franz Kafka. Although I have shifted away from his writing in recent years and no longer resonate with it as much, he was a dear friend and frequent company during my darkest, loneliest, and most challenging times. His work, full of raw honesty and insight, offered a kind of companionship that felt both intimate and enduring:

"The way he can risk everything and risks nothing, because there is nothing but truth in him already, a truth that even in the face of the contradictory impressions of the moment will justify itself as such when the crucial time arrives. The calm self-possession. The slow pace that neglects nothing. The immediate readiness, when it is needed, not sooner, for long in advance he sees everything that is coming."

"I, for the most part silent, had nothing to say; among such people the war doesn’t call forth in me the slightest opinion worth expressing."

"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet." Of course, there are many more authors who deserve to be on this list, but I chose these because they have touched my life in ways that are both unique and deeply personal. I hope that at least some of you will read to the end and find a bit of inspiration and insight in these quotes, just as they have given me. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. 🌹

[fox-guardian]

I have thoughts and since I keep forgetting to draw it, I will write it out

✨️ fashion headcanons for the oiar crew ✨️

Alice (I've already drawn her but I'm adding it here again anyway):

General thoughts: she enjoys layers when possible, fits the "tiny top large bottoms" silhouette most often in her outfits, and tries to throw plaid/flannel into her outfits in some way as often as possible. It's a minor obsession. Jewelry-wise she's typically a silver girlie but is far from against mixing metals and likes wearing piercings with colorful plating

the oiar likely has a pretty solid dress code and I highly doubt she follows it, especially after having been there for nearly a decade

At work I think she keeps it relatively simple. Comfy flannel shirts and/or t-shirts, hoodie if she's cold, and maxi skirts or jeans. Sneakers. It's nothing super fun (the workplace doesn't deserve her at her most fabulous) but it's comfy

Jewelry is also kept simple, studs and plain rings for her ears (snakebites are a given). She also wears her fav bracelets

Outside of work she gets sillayyyy. Bit chunky jewelry, novelty pieces. More fun frilly skirts, some shorter ones. Her nicer outside-of-work looks are somewhere between "hippie" and "that one type of iconic fashionable older woman" she also wears makeup more often Outside of work

Concert attire varies but she gets more grungy with ripped/shredded pieces and band tees (obviously) and sluts it up with shorter skirts/shorts and cropped shirts

Fancy clothes are as 80s as possible. This woman owns multiple shoulder-padded button downs

Pajamas are usually basic sets (often mismatched) or just like. Old t shirt and underwear.

Sam:

General thoughts: priorities comfort and tries to stay comfy as much as possible. You have never felt a wardrobe more soft overall. He wears plain earrings and the occasional friendship bracelet, otherwise not much jewelry I also think he wears as little sock as possible (unless it's funny) (alice got on him for wearing socks with sandals one time back in uni and that's all he wore in front of her for months)

Idk what the exact dress code for the oiar would be, but assume he adheres as much as possible

Prefers soft cotton mocknecks/turtlenecks to crisp button downs, with a nice cardigan instead of a blazer. Trousers are sensible, but soft. He probably irons them

Casual outfits are. Very casual. Sweatpants and sweatshirts/pullovers.

Nicer outside of work outfits aren't very different from work outfits. Date nights might require jewelry (rings, maybe a chain or two). I think he's a gold guy

He does have like one nice suit for special occasions but he suffers through the stiff fabric

Pajamas are button-up sets or literally just his underwear.

Gwen:

General thoughts: this woman is so monochromatic to me. She's very "dark mode basic" if that makes sense. She's not trendy but her looks are always solid. Owns a lot of black. Most outfits are fitted and snug. Wears minimal jewelry and always silver (even though gold would look so good) has a secret love of nice vintage pieces

Work looks are professional and crisp. Pencil skirts, button downs, and a sensible sweater typically (its cold) and plan heels/booties. After having to flee from ink5oul her work wardrobe has graduated to Trousers And Flats For Booking It. Her "girlboss" outfit is a matching blazer/trouser combo

Casual outfits are still well put together. Enjoys miniskirts and tights (if she's feeling bold she'll wear tights with a pattern) and off-the-shoulder tops. Wears basic chokers and slightly more jewelry overall. If she's feeling balls to the walls INSANE she might wear a dark red lip.

She doesn't really have a nicer vs comfy casual wardrobe, so all that's left is special occasion stuff. A nice dress for get togethers with "friends". An especially nice vintage coat she snagged. These pieces might have color other than gray maybe.

Pajamas. Hm. I think she would either have simple button down sets or frilly nightgowns. She definitely dreams of having a nightgown fit for touring a haunted castle I think

Celia:

General thoughts: butch <3 she has learned she really likes the look and feel of a more masculine shape and fit to her clothes after getting a hard reset on her identity. She doesnt wear a lot of jewelry outside her ear and facial piercings, and it is all gold, and she also has snakebites but prefers studs (slightly less enticing for babies to grab than hoops)

Work outfits are nice. Vests and trousers, with the occasional cardigan if it's cold.

Casual outfits are jeans and nice fitted t-shirts. A denim jacket perhaps. I also think she works out in some capacity so there's shorts and muscle tanks also (no bras ever, shits shwangin)

Nicer outside of work stuff.... I don't think she owns any special occasion things right now?? She simply would not have an occasion/reason to have them yet maybe. Maybe she gets a fancy vest for date night idk. She'd probably signify This Is A Special Occasion with nice bracelets and rings. Maybe a neck chain.

Pajamas are usually t-shirts and lounge bottoms/comfy shorts. She is forced to be fully dressed lest she teleport in her sleep while half/fully naked

Lena:

General thoughts: this is already so difficult. I think she would dress very practically. No jewelry unless you count her glasses chain, no skirts, and only very short heels/flats. She keeps proper walking shoes with her if need be.

Work fits. She has a whole power suit in my brain that's just a matching white blazer and trousers, and then the red button down. The white is the biggest power move. I think she has a few of these in different colors (black and iron grey) but the white one is the main one.

Casual.... I don't even know man. Probably also practical over pretty. Probably only wears men's pants due to the pockets. Probably owns a very practical leather jacket. Whatever she wears, she does numbers at the lesbian bars

Nicer out of work clothes.... probably not much different than her work clothes. She may tolerate a dress if she needs to attend a wedding.

Pajamas: she either has the button up sets. Wears an old t-shirt and bottoms from a bygone era of her life and both are full of holes. Or she sleeps butt ass naked with a gun in her hand.

Colin:

General thoughts: office dress code can kiss his ass. He's comfortable but practical, and I think he enjoys graphic tees. He has silver earrings and maybe a secret body piercing but doesn't wear anything else visible. He doesn't really bother with buying new jewelry but wouldn't care about mixing metals if he did.

He wears jeans to work, graphic tees, and a button down so he can call it business casual. Sneakers also. Programmer socks (gift from alice) The jeans are ripped (partially from crawling on his knees dealing with the computers so often) and he patched them up. I think he's big on mending. Also sews his name into items he may leave unattended (thank you merch drop for this idea)

Casual isn't much different. Maybe no button down, maybe he keeps it for flair. At home he wears pants/trousers as little as possible I think. The programmer socks stay on tho.

Nicer outside of work stuff. He owns like one suit.

Pajamas: butt ass naked. If he's cold he just gets more blankets.

Teddy:

General thoughts: thank you alice for pointing out that teddy wears shades of pink im gonna eat this. I also think he wears gold jewelry and those would look so nice together so I am Extra Eating This. Beyond this I don't have toooo many thoughts? I think he enjoys fashion. Knows what different cuts of items will do for him. He likes piecing together a solid Fit even if it's simple.

Work fits include button downs and sweaters, with the classic argyle vest. I think he would enjoy a fun pattern.

Casual fits are practical but stylish, and I think he considers himself legally required to buy anything with Teddy bears on it that fits him. I think he wears light jewelry even on more casual days, he likes to sparkle a bit.

Nicer out of work fits. I think he owns a couple shiny button downs. Does it up with the gold jewelry, chains, rings, a nice watch, the woiks. He has at least one funky patterned pair of pants.

Pajamas: usually sticks to old tshirts and comfy bottoms, has like one button up set that's Christmas themed (twas a gift) that he only wears that time of year, and one (1) legally mandated teddy bear onesie.

those are the vibes. They are subject to change as we learn more ofc but here they are <3

[chaosheadspace]

#30 for the smooch prompts, you know which pairing ❤️❤️❤️

Hi, thank you for sending in a prompt! One serving of Dreamling coming right up! 30 is "for comfort", and it's been just a liiitle bit inspired by my recent short vacation, lol. I hope this hits the spot, enjoy!

The storm outside whips rain against the windows of Dream's two bedroom flat, a haven of buttery light and radiator warmth and steaming tea amidst raging, salt-heavy air.

I miss you terribly, Dream types into his phone, hesitating to send, but then he presses the button anyway. Dream sighs. He says this too often, but he too often feels it. It's not ideal, being in a long distance relationship, but the fact remains that research about maritime biology is best done in proximity to the sea.

Hob's job, likewise, sadly requires him to stay in proximity to the University for good chunks of the year. When engrossed in his work, Dream does not mind, does not notice. But when he is here, at home, trees shaking in the seaside wind, it almost rends him apart. He misses so fiercely, so completely that it hurts like a wound.

They see each other two, maybe three times a year when the stars and their schedules align and it is always the best feeling imaginable and at the same time the worst, because Dream cannot have this every day, cannot even have this most days. He would very much like for Hob to be more than a sometimes, and yes, phone calls and video chats come close, but every photo Hob sends, every cheerful story he recounts for Dream comes with a small pang in Dream's chest that he wasn't able to be part of it, wasn't able to be there.

They have been together for three years now, and the only thing that hurts Dream more than physically being apart from Hob is the thought of Hob not being in his life at all, and so they make do with what they can manage. Hob has brought so much peace, so much ease and comfort into his life that Dream just has to hold onto him, no matter the cost.

Hob still hasn't answered his text like Dream's heart demands he do, while his brain sensibly chimes in that it has only been a few minutes, that Hob has things to do, that Hob always answers. Dream looks out the window, the late hour painting the trees and dunes in shadows and darkness, foggy through the rain, weeping like his soul.

Dream's phone plings.

“I've got something for that,” Hob's text reads.

Then there's a knock at the door. Dream goes, puzzled due to the late hour, exasperated due to the interruption.

In front of his door, dripping on the carpet there's Hob, windswept, rain-drenched, wet index finger leaving marks on his lit-up phone screen.

“Hob?!”

Hob looks up in an instant with a smile. “Hey darling,” he says, “surprise!”

“It is after ten,” Dream says, still shocked, stepping aside to let Hob in.

“There was no bus,” Hob tells him as he steps inside, zipping down his jacket. “Had to walk from the station.”

Dream leans into the small bathroom to grab a towel for Hob's hair. “But what are you doing here?”

“D’you want me to leave again?” Hob chuckles from under the towel.

“No!” Grabbing his waist, Dream pulls him close, uncaring about Hob's trousers that are drenched from the knee down.

“Don't worry,” Hob emerges from the terry. “Let me just get my shoes and pants and I'll tell you.”

Dream makes them tea, just like Hob likes it, while Hob sits on his couch under a blanket in his pullover and boxers. He's borrowed warm socks from Dream, but there's no way he can squeeze himself in one of his trousers.

Dream sits down next to him, offering him a steaming mug and taking one for himself. Hob brings warmth everywhere he goes, and so Dream feels his flat is now cozy rather than lonely, their own personal island in the storm.

After taking a sip, Hob sighs with contentment, fingers curled around the mug to heat them.

“I have an interview tomorrow,” he says after a pause. “They only told me this morning, and I didn't want you to fuss with preparations when I can just go grocery shopping for us after the appointment.”

“An interview,” Dream says slowly, feigning ignorance, not daring to let this much hope into his heart yet, not when he still might have misunderstood.

“A job interview, at the University one town over. As soon as I saw the ad I knew I had to,” Hob smiles.

“So you might—” Dream says, unable to speak further, happiness splitting open his entire being, hopeful, alight.

“I might,” Hob agrees. “So you—”

Dream kisses him.

With a hum, Hob blindly extends one arm to put his tea on the table and then draws Dream in, leaning back into the sofa. The kiss is languid, unhurried, because Dream now knows that he might have many, many more, maybe even all of them. That he might have Hob for longer than a few days at a time.

“We are going to look at flats,” he says as soon as they resurface.

“I still have to get the job,” Hob says.

“That is irrelevant.” Dream turns a little tip snuggle up against his side, pulling out his phone. “We do not have to message anyone right now, but we will have a look.”

“Right now?” Hob pulls at the blanket, almost unseating Dream again, before getting it free and draping it over both of their legs.

“Well, until you fall asleep on my couch, at least.” Despite being less clothed, Hob is warm against him, radiating comfort through Dream's own clothes, and he shuffles closer, hooking his legs over Hob's.

“Night owl,” Hob says fondly. “Can we at least relocate to your bed, soon?”

“Only in deference to your age,” Dream says with a sideways glance, already pulling up a website. “I do not want you to damage your back permanently.”

“Oi, I'm four years younger than you!” Hob lightly smacks Dream with one of the small sofa pillows.

“Only on paper.”

“Yeah, well, we can't all win the genetic lottery, but you make it sound like you'll be pushing me around in a wheelchair in ten years time.” He briefly presses his nose against Dream's hair and tightens the arm around Dream's shoulders in a short hug, taking a deep breath.

“Only if you keep up your usual cheek. Do you suppose we could be content with three rooms or do we need a fourth for a library?” Dream asks.

“Library, definitely,” Hob says earnestly, switching from banter to practicality with ease.

Dream kisses him again, for good measure. Because they're both greedy at heart, ravenous, and the more of Hob he gets, the more he wants. He's not sure if even a hundred years would be enough to sate this particular longing, but he will just have to try.

Send me a kissy prompt or read the other ones here

[heavencanbeaprisontoo]

Strip Me to My Bones

Slowburn!Tommy x autistic!fem!reader Prologue: An Odd Woman

Summary: Tommy meets you in 1919, the beginning that feels like an ending in hindsight. Among betting men there is a vibrant culture of superstition and mysticism. It was in this industry you found your trade as a “psychic,” and met a man with a Red Right Hand.

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, contextual use of g-slur, Canon-typical violence, author is autistic, spoilers for series one possibly, slow burn, Tommy is shallow and confused at first. WC: 1.6k

1919 was an odd year for Mr. Shelby. His eyes were still bright, the boy who died in the tunnels still clung to his ankles as he stalked the roads of Birmingham. In those days, Tommy was still starving for money. For any sort of gain in power. He still slept on an old mattress with his drug of choice within reach. He still delivered his horses to mystics and magicians to psych out the competitors of the next day’s race. It was this Thomas Shelby who brought himself to the door of your flat. You, the newest little medium in Small Heath.

He had heard many things about you. How you seemed to just “know,” things. You weren’t gypsy, but there were whispers that you could see inside hearts and minds like no other. For a reasonable fee, you would read a person like a book tell them the next chapter of their life without hesitation. He was not normally the sort to seek your kind out. Thomas Shelby could see ahead just fine without the guide of psychic, genuine or charlatan in nature. Until, of course, a crate of guns came into his possession and an Irish woman sang to him from atop a table. Even the devil needs direction, sometimes. 

That morning, the devil had sought you out.

Your flat looked the same as any other. There were green vines and a purple curtain blocking his view inside your window. Plain bricks on the outside. Gutter hanging off slightly from your roof. Thinking it best to just get it all over with, he knocked. You answered. And he froze.

When he first saw you, there was nothing extraordinary about you. You didn't wear a silk turban or line your eyes with black to convince your customers of some supernatural gift. You were just a young woman dressed comfortably in her little flat. A long, thick robe suited for the winter chill was tied around your body and sensible slippers on your feet. Nothing overly frilly or fanciful. Tommy would almost call your presentation "dowdy." However, what had made him freeze were your eyes. He knows the power of his own stare. Your stare was something truly unique. It was something he couldn’t quite put into words. The color of your eyes was not exceptional, nor the size of your eyes or their shape. There was a force behind the stare that had him fixed to the spot. The sound of your voice was all that put him back into the world.

“Can I help you?” your tone is flat, but he can’t decide of its intentional.

Tommy takes a glance from the corner of his eye to ensure there are no onlookers. The roads are empty. He looks into your eyes once more and says, “You see the future, I hear.”

“I see people, for a price. Not the future. Nobody can do that. It’s rather early, so I hope you’ve got money in that big coat,” you step aside to let him inside. He almost hesitates. Second thoughts are not something Tommy likes to entertain. To falter, to ruminate, is to dance at the edge of cowardice. Tommy pushes onward and crosses the threshold of your home. Thus begins the start of a most unusual affair.

The lighting was dim in your little flat, and on the walls were dozens of shadowboxes were every assortment of insect on display. In fact, nearly everything in your home appeared to be some sort of collection. Orderly in their presentation but crowded due to lack of space. All the furniture looked inherited rather than new, but that was typical. There was the scent of lavender and cedar in the air. As he passed by two sticks of incense burning on the mantle of your fireplace, he found the origin of the fragrance. 

‘No trace of any other resident in the home. No husband. How modern’, he thought. As he made his observations, Tommy was painfully aware of your eyes on his back. You guided him silently to a small room with two sofas facing each other. He sat opposite to you, not bothering to remove his cap. As you sit across from him, your eyes are everywhere but him. Roving about the room as you tap your thumb to the tip of each finger on your hand. By the way you were sitting, someone just entering the room might assume you were a guest by how stiff your posture was. Back completely straight, both feet firmly planted on the floor. This was your home, your time, and Tommy looked more at ease sitting on your own furniture. 

“I normally have tea prepared, but you don’t drink tea anyway, so I won’t bother with the kettle this time,” you say as your bottom hits the sofa cushion. He hears you. He hears you make a correct assumption about him, but he does not show his acknowledgement. 

Tommy threads his fingers together on his lap, “They say you can see inside of people, tell them things about them that even they don’t know.”

Blinking owlishly at him you reply, “My, that’s a lovely review of my services! Should put that on a sign outside my doorway. Though I would rather know why you came to see me, Mr. Shelby. You are Mr. Shelby yes?”

“That I am,” he nearly laughs, “and I am not entirely sure why I came to see you either.”

Your eyes snap onto his own and again he feels caught off guard by it. Slowly, you lean forward, “It’s not like you to need help. You avoid seeking it. Something has happened to you that has never happened before, you do not know how to carry on because you cannot fall back on learned tactics to navigate the storm.”

He says nothing. Tommy finds you don’t require his input to carry on speaking as you tilt your head and continue. As you speak, you never break eye contact. Your gaze is one that leaves him feeling stripped to the bone. Flesh peeled back and pinned so that you may inspect him further with an objective, curious eye, "One of the walking wounded, soldier come home from war. You don't sleep well. None of you do. But, you hide it better than most."

"Quite the assumption," he deadpanned.

You carry on as if not hearing him, “A Catholic without Christ. Guilty but without remorse. You only follow yourself and yet you have lost faith within. So, you act out of your own character to try to find a solution to a problem you’ve made yourself. A problem with solutions you can't commit to.”

Tommy’s heart is beating faster in his chest. The plain-faced woman who greeted him at the door has been replaced. Your face seems to change, the sir around you shifting. There is a thrill in being seen. A thrill, but also annoyance. “And what would you do to solve such a problem?”

“It wouldn’t help you to know what anyone else would do. Even if my way was best, you wouldn’t obey it. Obedience is not something you do willingly,” there’s a smile in your eyes that makes his hands tighten around each other. “Is your greatest problem above, below, or beside you?”

His face remains stoic as he mulls over your odd question. He thinks of those beneath him, the factory workers who riot and cause him distraction. Beside him, his brothers in arms and brothers by blood. Ada. Freddie…. Grace. And then he thinks of Campbell and Kimber. “Above me, always.”

You nod, “There was no need for you to come see me. You know the answer to the question before you asked it. The greatest woe for you is that there are matters of the heart keeping you from stabbing upwards to the enemies who stand over you. You aren’t used to having that sort of obstacle... You need to decide what you want more and act accordingly. To have both things will end poorly, but I can't stop you. Nobody can but you.”

For a moment, he feels a sense of relief. It had been many years since the words of a stranger had done that to him. This feeling was overtaken by an immediate realization. He had come to you under the assumption that you were gifted by second-sight. Yet… You had no cards, no crystals, did not say a prayer or even a hymn in a nonsense language.

“You’re no medium,” he states it as fact. Not as a question or accusation. Though, he watches to see how you take it. Tommy likes to see how people respond to being caught, he finds it to be the most revealing time for most. For the third or fourth time since he laid eyes on you, you defied expectation.

With a slow shrug you say, “I’ve never made the claim that I was one. Everyone started saying so one day and I decided not to correct them. I just read people.”

‘What an odd woman,’ Tommy leaned back in his seat. Face still as stone. As he looked at you, your posture returned to that stiff, nearly-too-straight, position from before. He could see why the average man would see you as something beyond the natural. Ordinary to otherworldly. An odd woman indeed. You stand from your couch with a small, crooked smile, “That’ll be ten quid, Mr. Shelby, a discount for a first-time reading. It'll be thirteen for the next time.”

He pushed the money into your hands and said, "Won't be a next time." You gave him no audible response as you walked him to your door and released him from the dreamworld your home had trapped him in. Tommy did not look back as he walked three paces from your door and lit a cigarette. No one had seen him and he had a feeling you wouldn't share his visit with others.

Tommy pushed you from his mind to focus on what may come next.

The rest of the day moved quickly and slowly all at once after he left your little flat. He swore to himself that he would never go back. Swore that he hated every instant spent in your dark home that smelled of lavender and cedar. Swore that he despised the way you peeled back his skin with that glare so sharp. No, he couldn't feel them on him. Not at all.

[makeyoumine69]

Neglected

Pairing: Patrick Bateman x fem!OC; CW: SMUT, FFM (kinda), established relationship, hurt/comfort, angst, breeding kink. Links: [MASTERLIST]; Song Rec: Jordin Sparks - S.O.S. (Let The Music Play); A/N: Sorry I've been away for so long, my gaming hangover is hitting hard, so I decided to post one of my drafts I'm writing for myself with my OC named April. Also, don't mind me using x reader tags since x OC tags seem to be dead. Anyway, ignore it if it's not your stuff. Love you all!

Panting, April tugged at the tie that bound her hands and wouldn't let her move. "Stop...please...Bateman...don't do this...not like this!"

But Patrick just chuckled and spread her legs, almost ripping her panties off and thrusting into her dripping slit in one swift stroke.

"Fuck," he growled, pulling out completely and then thrusting in again, longing for screams. "My little fairy... has such a tight pussy..."

The woman moaned loudly in response, so Bateman had to stick his finger in her mouth to shut her up and allow her to use it as a pacifier. Just as Patrick was about to lie on top of her and pin her to the bed, the door to their yacht suit swung open and Vanessa, his uncle's girlfriend by the way, stepped inside.

"Oh... what a scene," she murmured, putting a finger to her mouth, obviously enjoying the sight. "Mhmm... can I join you?"

Almost instantly, April pulled away from Patrick as she tried to cover herself, expecting her husband to tell Vanessa to go away, but instead he stopped in his tracks and examined the blonde with undisguised interest.

"I'm not surprised...I can tell you've been thinking about this all evening," he crooned, ignoring the way April writhed beneath him. "Uncle Vic doesn't satisfy you quietly enough?"

Vanessa leaned against the door. "April's such a lucky girl," she snapped, twirling a stray curl around her manicured finger. "So lucky that she can't even understand it...and that means she doesn't deserve you."

"Oh... really?" Patrick asked mockingly before he put his big palm over April's mouth to silence her objections. "You think you can do better?"

Wiggling like she was lying on burning coals, April was about to bite Patrick's finger, but then the man plunged his thumb into her mouth again, a gesture that was something very personal and intimate for both of them. Confused, she blinked several times and looked at him - the confidence he radiated was breathtaking - and she couldn't help but stop fighting him when his lips curled in a way that he was about to blow her a kiss.

"Let me handle this, honey." He whispered so only April could hear. "And then we can continue."

Meanwhile, Vanessa tapped her foot impatiently, the red nails of her hand almost scratching the wooden door. Such insolence only spurred Bateman to prolong the pause, as he relished the way he could keep women on the edge of their nerves.

"You know what," the man began, his face grimacing in disgust. "You can take your flat ass and get out of here right now and maybe... just maybe... I won't tell my uncle about this episode." 

Vanessa froze in shock, the gleam in her big green eyes fading. "Excuse me? What...what did you just say?"

Scowling, Bateman took a deep breath, fighting the urge to unleash his fury on this pathetic bitch. "I said...if you don't leave right now...I'm going to fucking kill you!" Patrick almost screamed and before he could get up from the bed, the woman was gone.

Groaning in annoyance, the man went to the door and closed it, then returned to April, who was lying on the bed crying.

"You...you really sent her away?" She asked in disbelief. "I thought...I thought you would allow her to join us."

Bateman stroked her cheek before kissing her lips. "What a bullshit," he chuckled softly, drawing an invisible line along her bound forearm, "I need you, April...only you," he purred, licking her lips and nibbling at them barely sensibly. "Now...I want you to be...my obedient little fairy...would you be good for me...would you do anything for me?"

April gasped, his words stirring something strange in her, something she thought was impossible for her to feel, "Yes...sir...I would." 

"Good girl," Patrick murmured, his voice a gravelly purr as his fingers traced the tears on her cheeks before sliding down her trembling body. "That's what I like to hear." He cupped her chin gently, lifting her face to meet his gaze. "I'm all yours. Always remember that."

Patrick's touch became more aggressive as he repositioned himself between her legs. His cock, still slick from earlier, found its way back into April's tight warmth with brutal ease. 

Biting her lower lip, the woman bucked her thighs up from the fullness he gave her without mercy. "Pat-Patrick...a-awww..." her voice cracked and she almost clawed at her skin, trying to free her hands. "Sir...s-sir...it's so deep..."

Bateman rolled his hips against hers, pinning her under his heavy frame as he slammed into her, the slap echoing off the walls of her yacht suit. This woman, moaning directly into his ear, was his everything in every possible way, and if he were to breed her, she would be irrevocably bound to him. His love, his obsession, his greatest sin.

"No one else...can make you feel the way I do..." he growled low against her neck, emphasizing each word with a hard thrust that made her gasp in response. "You belonged to me..." he reassured her in that cold, yet soothing tone, filled with twisted satisfaction. "You're all I want!"

As Patrick shifted their positions so that they were now on their sides, he drove deeper into April's yielding form, fucking her sideways. Then he slipped a hand between her legs to vigorously stimulate her clit as he continued his relentless pace, her body writhing with conflicting sensations - as embarrassment turned to arousal - creating an unsettling yet unmistakable chemistry.

"I'mma  c-cum..." April cried out, leaning back against his massive chest, tensed and covered in sweat. "I...f-fuck...I'm cumming!"

"Yeah...give it to me," Patrick spurred her on, thrusting even faster into her wet cunt, their mixed fluids spilling out with a wet, shameless sound. "Let it go...let it go like a good girl you are..."

His soft praise added to the fire of their passion, causing her body to quiver, but as he nibbled at her earlobe, she lost it completely as her orgasm washed over her like a tidal wave, crashing everything in its path. The tightness of her inner, velvety walls around his pulsating dick was too much to handle, though Bateman did his best to last longer, wanting to fuck out every little shock of her climax.

"God...you're so perfect," he squeezed her breast through the damp material of her dress. "You're gonna give me a child...I fucking swear..." Bateman whispered into her ear as he choked on his breath, almost reaching his peak. "Remember...my word..."

Closing his eyes, the man snuggled up to her with tremendous force, nearly shattering her bones as he rode out his own release, spurting his warm seed deep into her womb, making sure not a drop was wasted. April could feel every vein on his dick throbbing inside her, or it was just her clouded mind, for she couldn't even remember where she was.

He owned her, on every level and even beyond.

Spent and exhausted, they both collapsed on their backs, panting and gasping for air. Only after a few minutes did the man remember his tie wrapped around her wrists, and with an almost genuine tenderness, he released her hands and kissed them one by one. With her eyes closed, April just sighed and lay on his chest, seeking protection and he was only too willing to give it to her. 

His fairy, so small, so helpless. Intoxicating.

As they lay there for a while, Bateman looked up at the ceiling, listened to the waves crashing outside the yacht and absentmindedly painted little circles on his wife's bare back, who didn't even realize she was drifting.

But after almost a few minutes, April woke up lying on Patrick's solid chest, his breathing steady, but somehow she could tell that he was not asleep. "Patrick?"

Bateman shifted, leaned in closer and kissed the top of her head. "Yes, dear?"

"Do you remember our wedding?" April asked, looking up at him. "Are you...are you happy you married me?"

"Of course I remember our wedding, April," he replied softly, his voice like silk over steel. "It was a grand affair...fitting for us."

Her question about happiness made him pause. His happiness didn't conform to conventional notions, but April didn't need to hear that truth. Instead, he leaned into the persona she needed.

"I wouldn't have married you if I weren't sure you were the one," he continued, sincerity in his tone. "Our lives aren't perfect, but we fit together in ways others can't understand." His fingers lightly traced her cheek, a gesture that teetered between tenderness and possessiveness. "We're bound together... by more than just marriage," Patrick whispered darkly against her forehead. "You complete me."

As April clung to him, seeking comfort in these spoken reassurances, Patrick felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. Manipulating love into dominance was an art he had mastered to perfection.

"I guess... I can say the same about you." The woman murmured and yawned, hugging him tighter.

Resting his chin on her head as if offering comfort, Patrick allowed one more phrase to slip from his lips, almost tenderly. "You make me who I am...Now rest, tomorrow we go riding."

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

[aziraphales-library]

Hellooo,

Thank you for everything you're doing for this fandom <3

I wanted to ask if you might have any recommendations in which either Crowley or Aziraphale are hurt/injured and trying to hide it from the other (with the other finding out eventually and taking care of them)?

Thank you, again, for all the work you guys are putting into this

Have a lovely day/night!

Hi! Here are some fics where one of them hides an injury from the other...

My Feelings Beneath by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

After a run-in with an angry human, Crowley tries to hide his injuries from Aziraphale. It doesn’t take Aziraphale long to notice that something is wrong.

I may bear my evils alone by Cuppa_Rosie_Lee (M)

Crowley returns from a particularly violent review in Hell. Broken and battered, he just about manages to get himself back to his flat alone, but when Aziraphale calls Crowley can't hide how bad it is any more. Aziraphale immediately worries and insists on coming over to take care of him. Hurt/comfort with a calm and fluffy ending. CW: implied violence, and graphic descriptions of internal injury. Title taken from Twelfth Night II i

The Day that Icarus didn't Burn by theRavenMuse (T)

Crowley gets himself into a spot of trouble. It's a good thing that he has a patient angel determined to help him. AKA Crowley has grown accustomed to hiding his pain for six millennia and Aziraphale finally convinces him that it's safe to share.

There's no healing the wound by meridian_rose (T)

Crowley gets hurt but when he can't heal the wound he doesn't do the sensible thing and tell Aziraphale. Instead he hides the truth, tries to fix it himself, and when it looks like the wound might be fatal drags Anathema into the situation. When Aziraphale does find out he's furious as only a angel at risk of losing his beloved demon can be.

I'll Think About Tomorrow If I Can Get Through Tonight by asparkofgoodness (T)

"Rain pounded like fists on the shop’s windows. The shelves and stacks of books sat in silent darkness, the sign on the door turned to 'Closed.' Suddenly, with a small popping noise, Aziraphale appeared, breathing heavily. After glancing around, lights clicking on all at once in every room, he let his eyes fall closed with a tremulous exhale. He was safe. The steady patter of the rain masked the sound of thick golden droplets falling from his left sleeve onto the threadbare carpet. His hands shook." Trouble finds Aziraphale while he's outside of the protective circle of London and Crowley's company. Fearing Crowley would put himself in harm's way if he knew what happened, Aziraphale tries to recover on his own.

the cutting edge of eternity by gazing (T)

When Aziraphale begins to fall from heaven, he tries to hide it for as long as possible. But Crowley has been through this before. He knows the signs. And he's sure as hell (pun intended) not going to let Aziraphale go through it alone.

- Mod D

[finalgirlwillbyers]

Sorry if this has already been discussed but its so interesting to me how lucas is seen and portrayed through the lense of the fandom. It feels like in a lot of fandom works he either has to be the antagonist or the "perfect" one and he isn't allowed to be complex, fleshed out or built upon like other characters. In some works he's either the one who's homophobic, says something wrong/hurtful or he's antagonized for his plotline and wanting to conform (for good reason) in s4. In others he's max's "perfect boyfriend", a supporting character for mike who's just there to give advice, or just a character who's there to comfort and build up others in general. These choices definitely reflect the duffers writing of lucas but it's interesting that in so many fanworks that can build upon what's given in canon and expand on existing characters he's left so flat and is either the person who does something wrong or the person that can do no wrong ever and in both cases it's usually used to uplift a different character in some way.

Despite the sub-fandom's loud proclamations of all encompassing love for Stranger Things, analyses and fanfiction highlight this love's true limit. The limit being characterization outside of facilitating or validating the desired plot point. These characters frequently end up being depicted as shallow tools for individual fantasies.

Bylr, mainly Mike, is the center of many of these fantasies. You see this in how people write Max as Mike's therapist, treating her as an expository device for Mike's trauma. You see this in how people write Will as Mike's doormat, demurely soiled by Mike's foul behavior and happy to serve again. And, you see this in how people write Lucas as the malleable everyman.

On the one hand, this behavior is a reflection of the Duffers writing. Lucas is usually kept in the periphery, supporting but not centered. The writers focus on Lucas as an individual more during his S4 conformity plot line. The issue is that his character development is due to external force rather than introspection. Instead of fleshing out Lucas' understanding of the world, the writers reiterate what we already know about Lucas. Outside of basketball, there's no new information presented about his life, his interests, his family, or himself.

What we do get is a one liner with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, a reaffirmation of his love for Max, and a violently temporary resolution to the multi-functional Jason v. Hellfire conflict. Rather than address race, the Duffers prioritize geekdom. While it maintains the show's "sensibilities," the Duffers' cowardice proves their unwillingness to challenge the status quo, whether that be creating uncomfortable situations amongst the ensemble or compelling the audience to question their own assumptions about Lucas. Of which, they have many.

On the other hand, it's not like Lucas himself is uninteresting. He's a meta-textual underdog, once reviled by the audience for being skeptical of the suspicious little white girl. Lucas was known as the "aggressive" one, despite his character's S1 motivations being laid out clearly, not breaking limbs or making eyes bleed, or getting into more than one physical fight. When people reappraised the show after S4, Lucas (especially Caleb) garnered greater appreciation. How much of that being genuine is another topic, relating to performance in fandom and online spaces.

Outside of his valuable contributions to the group, Lucas has numerous qualities that make him an excellent brother, friend, and boyfriend. He's got a keen mind, always prepared with a retort (but less so than Erica). He's skeptical, balancing out the idealists, theorists, and dreamers in his friend group. He's pragmatic, providing common sense solutions for average to larger than life problems. He's bold, willing to pursue independent action despite the danger. He's got grit, an unwavering determination in himself and his judgment. He's stubborn to the core, making him a fierce protector. He's self aware, graciously accepting his mistakes and take immediate action to do better.

It's not just those personality traits that make him endearing but his perfectly imperfect contradictions. He's one verbal blunder away from a permanent break-up with Max, however he charms his way into her good graces time and time again. He's the Hawkins High's MVP, shooting a championship winning basket during his freshman year. Meanwhile, just a year ago, he used to get a thrill through karate kicking his way through Hawkins Middle classroom doors (then getting caught). No matter how "cool" he gets, Lucas Charles Sinclair is, and will always be, a dork.

It's difficult for people to parse out these aspects of Lucas, when their primary understanding of a character is derived from said character's relationships. It's one reason why shippers struggle with grasping a character's identity and motivations. They can't see the forest for the trees.

The sub-fandom's fixation on romance is a given but, per their self-appointed high level of "media literacy," it's worth noting for hypocrisy alone. "Media literacy" apparently only applies to a single, white queer, lens of interpretation. When you have a character like Lucas, who doesn't adhere to this limited scope of skill and interest, people will either disregard him or make him conform to the their expectations.

Look at how bloggers analyzed Lucas on the Line, when they weren't making it about Mike. People had a fundamental issues understanding Lucas' relationship with his Black peer mentor, Jermaine. What they thought was sexual attraction was actually admiration. He's in awe of Jermaine, who is a cool and confident Black upperclassman in a predominantly white community. That is why he becomes Lucas' role model, giving Lucas something to aspire towards.

This isn't me saying these bloggers are racist. This is me pointing out that race wasn't even a factor on their identity issue radar. To be frank, it isn't on the Duffers' radar either.

Ultimately, fandoms are places of habit. If people can't utilize Lucas as a means to resolve Mike's issues, such as his fandom-minted trauma or romantic angst, then Lucas is relegated as set dressing. The type of set dressing includes but isn't exclusive to: a plug-and-play dynamic with Max, the queer ally relationship counselor/therapist, or the scapegoat for an intra-party conflict.

While the first two are dull but harmless, the latter leads to some insidious scenarios, such as Lucas being cast as the homophobic party member. Lucas being homophobic is founded on assumption, not text! If you need to look for a homophobe-in-training, please look at repressed Mike Wheeler.

Lucas can't even catch a break when he's not being depicted as a homophobe. In an effort to minimize the collateral of Mike and El's break-up, as well as appease El stans, shippers paired up Max and El. Ironically, Lucas becomes a form of collateral himself. The only difference is that, unlike a single El, shippers can live with the fallout of him third wheeling his throuple or rationalizing Max's "amicable" break up with Lucas after the events of S4 and S5.

As I said in another post, it's never about Lucas. It's about what he can do for you.

[fuzziiwuzzii]

Important question, you have been known to draw porn in the past(an essential part of the fandom ecosystem, thank you for your service) have you ever considered claudeline lesbian sex? Obviously there is the complexity of Claudia’s physical age to mental age difference, but both the actors are very much adults and do read as such on screen, so I wanted to know your thoughts as an extremely talented vampire yuri artist

Thank you so much for your kind words!!! ^^ And for asking a question I have been thinking about for awhile…

Though I'm sure Claudeleine have ~plenty~ of sex, I'm definitely not comfortable explicitly drawing Claudia's "flat-chested hairless-crotched 14-year-old baby doll body". I've considered drawing heavily suggestive art and/or sexual acts that don't expose Claudia's undeniably young teenage features (Delainey Hayles is a grown woman, but the character she plays is meant to be physically immature), or drawing Claudia with a body matching her age (even though that undermines a huge part of her character, but we can afford to have some fun with fantasy ;P). I'm obviously more than okay with everything Madeleine >:3

I don't want to sexualize a 14-year-old body; anyone who doesn't know these characters can misunderstand what I'm representing, and I know people's sensibilities vary widely when it comes to this stuff. I want to keep my nsfw art fun and sexy, so I'd like to hear what others feel about this!!! What compromise sounds best? Should I just stick with the usual cock fest? ((WHY MUST THE ONLY SAPPHIC COUPLE HAVE THIS DILEMMA))

[mellowsadistic]

The Magician's Game - Chapter 7

Madelyn gasped as she felt her short hair tickling her neck as it began to lengthen, growing down past her shoulders, not stopping until it was halfway down her back. It lightened in colour as it grew, turning from its original black to a trashy shade of bleached platinum blonde. But Madelyn didn’t have time to mourn her sensible, gender-neutral hairstyle. Her childish clothes had suddenly vanished, leaving her totally naked, and she could feel a strange tingling in her breasts. She looked down at them and squealed in horror. They were expanding, her nearly flat chest ballooning outwards. She clutched at her boobs desperately, trying to stop them getting any bigger, but it was hopeless. They went from A-cup to B-cup, then C-cup, then D-cup, then double-Ds, growing larger and larger until the proud, dignified, man-hating feminist had an enormous pair of pornstar tits jutting out from her chest.

Struggling to see past her new breasts, Madelyn realised that all the hair on her body had vanished below the neck. The thatch of pubic hair she kept above her pussy, the symbol of her womanhood, had disappeared, leaving her bare as a little girl – like those traitorous patriarchal stooges who shaved away their maturity just to cater to men’s perverted tastes. She stared down at her new body in disgust. She looked like a total bimbo! And unless she won the competition, this was what she’d be stuck looking like forever. She thought about having to explain her ridiculous new stripper body to her fellow academics, and her thumb slipped anxiously back between her lips, which felt much fuller than before. Looking up, Madelyn saw her reflection in the large mirror that hung across one of the walls, and tears of anger and shame welled up in her eyes. Reflected back at her was a big-titted slut with a thumbsucking habit. She looked like everything she hated. An immature skank, at once childish and lewd. A total disgrace to women everywhere.

Abby, Becky, and Katherine looked at Madelyn with queasy expressions on their faces. On one level they thought she’d gotten off lightly – at least there was nothing overtly babyish about her new appearance – but on the other hand they knew her whorish look had been chosen by the Magician precisely because it was one that she would detest, and that thought gave them no comfort at all.

“Do you like your new look, Maddy?” the Magician asked.

Madelyn had never hated his smirk more than she did at that moment. “I wook wike a bimbo!” she shrieked. She’d yanked her thumb out of her mouth to speak, but her new plumped-up lips were enough on their own to make a mockery of her once-confident, commanding voice. She felt sick. Her mouth definitely wasn’t meant for talking anymore. DSLs, Madelyn thought in revulsion. She had dick-sucking lips. But if her lips had been enlarged, it was nothing compared to what the Magician had done to her breasts. She cupped them in her hands, feeling their weight in disbelief. Jugs. The word came into her head unbidden. She had jugs. Knockers. Melons.

“I forgot, you don’t approve of large breasts, do you Maddy?” the Magician mocked. He conjured an academic-looking paper from nowhere and opened it. Madelyn recognised it as one of the feminist journals she occasionally wrote for. “Where was it… Ah, here we are. ‘Women who fill their bodies with silicone and inflate their breasts for the sole purpose of making themselves more appealing to the male gaze are the very worst among women. They reduce themselves to objects, livestock with ridiculous, oversized udders, making a mockery not just of themselves, but of every other woman whose reputation is damaged as a result.’” The Magician looked up from the article, grinning. “How does it feel, Maddy?” he asked. “To have a pair of udders of your own?”

Madelyn glared at him furiously, but with her bimbo-blonde hair framing her face and her pouty lips wrapped around her thumb, her scowl just looked adorable – and the tears glittering in her eyes didn’t help. They threatened to spill down her cheeks, but Madelyn was desperate not to cry. She was determined not to degrade herself even further by bawling like a baby, no matter what the Magician did to her.

“Poor little thing,” the Magician cooed. “What’s the matter, honey? There’s no need to look so upset. I’m sure you’re worried that none of your ugly old pantsuits and mannish clothes will fit over your new figure, isn’t that right? Well don’t worry. I’ve taken the liberty of supplying you with a whole new wardrobe of appropriate outfits! Why don’t we get you dressed, cutiepie? You’re a gorgeous girl, Maddy, but you can’t go running around in your birthday suit all day. We’ll soon have you looking pretty as a princess!” He snapped his fingers, and Madelyn felt clothes reappear on her body at once.

She looked at herself in the mirror again and let out another squeal of dismay. Framing her face and her newly bleached blonde head was a pale pink baby bonnet, trimmed in white lace at the edges, much like the one that Katherine had chosen to wear for the challenge. She was also wearing a pastel pink frock, so puffy and frilly that it might have made her look like a two-year-old on the way to visit her grandma if it wasn’t for the fact that the outline of her enormous tits were clearly visible beneath it, her nipples poking out obscenely. The hem of her childish dress ended halfway down her perky, plumped-up rear, leaving the bulky adult nappy she was now wearing almost completely exposed. It bulged around her bottom and between her thighs, pushing her slender legs apart and contrasting ridiculously with her new ultrafeminine body. She also wore a pair of thigh-high white socks with pink bows on the top, and on her feet were two black, silver-buckled Mary-Janes. With her thumb planted in her mouth to complete the image, Madelyn looked utterly ridiculous. Staring back at her in the mirror, wide-eyed and horrified, was a voluptuous woman’s body crammed into the most babyish clothes she could possibly imagine.

Abby had to stifle a laugh, and Katherine allowed herself a smirk – she’d disliked Madelyn’s superior attitude, and obvious disdain for her profession as a model, right from the start, and as far as she was concerned, the stupid woman was getting exactly what was coming to her.

Upon seeing her new outfit, Madelyn instinctively took a step backwards, and as she did so her nipples brushed against the material of her frock dress. Immediately, a rush of pleasure pulsed through her tits, sending a delightful tingle straight down her spine and into her pussy. She had to suck hard on her thumb to supress a moan, and her pussy started getting wet inside her nappy. After the feeling passed, she looked up at the Magician in shock.

“Have you noticed how sensitive your new boobies are, baby?” he asked, chuckling. “You were so austere and sexless before, but I think keeping you constantly horny will improve your attitude towards men, don’t you think?”

Madelyn could only whine her displeasure, struggling to keep her mind clear as every slight movement she made caused her boobs to rub against the fabric of her clothes and send another bolt of ecstasy coursing through her body. She shook her head and tried to focus. She had other things to worry about. She clutched at the bulky white diaper between her legs with a fearful expression on her face. Had she been made incontinent too?!

“Don’t worry, little Maddy, you’ve still got your potty training,” the Magician soothed her, correctly interpreting her look of terror. “But I thought putting you in nappies would help prevent that naughty little no-no spot of yours leaving icky wet spots everywhere. I know how much all this is turning you on.”

Madelyn’s self-control failed. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she started to sniffle. She looked over at Abby, Becky, and Katherine, and seeing the looks of mingled pity and contempt on their faces, she burst into tears. She was supposed to be the one who was always in control! The tough, self-possessed woman who’d lead them out of this mess! And now she was just some stupid bimbo baby! She bawled like a little girl, destroying whatever was left of her reputation among the others.

“Awww,” the Magician cooed condescendingly. “There, there, baby.” He pulled Madelyn’s bombshell body in for a cuddle, one hand rubbing her back, the other patting her padded bottom. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you.”

Madelyn sobbed into his chest. She wanted to shove him away, to spit in the face of this evil, tyrannical patriarch… but she was too overwhelmed by her emotions, and too scared of what else he might do to her.

“Abby, Katherine, the two of you can go back to your rooms and change if you like,” the Magician said. “We’ll be meeting back in the dining room for lunch and the second vote. Becky, you’d better stay here so I can change that stinky little bottom of yours. And I think baby Maddy could do with a bit more cuddling before I send her off too.”

Madelyn continued to cry. Becky blushed, but she was pleased she’d finally be getting out of the disgusting diaper that was now hanging off her hips. Abby and Katherine hurried out of the hall and back towards their rooms – they didn’t talk all the way, still angry at each other from their last encounter alone. Katherine wrinkled her nose pointedly at the soaking wet skirt and underwear Abby was wearing, and Abby shot her a nasty look before entering her room.

Once she was inside, Abby immediately stripped off her soggy skirt and peeled her pissy underwear down her legs. She was relieved that she hadn’t lost and ended up like Madelyn, stuck looking like some ridiculous adult baby pornstar, but still… she’d come second to last again. How much longer could she keep this up? It would only take one mistake for her life to be permanently altered. She changed back into adult clothes – it seemed as though the Magician had transported her entire wardrobe from home to this room – and lay down on the bed, trying to get the imagine of the once-confident Madelyn sobbing like a babified barbie-doll out of her mind.

Sometime later, Abby left her room and headed for the dining room for lunch. The other three girls were already there – Katherine looking snooty, Becky looking embarrassed but pleased to be out of her filthy nappy at last (though the outline of her fresh one was visible under her jeans), and Madelyn sucking her thumb, teary-eyed and big-titted, looking like a mallrat bimbo who’d raided a store full of toddler clothes. The Magician was sat at the head of the table again, tucking into a steak.

Abby took a seat and helped herself to food. None of them talked, just like every other meal they’d had so far. On the one hand, they were all in this together, innocents stolen away by the Magician for his sick game, but on the other hand they all knew that only one of them could win his insane competition and avoid a terrible fate. It was hard to feel a sense of camaraderie with people they’d have to vote out, writing down their names and condemning them to a lifetime of diapers or spankings or whatever other twisted fantasies the Magician had in mind for them.

Once they were all finished with their food, the Magician got to his feet, smiling down at all of them with that horrible sparkling light in his dark eyes. “Well girls,” he said, “you know the drill.” He waved his hand and their plates vanished, to be replaced by the ballot box. “I’ll give you a few moments to talk among yourselves.” He vanished.

Abby knew she had to move quickly. Katherine would almost certainly vote for her this round, so she had to make sure neither of the others would too. She hurried over to Becky and whispered, “How about we both vote for Katherine? She’s such a stuck-up bitch! You’ve seen the way she looks at us, haven’t you? Like we’re something disgusting.”

Becky looked pathetically hopeful. “You don’t think I’m disgusting?” she asked meekly.

Abby had to stop herself laughing. Of course she thought Becky was disgusting! Who wouldn’t? She was a grown woman who still pooped her pants for God’s sake! Abby had had to put up with her stinking up every room she was in for just one day and she already wanted her kicked out of the competition – but saving her own neck took precedence at the moment, and years of cheating on her boyfriends had made her an excellent liar. “Of course not!” she said earnestly. “This isn’t your fault, Becky. It’s the Magician and his sick games. You can’t help what he’s turned you into. But Katherine doesn’t understand that. Personally, I think she deserves whatever the Magician decides to do to her.”

“What are you two talking about?” Katherine interrupted angrily, toddling over to them.

Madelyn followed, not wanting to be left out, but just the walk around the dining table was enough to leave her a wet, squirming mess. Her boobs jiggled near-constantly, and the tingling pleasure that began in her oversensitive nipples rushed straight to her twat. She gasped and moaned behind her thumb, blushing furiously.

“None of your business,” Abby told her. She turned to Madelyn. “I think we should vote for Katherine. We need to start thinking about how to get out of this mess, and we need someone like you to help with that, Miss Smith. But we don’t need her.”

Madelyn barely heard her. She was sucking her thumb enthusiastically and fighting the urge to shove one of her hands down the front of her nappy and start playing with herself. But she understood enough of what Abby had said to get the message. She looked at Katherine appraisingly.

Katherine glared back. “You’ve got to be joking. Abby is clearly the one we need to vote out! She’s a nasty, manipulative little brat. Only someone totally stupid would fall for her tricks.”

Abby opened her mouth furiously, but before any of them could say any more, the Magician reappeared in their midst, making them jump.

“It’s time, girls,” he grinned. “I hope you’re ready.” He handed a piece of paper and a crayon to each other them, and they moved away from each other to lean over the table and write down a name.

The Magician collected them up when they were done, and looked down at them. He laughed. “Three to one!” he said happily. “Oh dear! Someone’s not very popular, I see.”

Katherine’s superior look faltered slightly. She hadn’t lost. The other two must have voted for Abby as well. She was going to win the competition and wish herself back to normal, in addition to whatever else she wanted. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life waddling about like a stupid toddler. She couldn’t.

Then the Magician’s gaze fell upon her. “It looks like it’s bye-bye for little Katie,” he cooed mockingly.

Abby grinned almost as broadly as the Magician.

“No,” said Katherine, feeling her heart drop into her stomach. “NO!” She backed away as the Magician advanced on her, but she lost her balance and fell hard on her bottom.

The Magician stood over her with an evil look in his eyes. “I know the perfect penalty for you, young lady,” he said. “All that status as a model has gone straight to your head, you see. I think your fellow contestants got a sense of why you have a reputation as the most bitchy and entitled girl in the whole modelling industry, and they only got to know you for a day! But fortunately for everyone else, those days are over. The catwalk isn’t the right place for a silly little girl, Katie.” The Magician grinned sadistically. “Especially not one who can’t even dress herself!”

Katherine looked petrified. With a wave of the Magician’s hand, the elegant dress that she’d changed into after that day’s challenge vanished, to be replaced by a silly, frilly baby frock, just like the one Madelyn’s stripper body was crammed into, only pure white instead of pink. Her silk stockings and expensive heels disappeared too, replaced by ruffled socks and trainers with Velcro straps. A lacy bonnet soon framed her face, the same one she’d worn earlier that day, and an enormous baby bib came into being to tie itself around her neck. Emblazoned on the front was a cartoonish depiction of Katherine’s own face, grinning stupidly and covered in baby food, above a caption that read “Messy Little Girl”. A pacifier on the end of a cord appeared out of nowhere, clipping itself to the front of her frock in case any adults needed to soothe the fussy, overgrown baby it belonged to. Finally, her underwear began to thicken, her lacey lingerie expanding between her legs and turning white.

Katherine stared down at her new clothes, appalled. She looked absolutely ludicrous! Even worse than when she’d dressed up for the second challenge! She lifted up the hem of her toddler dress and screamed when she saw the bulky disposable diaper taped around her waist. She immediately started clawing at it, desperate to rip it off and fling it away, but the moment her fingers made contact with her nappy, they become weak and uncoordinated, and all she could do was pat feebly at the puffy white padding.

“I can’t get it off!” Katherine shrieked, panicking and starting to hyperventilate.

“Of course you can’t, sweetie,” said the Magician. “Weren’t you listening to what I said? You can’t dress yourself anymore. I’ve taken that privilege away from you permanently. Other people will decide what you wear from now on. Maybe that will teach you a little bit of humility.”

Katherine started screaming madly.

“Time for you to head home, little one!” the Magician said happily, his voice raised over the din. “I’ll leave you to your family to look after. I hear you have a sister who you’ve been very rude to for years. I’m sure she’ll take good care of you! Bye-bye, baby!”

And with a snap of his fingers, the fashion model turned screeching baby-woman disappeared off to her new life, leaving the other three ladies staring at the place where she’d vanished, her screams still echoing in their ears.

[midgardian-witch]

Can you write from the prompt list, “Because I think I might like you and that thought in and of itself terrifies me.” with our lovely Steven Grant? ♥️ Thank you!!

Of course! I am always happy to write for our beloved Steven 💙

Work-Love-Balance

tags: co-workers/friends to lovers | fluff | gn!reader

ships: Steven Grant/Reader

AO3

Edit: added AO3 link

“Because I think I might like you and that thought in and of itself terrifies me.”

It feels like you haven't seen Steven in ages. Every time you share a shift with him at the museum he vanishes into the storage room. When you go to the fountain where you usually spend your lunch break together you only find the golden human statue waiting for you. You didn’t even manage to hang out with him after work anymore either. The first few times you think it's just bad luck.

You text him and Steven is quick to respond every time with a sensible response. Oh, he got picked to take new merchandise from storage. He's so sorry, he took his break a little earlier and you must have just missed him. He’s busy after work, he’s too exhausted, he’s not feeling well.

The days go by and you feel more and more like Steven was avoiding you, that this all happened on purpose.

So you decided to take matters into your own hands and visit Steven at home where he (hopefully) couldn't avoid you.

An older lady, one of his neighbors, let you into the apartment building so now you are standing outside his door, doubting your own plan. You take a deep breath and knock on the door. You hear rattling inside the flat, then footsteps. The door opens a little and you see Steven's face through the small crack that formed. He looks confused, nose all scrunched up until he recognizes you. His face lights up and then freezes. Steven stammers your name nervously before unlocking the door and opening it fully.

“W-Why are you here? Did something happen? I didn't forget to go into work, did I?”

You shake your head with a smile, “Nothing like that. I just missed you and thought that maybe we could hang out?”

“I- Well I don’t-”

You stop him from coming up with another excuse by giving him the saddest puppy eyes you can muster.

“Please? I’ve missed you, Steven!”

You swear you can see him blush as he mumbles "OK, come in" and lets you inside.

You walk into his flat, a messy but cozy space you've been to a few times before. While Steven closes his door again behind you, you make yourself comfortable on his couch.

"I know you've been busy lately so I hope I haven't disturbed you."

He shuffles over to you, wringing his hands in front of himself.

"No, not at all. I was just…", he vaguely gestures towards the books strewn about the coffee table.

Steven seems more nervous than usual. You look at him concerned. "I didn't want to just come by unannounced but every time I asked you were busy. I just-"

You sigh and shake your head.

"It feels like you're avoiding me."

He sits down next to you and swallows hard. Steven takes a deep breath and looks at you, his eyes sad. He looks guilty.

"I'm sorry."

You didn't think he would admit it. You still had some hope that it was all a coincidence and you were making it all up in your head.

"Why? Why were you avoiding me?"

“Because I think I might like you and that thought in and of itself terrifies me.”

Steven stumbles over the words and then freezes again, like he never meant for them to leave his mouth.

You blink at him. "But…I like you too! We're friends, right?"

Steven visibly grows frustrated. "Not like that. I like you.", he emphasizes the word by looking at you intently, brows furrowed in concentration.

You take a moment for the meaning behind his words to hit you and your eyes widen.

Oh.

You can feel your cheeks heat up and a goofy grin slowly creeps onto your lips.

"I- that's- Steven."

Your heart flutters in your chest. You've always liked Steven; gentle, funny, kind Steven. This feels like a dream.

"I like you too. Very much so."

Steven blinks like he too feels like he is dreaming, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"Y-Yeah?"

You nod, smiling. Your hands reach out towards his and he gasps at the contact. He looks between your hands and your face in wonder. Slowly his mouth stretches into the same goofy, happy grin you are wearing yourself. You couldn't believe your luck to have found someone so wonderful who liked loved you too.