#i was like EXACTLY PHOEBE

[roykeeleys]

#gagged him

[avirael]

✨The Wildcards✨

My OCs Part 3/3

[hollaback--girl]

Today I found a misfortune for humanity.

(I found a non-ironic Phoebe Spengler x Richie Tozier fanfic on Wattpad)

[crabussy]

being a system can be really fucking hard and it comes with a lot of challenges and struggles but man?? I fucking love my headmates. I don't know what I'd do without them and my life is better because they are in it.

[carefulfears]

very hung up on the first thing that mulder says about phoebe being "she was brilliant. i got in over my head. and, uh, paid the price."

[ask-team-donum]

Have a sleeby Scout and Phoebe doodle, lovelies <333

[dacuslucy]

i hope you kiss my rotten head & pull the plug. know that ive burned every playlist - and ive given all my love.

[medusa-was-innocent]

They took waiting room off spotify

[pjharvey-moved]

i say this constantly but how julien is the least popular member of boygenius now is beyond me bc she was the first one i became a fan of and was the most popular at the time (like jan 2019) and her music packs such an emotional punch in the way people say phoebe’s does but it like… doesn’t… idk also once again i’m literally julien and her music is the only thing that comes even close to expressing how i feel as an ex mormon lesbian with substance abuse issues and severe mental illness. like it was fr a revelation listening to her as a 17 year old and feeling like i’d been punched in the stomach in the best slash most painful way possible.

[junieswrlds]

literally hate cleaning ive sneezed like 50 times in the last 10 mins 🧍🏻‍♀️

the way i feel more comfy on this blog rn cos fleursbending has grown sm im overwhelmed-

[cosmicheartz]

Yknow smth that would rlly be neat is in a future psychonauts game Raz revisits a mind to help them with a problem again

[miupow]

최승철 ─── 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗜 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗖𝗛𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗠𝗔𝗦 !

seungcheol finally knows exactly what to get you for christmas this year.

★ 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴。。。choi seungcheol x fem!reader 𝗴。⧼ 🔖 ⧽ ⸝⸝ smut , fluff , pwp

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 。。。marriage au・husband!seungcheol・mentions of babies , pregnancy , and family planning・breeding kink・creampies・strength kink・big dick cheol is a warning within itself・dirty talk・daddy kink・praise kink ⸝⸝ ‎ 𝘄𝗰。1. 6 k | 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗿𝘆。

𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 from @jenoslutie ; cheol + breeding kink for christmas please !

♬ have yourself a merry little christmas 一 phoebe bridgers

notes from lia。idk how i feel about this one im ngl... but i wrote it and it's here! all feedback and reblogs are appreciated ^_^ i hope you all enjoy!

seungcheol’s grip on the steering wheel is so tight you’re beginning to worry that he’s cutting the circulation to his fingers. his usually plump lips are fixed in a thin line, his sharp jaw ticking as he grinds his teeth and stares unblinking out onto the dark, snowy road out in front of him.

“baby? is something wrong?” you ask gently, shooting him a confused and concerned quirk of your brow. he had seemed completely fine when the two of you had left your parent’s house earlier, christmas dinner still heavy in your bellies as you lingered to kiss your new baby niece goodbye. you were positive that you hadn’t done anything to upset him in the few short minutes since then either, but you could never be too sure. maybe you had forgotten something. you would never put it past you.

it’s almost as if the sound of your voice wakes him out of a trance, his neck snapping to the side to blink owlishly at you. “huh?”

you open your mouth to repeat yourself, but it seems that your words finally register when his eyes go wide and his ears go pink, blush deepening as he sharply turns his gaze back to the road. “oh, i-i’m fine, great, nothing’s wrong.”

he slides his hand across the console to squeeze your knee, the heat of his big hand sending exciting jolts up your thigh to your core. usually it was a comforting gesture from him, but the way his calloused fingertips dug into your skin was unusually tight and bruising.

“you look like something’s on your mind,” you prod, resisting the urge to squeeze your thighs together. you can’t help but enjoy it when he’s rough with you, no matter the cause.

“just thinkin’.” seungcheol responds dismissively, the faraway look in his eyes unreadable.

“about…?”

“you with your niece.” he finally admits with a wistful sigh, his hand sliding from your knee up the inside of your thigh. you widen your legs to allow his venture thoughtlessly. “you’re so good with her, baby… you’d be such a good mother, i just know it.”

“you really think so?” you gush. “you know how badly i’ve always wanted kids… i’m a little jealous that my sister beat me to it. don’t get me wrong, i love babying kkuma too, but…”

you turn to gaze out at all the neighbors christmas lights you drive past, glittering so beautifully in the dark and snow, fully expecting the conversation to end there— you and seungcheol have only been married for a short while, stuck in an awkward sort of limbo where you were stuck between wanting to truly settle down and wanting to advance your careers. this sort of talk always made him uneasy, and he usually let these conversations die without much input at all. it made you a little sad, but you understood why he was hesitant. his career was always of the utmost importance to him.

but instead of silence, seungcheol blurted out; “i know what to give you for christmas this year.”

your head swiveled back to cock at him oddly, a confused smile beginning to tug at your cherry red lips. “just now? cheolie, christmas is today.”

“you’ll understand when we get home.” is all he said more.

and it did finally hit you, once you arrived at your house and stepped foot inside— in the blink of an eye seungcheol had you pressed up against the front door, his thick muscular arms pinning you effortlessly against the hard, cold wood. he steals your breath with a blazing kiss, filthy and debauched and entirely out of left field, swallowing down your high-pitched moan when he reaches down to grab a rough handful of your ass through your dress. you claw weakly at his flannel shirt, taken by complete surprise and unable to do anything else but melt against his lips and touch.

“cheolie, wait,” you whimper when he breaks the kiss, chest heaving as you search fruitlessly for words to say. seungcheol’s pretty plump lips are smeared with red from your lipstick.

“i’m going to give you a baby for christmas,” he growls, hot breath fanning your flushed face. “how about that, baby, hm? i’ll make you a mommy, just like you want…”

“oh, please,” you breathe out in rapture, leaning in for another heated, heavy kiss.

he takes his time with you, kissing away all your impatient whines— effortlessly he picks you up bridal style, just as he had on your wedding day, and carries you to the bedroom to spread you out gently across the king-sized bed. the veins in his biceps bulge deliciously, your mouth watering at the sight as he tugs his shirt off and over his head. he doesn’t give you enough time to appreciate his body in all its glory, unfortunately; like a man possessed he climbs on top of you and tears wildly at your clothes. you’re both naked before you can register it, your sparkly dress a crumpled heap on the floor, your panties, the same holiday red as your lipstick, caught on your ankle as seungcheol spreads your legs wide.

“i don’t need fingers,” you plead when you feel his blunt fingertips tease at your dripping folds, your husband always so tentative even when he’s worked up. “please, just need you inside of me.”

“a-are you sure?” seungcheol huffs, his pretty brown eyes blown wide and wild in arousal. you still struggle to take him most nights, even after all these years… but that painfully delicious burn is all that you craved to feel.

he relents with a nod of your head, retracting his hand to grip the meat of your thigh. he props your legs on his shoulders, giving the inside of your knee a quick kiss before positioning himself at your entrance. your pussy is so wet that his cock slides into you without much resistance, down to the hilt in one slow thrust. the stretch makes your eyes roll back in your head with a low, broken moan, so dizzyingly deep inside of you that it felt as if his fat, bulbous tip was prodding at your belly. he makes no movements, intent on letting you adjust to his size for a moment, but you’re far too impatient and greedy for your gift— with your arms shaking like jelly you lift yourself up off the bedsheets just enough to give the man above you a wanton, desperate pout. “fuck me, cheolie,” you beg him, “put a baby in me, please!”

he doesn’t have to be told twice; with a defeated groan seungcheol relents, slowly withdrawing his cock from your pulsing cunt before thrusting back inside with vigor. the rhythm he quickly builds is brutal, his long thick cock dragging against your gummy walls blissfully, hitting every sensitive spot you had. his fat heavy balls slap wetly against your ass with every thrust of his hips, the obscene clapping sound adding to the symphony of squelches from your pussy and moans from both of your mouths. your arms give out and you fall crashing back into the pillows, your face burning from the filthiness of it all. the pathetic little mewls tumbling from your lips sound borderline pornographic— he makes you cry out every time his cockhead slams against your cervix, admiring you spread out underneath him with a crooked grin. you’re sure he’s never fucked you this hard before, your climax racing to a crescendo before you could even begin to process it. and you didn’t have to ask to know that seungcheol was close too; the way he gripped your thighs was unmistakable, no doubt leaving dusky purple fingerprints in his wake as he bent you nearly in half and rose from his knees to fuck into you even harder.

“such good pussy,” seungcheol growls, more to himself than to you, throwing his head back in pleasure as his thrusts pick up even more speed. “fuck, i love this pussy so much. so fuckin’ wet and tight—"

his big hands held your ass in the air, your back arching off of the bed in a curve that you knew drove him wild. your knees were nearly knocking against your face, your core burning from the stretch to the point it was almost painful, but you couldn’t focus on anything other than the dizzying, mind-blowing pleasure that ignited your entire body. your thighs began to shake in seungcheol’s grasp, just on the edge of your orgasm… but you and him both knew you couldn’t cum from just this alone.

“daddy!” you cry, tears welling in your eyes as you try to reach for your clit yourself, “daddy, i wanna cum, please!”

seungcheol smacks your hand away and replaces it with his own, his talented fingers rubbing tight circles against the engorged bundle of nerves. “that’s it, scream for daddy,” he goads with a breathless chuckle, “gonna make me a daddy, yeah? gonna take all this cum like a good girl? come on, cum with daddy.”

your orgasm hits you like a train, your cunt clamping around seungcheol’s cock like a vice, milking him for all he’s worth as you gush and squirt around him. with a deep, animalistic grunt he cums as well, hot thick white ropes filling your needy pussy up until it was overflowing and dripping down onto the sheets. you feel so full and satiated, tummy warm with his sticky seed, seungcheol’s thrusts growing weaker and slower as you both come crashing down from your highs. gently, he places you back down onto the bed, untangles your limbs and kisses your aching joints as if in apology.

“did so good, baby,” he chuckles, leaning down to press another chaste kiss to your tummy. “merry christmas to you and the little one.”

[finelinevogue]

do you take requests? With the holidays here I am craving a fluffy holiday writing w/ Harry 🥺 like being with family and soaking up time together - just super fluffy

yes my lovely!!! i’m so excited to be writing this for you - keep them coming✨🌟

word count - ~1k (just silly moments of christmas morning tbh!)

pairing - boyfriend!harry x reader

•🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄•

It was Christmas morning.

You were blanketed in a soft duvet, as well as being smothered by your boyfriend. One of Harry’s arm was draped over your waist, whilst the other was tucked under your pillows.

The fairy lights were still on from last night, casting a warm glow over the room since it was still dark.

You got out bed really quietly, making sure Harry was tucked in still, before going to the bathroom for your morning routine. Harry knew by now that you couldn’t stay in bed long before needing the toilet or brushing your teeth.

When you exited the bathroom Phoebe, your little black cat - not that she was a kitten, she was just very small - brushed past your legs.

“Merry Christmas, Phoebs.” You knelt down to scratch under her chin the way she liked.

“Can’t believe you wished the cat a Merry Christmas before me.” You heard Harry grumble from bed.

You laughed, scooping Phoebe up. She was a very calm cat, so picking her up was no big deal to her.

You walked around to your side of the bed, dropping Phoebe off to say ‘Hello’ to Harry. She purred when she realised she was between her parents, nuzzling her head under Harry’s chin. You and Harry had come to realise that Phoebe enjoyed the feel of Harry’s morning stubble.

“You were asleep.” You argued, stroking Phoebe’s back as Harry allowed her to keep head-butting his chin.

“Mm, but… Yeah fine.”

“Well, Merry Christmas anyways my love.” You smiled, leaning over to give him a kiss on his forehead since Phoebe was in the way of his lips.

“Merry Christmas to you too, love. Sleep well?”

“Yeah, but you seriously need to keep your hands to yourself at night.” You gave him a side-eye, which Harry knew was in jest.

“W-what?” He pretended like he didn’t know.

You just gave him a look like you didn’t need to explain yourself for him to understand.

“Babe!…. I can’t help it if my hand accidentally ends up resting on your boob. I have no control.” Harry said innocently.

“Sure you don’t, pal.” You rolled your eyes.

“Pal? Oh I’m your pal now, am I?”

“My best bud.” You chuckled.

Harry moved Phoebe and gently placed her on the floor, where she took it upon herself to go curl up on the dirty laundry in the corner of the room.

“Phoebe, darling, would you so kindly run along so I can remind mum exactly how we’re not just ‘pals’.”

•🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄•

The kitchen had been cold when you’d both eventually made it downstairs.

You’d made a morning black coffee for Harry and a breakfast tea for yourself, whilst Harry put some logs on the fire and put the Christmas tree lights on.

Next, you could hear the sound of Netflix starting up.

You smiled to yourself as you waited for the kettle to boil. The garden was covered in a layer of thin frost. It looked like something out of a Hallmark Christmas movie - especially as a Robin flew across the window and onto the bird stand.

Harry soon found you.

He wrapped his arms around your middle, resting his chin on your shoulder.

You two stood in silence, standing together as you watched the birds dance around the garden. You cupped Harry’s hands on your stomach, feeling so close to him in this moment not only physically but emotionally too.

Christmas was always a solemn time of the year for you both, after having relatives pass away this time of the year and relationships fading during the holiday time this was always a time when you and Harry held each other a little closer.

“I love you.” Harry said quietly.

“I love you too.” You said back.

•🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄• 🎄 •🎄•

You couldn’t stop laughing.

Rolling around on the floor as you belly laughed, hands on your stomach because the laughing was now causing aches, as Harry had opened his next present.

“What the fuck…” Harry laughed.

It was a gimmicky gift but one that you knew Harry would love.

People often complained that Harry was difficult to buy for, using the excuse that he could afford to buy everything so why buy him anything. To you, though, you were always finding things to buy him. A photo album. A crappy disposable camera to take photos on for a specific event. New pyjamas. A new hoodie to replace the one you’d been stealing.

In fact, Harry was the easiest person to buy for.

Just as you were the easiest person for Harry to buy for. He always knew just what to buy you - not that Christmas was about the presents for either of you.

“Phoebs, your mum is crazy!” Harry stroked Phoebe from where she looked confused at the continuous laughter coming from you.

“Ahh.” You sighed as you came to a close on your laughing.

You looked over at Harry to see him surrounded by wrapping paper, which Phoebe was now attacking.

You could feel your pupils dilating as you looked at him. You couldn’t get over how good he looked in Christmas pyjamas and a stupid Santa hat that he had gotten as Secret Santa present.

“What?” He asked when you’d stared for a moment too long at him.

“You’re pretty.” You said, sounding like you were drunk even though you’d only had a tea and one eggnog today.

“Oh am I now?”

“Stop fishing for more compliments. One was enough from me today.”

Harry crawled the distance between you and held his body up over yours. Your teasing stopped then.

“What?” You asked, returning the question after Harry just stopped above you.

“You’re pretty too.”

And he leaned down to kiss you, over and over again until he showed you exactly how pretty you are.

[nereidprinc3ss]

come on home

in which the only person who can comfort you after your breakup with spencer reid, is spencer reid

inspired by the song "summer's end" by the artist currently known as phoebe bridgers

wc 2857

warnings: gn!reader (correct me if im wrong), minor mommy issues, angst, happy ending

a/n: thank you to the person who requested this:) u r an angel and I listened to this song the whole time i wrote (if you haven't heard, listen!!) i sincerely hope you enjoy, i like this one a lot<3

She hung up on you. 

Forty-seven minutes of being insulted and berated after you’d called her looking for comfort, and you put up with every single cruel word—just for your mother to hang up on you. And it’s exactly the kind of thing she’d do, so you shouldn’t be surprised. An ache, you’d expect—but it shouldn’t sting like this. You thought you knew better. 

Now you’re in a ball on your couch, clutching your phone to your chest and crying. There’s no point hiding it. Your roommate is out with her girlfriend for the evening—which is too bad because even though you feel like being alone, you’re sure that’s the wrong call. Your other friends are out having fun tonight, too. They’d even invited you, but you turned them down. Look where that had gotten you. Obviously, your mother is not the person you’re about to run to for comfort, either. 

You try to pretend, while you’re thinking of all these people who have ever cared for you, that Spencer Reid isn’t on your mind at all. You try to pretend like you don’t care that the person who loved you until you believed you actually deserved it is a contact going stale deep in the bowels of your text cache. With bleary eyes you scroll down, looking for your conversation where it gathers dust—the end of your relationship was a mutual decision, and you’re friendly, but you haven’t texted in a few weeks. Probably because every time the conversation starts to feel a little too easy, or the phone call lasts a little too long, that aching void in your chest gets worse and worse. Like pain in a phantom limb, you become acutely aware of what you do not have and how much it hurts.  

So blame it on the tears, or the mind-muddling melodrama of your relationship with your mother, blame it on anything but the truth—when your thumb drops on that call button like the plunger on a syringe, you don’t regret it.  

What you’re not expecting is for him to answer after the first ring. 

“Hi,” you say with a snuffle before Spencer can get a word in. There’s a brief interlude, in which you pick at your nails, comfortable to just sit in silence if that’s what he wants. As long as he’s there. 

“Hi.” Hearing his voice instantly melts a bit of the weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying. Another pause, for which you remain silent, because you can feel him formulating a question—and you’d like to hear him speak again. “...am I allowed to ask if you’re okay?” 

Your lips purse and twist to the side, pained and comforted by how easily he can tell that you’re distraught. One word across a tinny connection, and he knows. 

“No. Yes. I mean... I guess that’s why I called you. But you don’t have to ask me about it.” You sniff again and take a deep breath. “How was your day? What state are you in?” 

“I’m in the district,” he answers after a moment, easing into a casualness that he likely doesn’t feel for your sake. Wind crunches through the speaker. He probably just got out of work. “My day was... it was good. I got to talk about my job to a bunch of elementary schoolers, which is always a confidence boost.” 

You chuckle, still laying on your side on the couch and watching storm clouds gathering outside. 

“Nice, nice. What else?” 

“Let’s see... I forgot lunch, so I had three oranges, and they were actually pretty good. I reread Game of Thrones—I don’t know why I did that. I’m never going to like that book.” 

“Masochist,” you smile. He laughs, and you hear the sound of a car door opening. 

“Oh! I talked to my mom. Believe it or not, she says hi.” 

A completely inadvertent snort constitutes your response. It’s not what you meant to do, and out of context it’s sort of mean, but you actually think it’s incredibly endearing that he still talks to his mother about you. He scrambles to explain himself. 

“I swear, we barely talked about you this time. Mostly we talked about her new boyfriend Leonard.” 

“No, no, that’s not... I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you or your mom. That’s really sweet, actually. Tell her I say hi too.” 

When he next speaks, you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“I will.” Another long pause. You imagine him sitting in the parking lot at Quantico, keys vertical in the ignition of his old car and feeling the silence just as much as you are. He surprises you by not ending the conversation—instead he asks a question. It is concern, poorly disguised with nervous humor. Or maybe you just know him too well. “Do I get to find out what’s on your mind, or are you leaving me in suspense here?”  

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Um... well, actually, I just got off the phone with my mom, too. It didn’t go so well,” you laugh halfheartedly, “I know it was dumb to try and have an actual conversation with her, but... you know me. Always following blind optimism to the depths of hell.” 

“Why’d you call your mom?” he asks, so gently it brings a fresh round of tears to your eyes. Still, you attempt to put a cheerful affect on your strained voice. 

“Mm, you know. Just needed someone to talk to.” 

Spencer’s knowing sigh does little to make you feel better. 

“You know you can always talk to me, right? I know it’s... it’s different now, but... I care about you a lot. And, you know, I receive very few phone calls, so the line is pretty much always open.” 

Your laugh quickly devolves into a cry. 

“I appreciate that, but I can’t talk to you about everything.” 

“Why not?” he pleads immediately, voice thin and desperate like it’s his most burning question. A million lies dance over the tip of your tongue. A million things that feel safer to say than the truth. But in the end, it comes out anyway—choked, and so quiet, but aloud nonetheless. 

“Because I’m trying really hard to stop missing you so much.” 

Another long beat of silence. The back of your throat feels dry and hollow—a cage for your hummingbird heart. 

“If it hurts too much to talk to me, you don’t need to do that to yourself. But I also don’t want you to hurt yourself thinking you’re alone. You are... so important to me. I will always try to take care of you the best I can—whether that means staying away or being at your front door. If you ever need me, or even... vaguely want me, I will be there.” 

Each word caves your resolve. Each syllable is a slap in the face to progress you’d been pretending to make. You can be strong—you've proven that over the past ten weeks. You can be stone-faced and slash at your heart until the scar tissue is thick and jagged, and eventually it won’t hurt anymore. But maybe, by letting someone tend to the wounds, they’ll heal a little nicer. A little kinder. Even if you can’t undo the damage, maybe one day you’ll be soft again. 

“What if I vaguely want you right now?” you sniffle. 

Finally, you hear the silver jingle of keys turning. The sputter and rumble of an old engine coming to life. 

“Then I’m on my way.” 

Twenty four minutes later, there’s a soft knock at your door.  

After the call had ended, you’d wondered if you made it all up. Surely your ex-boyfriend wasn’t actually about to show up at your apartment. Someone you’ve grieved for can’t just come back—there are countless horror novels and movies based upon that very tenet. Does it matter if they ever actually died? How long is ten weeks, really? It feels like a lifetime. 

You shuffle across the room, wiping under your eyes with your already damp sleeves, and undoing all the locks Spencer had conditioned you to start using. When the door cracks open, and you see Spencer standing there, windswept and concerned, for the first time in months, it hits you like a tidal wave. You are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, still just as in love with him as you ever were. The relief that floods your veins as he looks down at you with so much care in his eyes is like sinking into warm water. It’s a dead giveaway, and maybe it makes this whole thing a terrible idea, but you can’t seem to care very much. You open the door wider, and he enters, and he stands in your kitchen with his hands in his coat pocket as you shut the door and he’s perfect. It dawns on you that for the first time since the breakup, you feel safe. Like you don’t have to be a stone pillar anymore. This, of course, translates into even more tears, which you try to hide as you face away, re-locking the door.  

“Sweetheart...” he sighs, because you can’t hide anything from him. Hearing the resonance of his voice so close to you once more is overwhelming. In an instant you’re rushing into his arms, and he accepts you without hesitation. You bury your teary face in the vetiver safety of his button-up and slip your arms under his coat, as if you could absorb his warmth and forever hide from the world that way. He pulls you even closer. It’s terrible and cruel how much he is exactly what you needed. “What’s wrong? What did she say?” 

You shake your head and gasp a small sob. 

Truthfully, you’re not really crying about the petty insults from your mother anymore. You’re back to square one, the reason you’d called your mother to begin with—you miss the man whose arms are currently wound around your shoulders. 

His hand smooths over the back of your hair. 

“Okay. That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.” 

You stay like that—content even as you cry because being with him feels so much safer than being alone. It feels right—or perhaps it’s just familiar. You don’t know which is worse.  

Spencer is rubbing soothing lines up and down your back as you cling to him, soaking him up in all his ephemeral, comforting glory. He surprises you by chuckling—it vibrates through his chest, buzzing against your ear. 

“Nice Magritte print. I bet the person who bought that has fantastic taste.” 

“Are you gonna ask for it back?” you mumble into the fabric of his suit jacket. He is, of course, referring to the painting you’d more or less stolen from his apartment seven months ago. You really don’t want him to take it home. It’s the most overt Spencer memorabilia you’d allowed yourself to keep in plain sight. 

“No, baby. You can keep it.” The words are low, and kind, and they settle you some, but you can’t seem to get him close enough. “What can I do?” he whispers after a moment, helpless as you take a shuddering breath. “Can I make you tea? Have you eaten?” 

“Will you just... stay for a little bit? I’ll—I promise I’ll stop crying.” 

There is an unexpected lull where you thought you’d receive pretty immediate agreement, but before you can pull back and ask what’s wrong, he murmurs, “yeah. I can stay for a while. But you have to kick me out before it gets too late.” 

You wonder if you’re imagining the double-entendre that seems to underline his words in bold red ink. Spencer is too smart to have not noticed a thing like that. You don’t mention it—it all boils down to the same unspoken idea. 

Don’t let me stay, because I might not leave. 

“I will,” you sniff, finally stepping back and wiping your own tears. It hurts to lose his touch, but at least you know he’s not going anywhere for the next few hours. This, as opposed to everything else lately, can be a beginning instead of an end.  

At least, until he goes home. 

Three and a half hours later, after tea, an impromptu dinner comprised mostly of cheese and crackers, and several vinyl changes on your record player (which served only as background noise for your long, ambling conversations), things are seeming to wind down to a natural stopping point. Which you hate. The whole time you’d had a dull ache in your chest because talking to him was easier than breathing and you knew it wouldn’t last. There had been one or two false bottoms already—the first when you’d yawned around nine, and the second when you’d gotten up to do your skincare and brush your teeth half an hour later. Even then he’d just leaned against the doorframe, watching your reflection above the sink as you talked for fifteen more minutes. Now you stand across from each other in the kitchen, plates restacked and everything in order. Of course he’d insisted on helping you clean up. 

“I should go,” he says, with a soft sort of finality in his voice.  

“Is your carriage turning into a pumpkin?” you tease gently, to hide how much you don’t want him to leave. He smiles—a small, weary thing—but genuinely and endlessly charmed by you. 

“That among other things.” 

“Would you—would you walk me to my room first?” 

The hesitance is clear in his eyes and the way his lips part as if to say, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea’, but you're sure he’s really going to leave in a moment and you’re also sure he won’t deny you this one small thing before he does. 

“Okay.” 

It’s a short, silent walk through the living room and down the hall to your bedroom door, but you can feel him trailing behind you the whole way. You stop in front of your open door, turning face to face with him.  

“Thanks,” you murmur.  

His lips pull into a melancholy smile. 

“Anytime.” 

There’s nothing left to do but wrap your arms around each other once more, tuck yourself into the you-sized space between his head and shoulder and hold on for as long as he’ll let you. The hug lingers for longer than is wise. Spencer adjusts his arms looped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you nuzzle against his neck, grateful that at least he seems as reluctant to let this end as you are.  

But eventually, it relaxes. Your hold on each other loosens. His face is just inches from yours, and you get to study every plane and valley and line like you’d thought you never would again. It seems he’s doing the same—losing himself in the luxury of seeing you up close. 

“Will you kiss me goodnight?” you whisper, unable to muster any self-consciousness though you know it’s a fool’s errand. Spencer strokes your waist. 

“I can’t do that, honey.” 

“Why not?” 

His voice is just as quiet as yours. It falters slightly as he speaks, so gently, so patiently. 

“Because we’re not together anymore.” 

“Why not?” 

Your feeble, desperate supplication sounds pitiable even to you. You’re not proud, but you can’t find it in yourself to be ashamed, either. All you want is an answer. But it’s like a child asking why the sky is blue, or the earth is round. There is a definitive explanation, but mostly, the adult will shrug, and say, that’s just how it is. 

Spencer’s eyes squeeze shut. His head tilts down. 

“We can’t do this again, sweetheart. You know why we’re not together.” 

In theory—yes. You’d had so many conversations when you’d broken up. It had been a long, painful process, spanning multiple all-nighters at his kitchen table, nursing coffee and trying to convince each other and yourselves that it was the right choice. But it just feels like a horrible, horrible mistake. You feel desperate to explain this to him before he slips away again—the words come out flustered, inelegant as you cling to him.

“But I don’t think I’m getting better without you. I tried, I tried so hard to be good on my own, but everything is worse and harder and—and we weren’t sure about it then, and I don’t think it was the right choice, because I still really need you. Like, all the time. I’m—it’s not getting better without you. Nothing got better.” 

He swallows, eyes darting between yours for an infinite second. You’re breathless and your heart is pounding after your confession—you can feel your eyes stinging with the few tears that managed to escape as you spoke. 

“Everything is worse,” he agrees shakily. “Everything. I’m—I’m getting disciplinary infractions from Hotch like I’m a child because I can’t focus on anything. Game of Thrones is the most complex literature I can comprehend right now. I had to use a calculator the other day.” 

You want to laugh, but nothing is funny until he’s yours again. 

“Then come back. Please come back, Spencer.” 

Finally, he leans closer, until your heads are pressed together, and his nose bumps yours, feather light. You're dizzy. You exhale. He inhales. 

“I don’t think I knew how to leave in the first place.” 

When he kisses you, it feels like home. 

[setaripendragon]

So, because I've been working on this series again, I've been getting back into Charmed a bit, and I decided to do something I've been wanting to do since I was, like... eight? And that is to figure out exactly what the Warren Family Tree actually looks like... given that the one we see in canon has some laughably incorrect dates on it.

(Getting birth and death dates wrong on incosequential people I can forgive (Grams' brother apparently married a woman born in 1870-something? It's not impossible, I suppose? She's probably a demon or something.) but what I can't forgive is that they messed up the details of the crucial plot point of that episode that the family tree was made for. (Phoebe gets the family tree out to look up their past lives, and lo and behold, the family tree tells us that Prue's past life died after she was born.))

Still, it's the only real canon information we get about everything between Prudence Warren and P. Baxter (who is Grams' mother. Somehow, I don't think the creators thought through the implications of that. Piper was raised... by a woman she raised. Even if she doesn't remember it, that's still gotta be a bit of a trip if you think about it too hard. Like, do you think Grams learnt the 'keeping her hands busy in the kitchen' thing from her mum? And then teaches it to Piper, who is her mum...). Anyway! That's... over two hundred years unaccounted for, and I don't do well in a creative vacuum. Blank page paralysis is real and devastating.

So I did my damnedest to decipher the very blurry screenshots I managed to get off ITVX, and...

You know another mistake they made? The Charmed power is a female power, and given the show's rather, uh, unconsciously gender-essentialist approach to girl power, it boggles my mind that the family tree is still so patrilineal? Apparently, the Charmed Ones aren't even descended from Prudence Warren? They're descended from her little brother instead? What? How did that get past anyone involved in the process?

But! I jiggled some things around so that the line from Melinda to Prue is an unbroken line of women (trans inclusive!), and discovered that they also, to no one's surprise, didn't put any real thought into the rest of the dates on this thing! In order for all the generations I could see on the family tree to fit into the timescale given, a lot of these ladies were having kids, uh... quite young.

And, sure, one or two, I'd accept, even the majority being under 25 given the social mores/life expectancy/infant mortality of the times, but... I've got a whopping seven (out of fifteen) generations who were 18 or under when they had their first kid. It goes up to eleven if it's 20 or under.

I was really tempted to take a generation out. There's a few that are just one girl baby after another towards the end there, so I could've just whipped one out and rejiggled the dates, but for reasons to do with symbolism and also perfectionist nonsense (I may have been flipping genders left and right, but just toss the dubious canon info out the window?! Never! -rolls my eyes at myself-), I was reluctant.

And then I thought:

Technically, that spell up there that I wrote is a curse. A death curse, even. And I've since decided that both Prudence and her daughter also cast it on their deathbeds, it's a Threefold Death Curse. Because, well, on rewatching a bunch of episodes to check historical dates including, specifically, the one with Melinda's birth in, I was reminded that the Charmed Ones aren't just... extremely powerful witches, but The Most Powerful Witches Of All Time. As in, Eva cast a spell to summon the most powerful witches, and got the Charmed Ones, so it's not just a cute title.

(Now, given Charmed's dubious worldbuilding, you could say that's the Elders sticking their grubby little hands in and doesn't actually mean there will never be a more powerful witch than Prue, Piper, and Phoebe, but I'm going with, no, Eva cast her spell, and magic itself decided Prue, Piper, and Phoebe were what she was asking for.)

So yeah, whatever made the Charmed Ones the Charmed Ones has to pack a mean-ass punch.

Threefold Death Curse it is.

Which means that... Actually, there's an in-built reason why all these Warren Witches are getting pregnant as soon as they discover what sex is. They're literally cursed.

Melinda, dying, grasping onto her vision of her descendants as a last spark of hope: "...My line will continue unbroken, to my daughters this gift I now give..."

Every single future generation, in a chain of faulty pills, broken condoms, inconsiderate lovers, accidents, and possibly worse: "Fucking thanks, Mel" /sarcasm

(Also, we stan P. Baxter, who fought the curse for a whopping thirty-three (33!) years before popping out our beloved Grams. This even while fucking two (2!) guys on the regular for a while there. No wonder she was destined to be reborn into one of the most powerful witches of all time, she was already kick-ass even without that power-boost. The next oldest was Prudence Warren herself, and since that's before the curse got tripled ("Fucking thanks, Prue"), I'm quite satisfied with that.)

Apologies for vanishing again~ ^^” August has been a Hell Month for me, cause I managed, somehow, to break my ankle at the beginning of the month, and let me tell you, that has been an Adventure (and not the good kind). Writing is just not a thing I want to do when I’m having multiple-panic-attacks days alongside eight-hours-in-the-hospital days (the two are not unrelated). And spiffing up my writing for posting is even futher down my list of priorities, so, it maybe another month or so before I get any new writing posted (but! I’m pretty sure I do have a whole completed fic ready for editing and posting once I’m ready to get stuck back in =D)

That being said, I did get a creative itch after a couple of weeks of not touching my writing, so I started digging into some plotting/research I’d been putting off for the sequel to my Charmed AU, The Last Charmed One. (For those of you who remember that/are hoping for the sequel, I have about half of it fully written, but things didn’t go exactly to plan, so I had to re-adjust the entire second half of the plot to compensate… Which I have now done! =D And unless I go nuts at some point between now and then, I’m thinking I’m going to make finishing it my NaNo project this year, so… -fingers crossed-? =D)

Anyway, all this is a prelude to the fact that, in jiggling my plot about, I re-encountered a note I’d made about the… mechanics of the Charmed power in my ‘verse. And this may end up being spoilers somewhere down the line of this series (like… I think it might be part of the plot for book… seven? eight? Something like that…), but given that I have no real guarantee that I’m ever going to get that far, I figured I could throw it into the void now anyway?

Random Charmed/Gramarye backstory ahead (with bonus spell!):

Keep reading

[luvontour]

❥ . . jealousy, jealousy > joe goldberg

- joe’s happy you’re making friends in london, until he notices the way that stupid writer looks at you.

joe’s hand settles on your hip as soon as the door closes behind him. it’s become a habit since your early stages of relationship. he simply follows as you say your hellos and press your cheek against other girls’ faces with loud kissing noises.

from what you told him, he wasn’t really interested in meeting your friends, if anything he thought of them as one of the many reasons he clung to you a little bit tighter every morning

“y/n, you made it!” joe watches as a peppy blonde throws her arm over your shoulder, not minding how the two of you were almost tangled together.

“hi! phoebe, this is my husband, joe” the blonde brightens up (something joe thought impossible) when you present him. he only nods with a small smile and shakes her hand, despite her attempts of hugging him.

she smiles “come, come. i have to introduce someone to you”

his hand burns into your side, fragments of earlier and your poor attempt of a quickie still in your head as the two of you follow after your friend(ish) to a secluded bar. where a pale, almost your height man sat, swirling his shot of whiskey in its glass. joe recognized him immediately. it’s rhys montrose, the writer nadia had been talking to him about earlier.

“rhys! y/n, the girl i had been talking to you about and her husband joe”

“it’s my pleasure” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. joe doesn’t miss the way his eyes roam you over, throwing the cleavage of your dress a longer stare, he watches you all over, probably imagining lewd scenarios only your husband was lucky to experience.

he wants to leave then and there, but he wants to give it a chance, for you. he can’t think of another reason as to why he would sit there and gulp through this guy’s staring and his always dismissed attempts at flirting with you.

he sees a perfect window when you excuse yourself from the group, something about the powder room, which you never get to, because along the way, he manages to sneak the two of you off to one of many guest rooms.

he knows you felt it too, the way rhyse was staring and making inappropriate jokes, undermining joe and your relationship, inviting you on many scenarios in which he wasn’t included, he doesn’t need anything other than his rough lips and kisses to express what he’s feeling right now.

angry, jealous, possessive? those were just a few of the feelings coursing through him as he moans into your mouth, caving and letting your fingers tangle in his hair and steer him around like a puppy.

“please” your plead breaks him, you look so pretty like this, everytime, even if you were worse than him, kinkier, dirtier, he adored having you like this, under his frame, blushed, sweaty and with your chest racing as if you had just gone running.

“i don’t know doll, what exactly are you asking me for?” his nose nips at your cheek and so do his lips, pressing open mouthed kisses to your skin as he waits for an answer

“fuck me.” he groans when you whisper so sweetly. “please, i want you inside me”

“fucking hell” he struggles to pull away from you even slightly. “you just know i can’t resist when you ask me like that”

there’s some fumbling, but he manages to fish himself out of his pants, tucking your thin underwear to the side before he easily sinks inside you. the two of you make animalistic- guttural sounds at the feeling, and he can’t help when he says

“can’t believe that guy thinks he even has a chance” he chuckles against your jaw before nipping at it, and he just stares. at your furrowed brows, your parted lips. and he listens to your whiny noises and how needy you get for him, and he feels complete.

not as fulfilled as he feels though when he’s sure rhys has heard you, moaning his name over and over until you come.

“y/n?” there’s some incessant knocking, and a faux concerned man on the other side. “are you okay in there darling? you’ve been a while”

“y-yes. yes! im good rhys. i’ll be out in a minute, i think”

“is there anything i can do to help?” god, you wish you could see the two of you from afar. joe’s nibbling at your jaw and neck while your arms around his own keep you closer than ever, your fingers tangling in his hair as you clench your pussy around him. you can’t pretend you’re just touching up your makeup in there. you can care less if the man is waiting for a response, the way joe whispers against you both reassurance and degradations sends shocks of electricity to your poor and abused bundle of nerves.

“are you gonna come?” he chuckles “come on my dick baby, let him hear you. let him know he will never be inside you. that he will never make you feel this good. show him”

“fuck- joe. i’m so close, please”

“i know angel, i’ve got you.” almost on purpose, his hips slam deeper and faster, his thumb quickly presses back and forth on your clit and with his beard grazing against your neck it all becomes too much for you to take. and you’re soon shaking around him, biting his lip after a chain of profanities and his name that you hoped were masked by the music playing outside.

all of this, unaware of the encounter your husband was going to have just outside the door with the relentless writer who did in fact hear everything that just went down