#i would apologize for making this one so long but

[oceantornadoo]

a most pleasant marriage (john price x f!reader, minor simon x john x reader)

medieval arranged marriage au, SMUT, reader is a virgin, i did no research i fear, 4k wc

The emerald grass below your window, stories high and nearly minuscule, sways as you wait. And wait. And wait.

He was supposed to come two days ago. Your new husband, a foreigner, promised to you by your father in exchange for help to gain his own lands back. Greed begets greed, and while your maids help you change for your nightgown to a favorite dress of light blue, your stomach churns at the thought of the kind of man who would make such a promise. Your father has refused to educate you in any sort of war strategy, but you’re wily enough to know that promises can easily be broken. That the sagging stone buildings of your kingdom, small and unimportant to bigger ones that stomp on it like a bug, are no prize to be won. Why would your future husband want to help such a land when he could just as easily take it?

And so you wait outside of the arched slits of your stone window, your stitching in your lap as you halfheartedly nod to the chattering gossip of your ladies. After tea later in the day, sugar and butter heavy in your stomach, you nearly doze to their droning in your chair.

The clattering of horses wakes you right up.

A band of knights on horses, dressed in the black and white colors of your husband’s household, climb the winding hill that leads to your castle. You drop your stitching on a side table and gather your skirts, nearly running down the hall as your ladies follow you gleefully, taking another way about to the entrance hall. Worn stone and fiery sconces pass you in a blur as you skip down curved staircases, apprehension flooding your veins. What if he’s cruel? What if he breaks his promise to your father? What if-

A wall of muscle cuts off your next step, and thought, as you ram right into someone. You can tell it’s a man by the scent of musk and sweat, heady in the center of his torso. Your face hits stretched fabric as pain floods your nose. Strong hands grip your waist, a place no man’s ever touched, and stop your momentum from causing further destruction. Your hands, heavy from the stylish long sleeves that widen at your wrist, grip at stern shoulders as you steady yourself and your rapid breathing.

“I apologize, good sir. It was not my intent to run into you, I merely did not see where I was going. My deepest apologies.” You remove your hands to gingerly touch your nose, effectively blocking your view of him as you try to ensure no permanent damage was done. Remembering yourself, you step back until his hands leave your waist, coldness seeping in after. A terrible position to be caught in, especially with your husband’s men and potentially your husband himself in this very castle.

“Not to worry. I should hope I’m able to withstand an act of violence from a princess after my years of warfare.” Satisfied your nose is not broken, you remove your hands from your face slowly. A man stands before you, seemingly unruffled from your run in. Strong legs, horseman’s legs, build into a wide torso, the kind made for an armored chest plate with shoulders broad enough to bear it. He wears black and white and the insinuation of it sends a shiver down your spine. At last, you take in his face. His eyes are less kind than you thought they’d be based on his voice, the dark blue of a cruel river stream, fast enough to drown a child. He wears a beard in an unusual shape, one you’ve never seen on any man. His hair, brown as an oak tree, is thick enough to run your fingers through.

The thought is traitorous.

“If you call that an act of violence, you must not give accidents any berth to be what they are. Just accidents, that is.” The words escape without thinking, your hands flying to your mouth to stop the onslaught of thoughts spilling from your mouth like a waterfall. It’s then that you notice other things about the stranger. The quality of the fabric he wears, noticing that the black is actually a deep indigo, a rare color you’ve only heard of from whispers in court. Metal chains of gold encircle his neck, showcasing his wealth through lapis and rubies. Such a man must be rich beyond your wildest dreams, and certainly beyond your father. Your heart drops at the realization.

“You knew I was a princess.” You murmur before he can acknowledge your earlier sentence. “Yes.” He takes a step further, no honorific in his words. Any man who’d have the gall to not acknowledge your title must have a reason to. Realistically, he might be able to tell your status based on the jewels that adorn you, but something bigger itches at your brain like a hound pawing at a closed door. “How?” You whisper, eyes trained on his shoes. Something drops on the floor, and only when your trembling fingers touch your skin do you realize your nose is bleeding.

“Your father showed me your portrait before I agreed to the marriage agreement.” His feet, clothed in indigo as well, come into your field of vision as he steps into your space. A callused hand raises your chin up, his thumb swiping at the blood under your nose. He removes his hand almost immediately, his thumb slick with your red blood nearing his mouth. You watch as his pink tongue swipes at the blood, then track as he wipes the rest on the white of his tunic. A claiming, a forbearance of what’s to come.

“King John.” You curtsy as another drop of blood falls, staining the fabric of your sky-like gown. Out of the corner of your eye, the king grins.

“A pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

-

You officially meet a few hours later. It seems that King John didn’t mention your illicit meeting to your father, and after staunching the bleeding of your nose and changing into another gown, you didn’t either. The gown is a deep blue color, and you couldn’t help but think of King John’s eyes when you picked it. You plead a headache as to why you return early, and your ladies are eager to fill the silence with gossip of the men King John brought with him. One who wore the mask of a human skull, a Scotsman, and another who made so many flirtatious overtures half of the women fainted. All you can think of are warm hands on your waist, gripping you like a God-given right. Though, you suppose it is.

When you make your entrance into the throne room, it’s surprisingly empty. No courtesans, though your kingdom has few already. Instead, King John converses with your father at his throne, towering over the man by pure stature. You curtsy and scurry further when your father calls your name, already confused at the unusual silence of the room.

“King John, may I present my eldest daughter. I trust she is to your liking?” There is no warmth in his tone, just the promise of retribution sparkling in your father’s eyes, the same color as your own. You turn to King John and curtsy again, keeping your eyes lowered as you stand demurely afterwards. “Your Grace,” you murmur. He’s silent, eyes burning into you as he appraises you. He hums, a low sound that goes straight to your core. You hope he noticed the color of your gown.

“She is. Her portrait does not compare.” Your cheeks warm as you keep your gaze lowered, years of etiquette classes holding back your reaction. Father grunts, clearly not wanting to spend more time than necessary praising you when they could be discussing how to win your lands back. “Yes, Your Grace. As we discussed, the ceremony and exchange of dowry will take place tomorrow.” Your heart thunders, blood rushing in your ears. You knew it was coming, of course, having packed most of your things and done dress fittings as your mother planned the wedding itself. Hearing the confirmation out loud is a different beast. This is your new life.

You hope he will be kind.

They converse about the dowry but do not dismiss you, leaving you to stay frozen in place as they discuss how many gold coins and jewels you are worth. Finally, you are dismissed with a reminder of the welcome feast tonight.

-

If this is the feast before the wedding, you fear for the antics of the one after. King John’s men, a horde of knights with almost no holy men to be found, are rambunctious as they drink your wine coffers dry. You sit at the seat of honor tonight, usually only reserved for your brother, the heir. King John sits on the other side of your father, mainly conversing with the man in the skull mask as you pick at your meal. Your father is reddened by drink, a young maid who is not your mother seated in his lap as he raves about his last conquest years ago. Your ladies titter beside you, your other sibling and mother having been sent off to bed an hour ago.

“Daughter!” You jolt as your father slaps the table to get your attention. “Yes, Father?” You answer meekly. “Practice serving your husband. His cup should never be empty.” He plucks a flagon of wine out of a passing maid’s hands and shoves it towards you. You rise and take it from him, hands shaking as you uncork it. When you round his chair, his gaze back on the woman on his lap, King John’s men stare. And stare. One of them with eyes like lightning nudged the handsome one beside him, whispering something that makes them both laugh. The skull-faced one, sitting closest to King John, is silent, his eyes dark as a demon’s.

You wrench your gaze away from them to land on your future husband’s. His cheeks are pinked from wine and he sits with his legs spread, wide enough to fit a barrel of ale between them. “Go’on.” You pour, your full focus on the jeweled cup as you feel his full focus on you. When the glass is nearly full, you place down the flagon and stand uncomfortably, waiting to be dismissed.

He does not dismiss you.

Those same hands from this afternoon grab your waist again, pulling you harshly into his lap. You make an unladylike squeal, immediately looking over your shoulder to see if your father noticed. Thankfully, he’s gone, probably off with that poor maid. “Your Grave, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You plead, hands gripping the fabric of your skirts so hard they might rip. He shifts you so you sit on one of his thighs, your feet in the space between them while the side of your ass is practically on his…

“You’ll be my wife in the mornin’. And I’d slay anyone makin’ fuss.” You gasp at his sternness, turning to see the truth of his words written on his face. One hand cups the front of your thigh, searing like a cow’s brand, while the other steadies your hip, keeping you in place. “You would, Your Grace?” You ask, eyes wide. He nods, straightening a bit so you fall further into him. Your hand reaches out to brace his chest, your fingers tangling in gold chains, and you keep it there, drunk on the power beneath you. Your father has never made any claims in your name, content to push any duties of propriety onto your mother.

“Call me John,” he implores. He nods his head to the skullfaced man who’s been watching your exchange, no turning in his chair to give you a sense of privacy. “Sir Simon, my right hand. Garrick and MacTavish are off somewhere in the crowd, his seconds.” You nod in your best imitation of a curtsy while affixed to your future husband’s lap. Beneath your thigh, you feel something harden. You freeze as the warmth in your core. John makes no comment, pressing circles into the velvet of your dress above your hip.

“They call you the Ghost, Sir Simon.” It seems wine has loosened your tongue as well. Thankfully, he grunts in a way you think might be a chuckle. “They do, sweetheart. He scare you?” John murmurs, his words losing any royal tone. Nervously, you nod minutely. John chuckles, shaking you awake like a bath gone cold. “He’s not the one you need to be scared of. C’mere.” He scoops your skirts and legs over his other thigh, closing his own to make an overwhelming lap of strength with tree trunk thighs. John grips your chin, a memory of this afternoon, and turns you this way and that. Sir Simon leans forward, close enough that his legs brush your own. “Pretty.” Sir Simon concludes, leaning back out of your face as his chair creaks. “Agreed. And plenty to handle.” He squeezes your thigh for emphasis. You clamp them shut, afraid he’ll take you right there on the table if you give him any leeway. It’s a complicated mix of fear and something you can’t quite name, close to the anticipation of a new dress but all encompassing. Below your stomach, butterflies flutter in places reserved for your husband. For John.

“Go to bed, princess. I’ll see you in the morn’.”

-

The morning disappears like lemon cakes on a spring morning. The formality of the religious ceremony carved itself into your bones, the same way your father carves your name on the decree of your marriage. Then it’s a parade through the town square, sitting in an open carriage and waving to the crowd as John holds your hand. The sun is sweltering, but you don’t know if that’s from the layers of white fabric you wear or John’s insistence on being next to you at all times. Then it’s back to the castle, the exchange of the dowry getting packed into the carts John’s men brought.

It all leads up to the feast.

This time, you are directly next to John at the place of honor. So many toasts are made you start to lose your voice, placating it with hot broth from the kitchens. Hours later, the crowd drunk on its own congratulations, your father stands with his goblet in his hand. “It is time.” He announces ominously. You lose John’s grip as your father guides you down into the crowd.

Hands, everywhere. Men of all ages lift you above their heads and tear your clothes off at the same time, making their way to your Royal Chamber for the night. All you can do is close your eyes as the smell of fermented wine rolls off their tongues, greedy hands grabbing what they can as they get you up the stairs. Thankfully, it’s harder for them to be coordinated, abandoning the struggle against white fabric as they bring you to the chamber door.

John arrives just after you, a gaggle of women behind him. He’s not as undressed as you, with only a tear in his tunic. You frown and he senses it, his eyes immediately turning stormy. “Out.” John orders. The women leave, but the stupider men stay. One lord speaks up, a slimy gleam to his face. “I beg your pardon, but we need to watch the consummation, Your Grace.” You almost retch at the thought of them watching you be intimate with a man you barely know. “Out.” John says again, fire in his voice like a dragon. They take the hint and fumble their way down the stairs. You gasp in air, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“Wife.” He greets you, appraising your torn state of dress. Your skirts are ruined, turned into strips of fabric. The lengthy sleeves have turned into scraps, exposing the top of your chest, but nothing more. With every breath, you can feel the dress start to rip even more. “Husband,” you reply breathily.

He opens the door for you. The fireplace quietly warms the room, but there’s no light other than that, making everything past the bed hard to see. You start fidgeting as you walk in front of him, taking a seat on the bed as you fiddle with your hands. “We need witnesses for the consummation. If I’m not with child right away, they’ll say it’s my fault or annul it or say you’re-“ He stops you with a thumb to your cheek, the rest of his fingers squeezing the side of your neck. “Look in the corner.” You squint, scanning the room for whatever he’s looking for. Suddenly, you hear a masculine grunt from the darkest corner of the room. When you whip your head towards it, you catch graphite eyes and the silhouette of a warrior.

“Sir Simon.” He tilts his head in acknowledgment, almost like he’s bored with his role. Your palms sweat and you rub your thighs together to stave off the strange feeling in your stomach. “Don’t look at him, wife. Look at me.” You follow John’s orders immediately, locking onto his intense gaze. “What have you been told of this?” Your cheeks warm, remembering the short lesson from your religious teacher and an even shorter one from your mother.

“I shall lay down and let my husband use my body to complete our marital duties.” John sits down beside you with a grunt. Instead of responding, he runs a finger down the length of your exposed shoulder. You shiver involuntarily. He leans forward, and you stiffen as he kisses your shoulder. The last time you received a kiss was years ago, after a harrowing fever where your mother sat next to your bedside for a fortnight. “Is this…part of the marital duties?” You ask, voice trembling as he makes his way to the side of your neck he previously held. “Yes.” John murmurs into the hollow of your throat. He licks at the skin there and you jump, almost hitting your jaw against his head.

“Steady now.” Simon’s voice is raspy, like a dry paintbrush against blank canvas. You follow his orders immediately, willing yourself to calm down as John comes off the bed and in front of you.

And then, he kneels.

A King kneels before you, his rough hands dragging your tattered skirts up your legs, revealing parts of your skin that have never seen the sun. You freeze as he makes his way to your thighs, the skirt sitting around your waist. Your underskirts are made for using the chamber pot easily, so there’s no fabric around your cunt. John groans again, close enough that you can feel his breath cool the wetness beneath you. “Y’know what that is, princess?” He murmurs, spreading your thighs with ease. You shake your head, confused at the butterflies in your core. “Slick. Wetness. Arousal for your husband and his second, hm?” It seems rhetorical, so you stay silent as his fingers near your cunt. He kisses your inner thigh and you immediately snap your thighs shut. John looks up at you, violence in his eyes. “Stay open.” You try to, forcing your thighs open as he nears again. One large hand steadies your right thigh as his other strokes the slick between your thighs. When his fingers get close, your thighs snap shut again of their own will.

“Simon.” He appears in an instant, stony eyes peering down like he’s reading a text. “Hold her other leg open.” A scarred hand clamps down on your left thigh, wrenching you open almost to the point of discomfort. This time, John rubs his fingers at the slick between your folds and all you can do is sit there and take it. His thumb dips into your hole, and the intrusion is frightening, but he’s gone before you can even notice. He moves it up a little and there.

A loud moan escapes your lips, a sound you’ve never heard before. You clamp your hands to your mouth in embarrassment, remembering your mother’s lessons about staying quiet. “There she is.” John murmurs, seemingly uncaring of your break of expectations. He rubs again and again, then changes the angle so the heel of his hand rubs while he teases the entrance of your hole. Your breaths are heaving and Simon’s hand is hot on your thigh, sure to leave marks tomorrow. The top of your dress, already crumbling, breaks under the weight of your panting just as John presses his palm hard. Your nipples scrape against the dress fabric as your tits escape from the confines of your dress while Simon squeezes the soft skin of your thigh. It’s a funny feeling, a little like peeing, as you release into John’s hold, whining as he holds his palm steady.

“What just- I don’t know- did I do something wrong?” You pant as both men look at you with sparkles in their eyes. “It’s called an orgasm, princess. A release. Necessary for your marital duties. You’re being perfect.” Your heart calms at his praise, and it’s only when you nod do you realize your tits are bouncing of their own accord. John stands, ripping your bodice before you can even think to process. Simon tugs the fabric out from under you as John pushes you back, scanning you like a hunter after a deer. “Hands on your tits, wife.” You follow his instructions, laying your hands confusingly across your chest. John opens your thighs with both hands this time, his mouth wet against your curls. Simon leans over you and you realize this whole time, he’s removed the skull mask with only a black handkerchief covering the bottom half of his face. Those same scarred hands cover your own, showing you how to squeeze your nipples until you understand on your own.

The movements send sparks down your spine, making your hips buck against John’s face. He doesn’t complain, sucking hard at your cunt as you squirm. Simon's stare is as intense as a full moon on a clear night, making you feel like the center of the room. Even as a princess, you've never gotten such attention without it feeling transactional. There is no pain like how your maids whispered, just sheer pleasure, better than any honey cake or sweet wine stolen from the kitchens. Lightning sparks down your body, and the pressure of John holding you down while Simon knows your body better than your own. Your cunt is sopping, the sheets under you wet from your slick as you convulse when John adds a finger inside you. You gasp at the sensation, one becoming two quickly as he finds no resistance. He crooks them towards himself, like he's telling his pretty wife to come here. You come again just like that, thrashing into Simon's hands until you melt like a spring snow into the bed.

John strips off his clothing harshly, revealing a masculine figure you've only seen in carvings or glimpses from the men practicing at their swords in the yard. Hair all over, bearish in appearance, but you're learned enough now to not close your thighs. "C'mere," he orders, and you scramble forward, losing the warmth of Simon's hands. He guides your soft hands to his cock, letting you explore it with questioning touches. It's heavy in your hands, velvety but hard as stone. He grunts when you do an exploratory tug, and you drop your hands, afraid you did something wrong.

"This may be quick, wife. I'll rectify it in the morn'." You nod, brows furrowed as you were told it was always quick, no matter what. John climbs out of you as Simon steps back, but you can see his own silhouette of his cock through his trousers, backlit from the fireplace. John lays his weight on you, his forearms bracketing your head, and you sigh at the comforting feel of him. There's no fear anymore, your senses pliable from two orgasms. He nudges open your legs and you feel an intrusion of where he was before, but it's smoother than you thought it would be as he slides in. "John." You moan, mouth open as fullness grows inside. "So sweet, princess." He murmurs into your ear, pushing further until the hilt. You whine, squirming until Simon presses a gigantic hand on your stomach, keeping you in place as John finds his bearings.

He thrusts once and your breath hitches, your arms wrapping around his muscular shoulders as you sink your claws into his back. John tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and it feels like so much more than duty as he finds a pace. Simon's hand stays there, and your stomach feels fuller than the biggest feast. John's thumb finds your cunt and you start squealing at the overwhelming feeling. "John, I'm- cannot again I-," and he just chuckles, thrusting over and over. You share the same breath, your eyes finding Simon's at every other moment. If this is marriage, you think, it is nowhere near a prison. It's the rough hair of John scraping against your torso, his sweat gliding against yours. That spark builds again, not as bright as before but still powerful, and you clench again when he hits a specific spot. John, slippery with sweat and panting murmurs, follows after, warmth flooding between your thighs as he slows.

"I apologize, I cannot last as long as I used to." John confesses, still inside you as Simon takes his hand back. Your head is cloudy and sugar sweet with no room for reason. Your hands are still on his shoulders, and on instinct you move one to slide into his thick head of hair. "Nothing to apologize for, husband. It was pleasant." Simon chuckles, and you wonder if you've done something wrong. “Pleasant, she says.” John says to Simon, letting you gasp as he slips out of you, his cock leaving a trail of white on your thighs. You tighten your grip against John’s scalp as you watch Simon return to his seat, practically unaffected despite his arousal.

“Did I please you, husband?”

“Yes, wife. This shall be a pleasant marriage. Now rest.” And you do, John trapping you with his body and Simon trapping you with his eyes.

[mggslover]

FOR YOUR LOVE (i’ll do whatever you want) — spencer reid

In which Spencer begs for your forgiveness.

genre smut (18+) cw dacryphilia, pathetic love and touch starved spence, worship and praise, begging, crawling, marking his back with your heels, oral (f receiving), p in v, mirror sex, some discussion/fighting, established relationship, mention of r having a mom, r wearing a dress and heels wc 4,1k a/n race against the clock to post this on the kinkfest date. literally going on vacation in a couple of hours and yes i used my precious sleeping time writing this. you cant tell me i don’t have my priorities straight /jk

Spencer: We delivered a wrong profile Spencer: I can’t make it tonight Spencer: I’m so sorry Spencer: ❤️

You didn’t have to check your purse when the notifications chimed in, already knowing the messenger and the context. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had cancelled on you: lunches, dates, holidays, vacations… To be honest, you had stopped trying. Had stopped planning anything in advance and telling yourself that spontaneous activities were more fun. But right now, sitting in a restaurant with your family as you were celebrating your mother’s birthday that you had been planning for weeks, it was a harsh reminder that this lifestyle wasn’t fun. Not at all.

The one-year mark of your relationship was coming up, and you finally felt stable enough to introduce your boyfriend to your family. It wasn’t a thing you often or easily did, the gesture meaning a big deal to you. And Spencer had known that and had promised you that he would show up at all costs. But he didn’t, leaving you embarrassed as your family laughed and joked about the actual existence of this mystery man that you had been so infatuated with.

The dinner started in longing, wishing you had Spencer’s warm hand to hold in yours underneath the table when the conversations got too loud, or wishing for one of his intricate analyses on which dessert you should choose when you got handed the menu. But every time his name got mentioned, your frustrations began to grow.

“Thanks,” you mutter to your Uber driver while handing him twenty bucks for your ride home. Wrapping your arms around yourself (while thinking of Spencer, who always takes your jacket with him or gives you his when you refuse to take one with you, like now), you walk up to your apartment. 

In your periphery, you notice a soft, dim light shining through the curtains of your living room, the sound of clicking heels against pavement halting abruptly. The latter texts you’ve received must’ve been him asking you if he could come over to your place while probably standing in front of your doorstep already. It had been raining earlier, so you can’t blame him for using the spare key you handed him after the four months you’d been dating. You gave him the excuse that you were too sleepy to open the door for him when he’d come home from a case in the middle of the night, and when he suggested that he could sleep at his place on those days, you had come up with another excuse while placing the key in his palm and closing his fingers around it. He had smiled goofily at you, had seen right through the act, obviously. But he didn’t comment on it, besides pressing a gentle kiss to your hand that was wrapped around his fist. 

You never imagined a day to come where you’d feel sad and annoyed about the prospect of him sitting on your couch, able to envision the way he’s shaking his knees as he’s trying to come up with a new way to apologize for this repeated conflict.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of your mind, you unlock the door and open it with a soft creak. The hallway gives a panoramic view of the open living room, and like a deer caught in flashlights, Spencer’s head whips around to face you, those big brown bambi eyes searching for yours despite the few feet of distance. 

He catches on to your mood as you silently place your purse on the dresser. The pillows on the couch ruffle as he sits up straighter, bending his body to face you.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t show up today,” his voice cracks, and you hate the way the small sound pulls on your heartstrings. “I– I don’t know what went wrong with the profile. We established it was a white male, but then—”

“Then it turned out to be a woman, and everyone was thrown off guard,” you finish with a jab. “I know how it goes, Spencer. A simple apology isn’t going to do it anymore.” 

A sigh escapes you. “God, you don’t know how many times I had to reschedule things so that it fit into your schedule. This isn’t going to work if you can’t understand that.”

Desperation laced the soft tone of his whisper. “Then what do I do?”

You raise your hands in the air in question before they fall back on your thighs with a thud. “Well, I don’t know. Beg on your knees for forgiveness?” 

The harsh sarcasm slithered off of your tongue. It’s the classic image of mercy: hands clasped together, pleading on your knees with tear-streaked cheeks. There was no way he didn’t understand that. Still, the despair must have been bigger than his ego, because when you looked at him again, he had fallen to the ground, legs resting on the carpet.

“Spencer,” you start in a warning, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Don’t be mad at me, please?” 

Next were his hands. His long, delicate fingers made contact with the floor. And then his back: arching it like the pose came naturally to him.

“Spencer, please,” you try again, embarrassed by the way your skin heats at the act when you’re supposed to be mad at him.

With the way he’s bent down, you’re able to take a peek into his dress shirt and see the soft reddened skin of his neck and upper chest, decorated in some faded freckles you could blindly point out by now. It was only emphasized by the way his tie was sweeping over the floor with every hypnotizing sway of his hips as he crawled his way over to you.

There was no space to back away, feeling the cold wood of the dresser hit the back of your bare legs as you stumbled back. And truly, you were too curious to see how far he was planning on taking this in an attempt to win your forgiveness.

Kneeling in front of you, you could make out the faded red spots creased under his eyes, indicating that he’s probably cried before — beating himself up over not being able to make it. Those eyes were dangerous, you’ve always said it, big and glassy as they blink up at you, the green hints visible that you weren’t always able to see.

“You look so beautiful, I didn’t tell you that.”

He hadn’t. 

You’d sent him a picture of the dress you were wearing when you were getting ready, him still at Quantico. When you first started dating, you quickly learned that Spencer wasn’t a good texter — far from it — but over time, he’d learned to text you back right away. On days when he wasn’t busy then. If you didn’t get a response back in the next two minutes, it was a sign for you to cancel whatever you had planned, knowing it would take at least hours for him to get home. Today was a day like that.

Spencer let his hand trail over your calf and up to the inside of your knee, goosebumps erupting at the gentle caress of his fingers. 

He inches closer toward you, messy locks tickling as his eyes flit over your legs that are at eye-level with him. “Heels give the illusion that your legs are longer,” he explains, pressing a chaste kiss to the bare skin, testing the waters. “It all has to do with gravity,” another kiss, “you shift the center of it, which changes the body’s proportions,” kiss. 

Every word he spoke, and every moment you stayed silent in anticipation, he took as an opportunity to take it a step further. Sweet pecks turned into longer presses of his lips, wetting them with his tongue to a dark pink hue before kissing you again. Occasionally giving a lick before wrapping his mouth around the muscle, sucking a mark. 

It was a distraction. He was playing exactly into the need he knew you always had for him. It was a new tactic, and you had to give it to him; it was starting to work.

“Stop,” you announced, your voice stern as you used the tip of your shoe to press against his chest, pushing him slightly back.

His brows furrowed, mouth dropping open in dissatisfaction. “Why?”

The way he says it makes him sound like a small child, not understanding the concept of not being able to get anything they want. And whatever nurturing qualities you have in you cause you to feel guilty. The clear, watery drops forming at the corners of his eyes don’t help with that either.

You cross your arms, assembling defiance. “Seducing me is fucking low, Spencer,” you scoff. 

“I— I wasn’t—“ he panics. “I just missed you. I needed to touch you.” 

“Well, I missed you too, Spencer! You were supposed to be there,” you groan out in frustration.

“I know, and I’m so sorry! I mean it.” He quickly apologizes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, burying his face back into your thigh. 

The wet stains of his tears transferred to your inner thighs, making his lashes stick messily together when he looked up at you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you? Please?”

Reaching out, you wrap his tie around your fingers, making him groan as you tug him up on his feet.

Instinctively, he reaches out to place his big palms on either side of your waist, pulling you close.

“Nuh, uh, uh,” you tsk. “Help me up here.” You nod to the dresser you’re leaning against.

He blinks his confusion away, lowering his hands and bending through his knees to lift you up. You’re gently placed on the hardwood, dress lifted up in a bunch at your waist.

Maneuvering his body between yours, he’s ready to cup your cheek and envelop you in a kiss when you place your finger to his lips. 

“Come on, angel,” he cries as you deny him again.

“You’re such a crybaby, Spence,” you huff. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

With his impatience igniting yours, you decide to not wait any longer and spread your legs. 

Spencer’s gulp is visible, Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes drift to the lace between your thighs. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Want to make it up to me?”

“Yes,” he answers breathlessly and nods. “I’ll do anything.”

“Kiss me, then,” you dare, fighting a sly smile as his pupils widen in awe.

Spencer drops himself to his knees, fitting his frame in between your legs as he spreads them open wider, the cold whoosh of wind that comes with the movement tickling your sensitive, covered folds.

He held you by your hips, scooting you forward so that his mouth was aligned with your cunt. “Smell so good,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose over your inner thighs. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

With that, he used the tip of his button nose to draw a line up your folds, his tongue following behind as it lapped up a wet stripe. You shivered at the touch, abdomen flexing as the thin lacy fabric pressed against you with the power of his tongue.

“Gonna get you so wet for me, going to make you feel so good,” he breathed against you, not sure if he intended for you to hear or if it was a promise to himself. 

He repeated the motion, humming as his tongue came across your clit, feeling it swell under the tip of his tongue as he expertly flicked the little bud. 

The barrier of underwear was starting to bother him, wanting — no, needing — to hear more of the beautiful, soft moans you were trying to hold back.

Carefully, he curved his finger into the fabric, pulling it aside so that it rested in the place where your thigh met your puffy lips. Then he dove back in.

“Yeah,” you moaned, leaning your head back. You could practically feel yourself dripping at this point, though you had to concentrate on it, because the second a stream flooded out of you, Spencer was there to lap it up.

Spencer was a loud lover: moaning and humming as he nibbled on your labia and circled your needy hole, getting immense pleasure from the way you squirmed or gasped when he hit the spot, from being the one to make you feel good. 

You locked your legs around his back. With your heels still on, you dragged the sharp red points across his skin, pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, Spence, that’s it, right there—“ you whimpered, hands reaching out to lock in his hair.

His cock twitched up in his pants, rubbing against the pre-cum-stained spot that had been accumulating from the moment he went down on you. 

Nothing spurred him on more than seeing you be so eager as you finally touched him, reaching out to him willingly. 

On a mission to earn your love and release, he started sucking on your sweet spots with all his might. He hummed against the delicate pearl that was situated between his lips, keeping your hips steady, almost bruising you as he held you in place while you shook as your orgasm came down.

He continued to lick you clean while avoiding your sensitive clit. Reaching out with his thumb, he gathered the last of your wetness before pushing it back into you. 

“Fuck,” you softly cry when his thumb enters you.

He hummed in observation. “You came without me using my fingers.”

A hoarse chuckle escaped your throat. “So what? You decided to finger-fuck me now?”

“I’d rather fuck you with my cock,” he states, the dirty words a sharp contrast to the sweet, boyishness of his voice. 

Taking his words in, you decide to give him what he wants. Albeit on your terms. 

“Stand up and turn around.”

It was fun ordering him around. Especially when he actually listened because his pulsing cock drove him desperate enough.

His knees cracked a little when he stood up, holding your gaze for as long as he could before he turned around, his back facing you.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in closer until you were able to let your hands slide over his shoulders. You rested your head on them, breath fanning across his neck. “Did I hurt you with my heels?”

“N-no,” he swallowed at the proximity. “It felt good.”

You laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest, freeing a swarm of butterflies. “Of course you enjoyed it. You’re being such a good boy for me.”

The tips of your fingers moved down until they were splayed across his chest. Batting his tie away, you started opening up the buttons on his shirt — a skill you had grown quite expert in since dating Spencer Reid.

He breathed out a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly as more of his skin got exposed to the tension-filled air. 

Knowing you weren’t able to reach the lower buttons (or maybe it was an act of haste), Spencer lent you a hand in taking the shirt off.

With a soft thud, the white fabric fell to the ground, and you hummed in pride as you spotted two pairs of red lines over his back.

Using your nails, you traced the pattern that you had created. 

“Feels good, baby,” Spencer panted. His own hand has found its way to his bulge, squeezing the throbbing length in search of relief.

“Don’t know why you’re even trying,” you comment in a silken purr as you spot Spencer’s actions. “You know my hands feel better than yours.”

Despite not being able to see his face, you could tell a rouge blush had found its way to his cheeks by now. His voice sounded hopeful. “Would you touch me?”

You responded with a hum and a gentle squeeze of his slender waist. “You’ve been doing a very good job at listening. I think you deserve a reward. What do you think?”

He quickly nods. “Yeah. I’ve been good to you.”

It’s almost like he needs to remind himself, still feeling guilty of not showing up this evening when he had promised you so.

Still, he saw your words as an invitation to turn back around. He had his bottom lip trapped in between his teeth, watching you watch him.

“Looks pretty painful,” you remark as you let your fingers graze over his bulge. 

Spencer bucks his hips up into you, cursing at his bodily functions as you take your hand away. 

“Now you have to keep being patient, or I can put a stop to this right now.” 

He didn’t know when he had subconsciously handed the reins back to you, you now in power when he had believed he’d found your salvation in between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll be good.”

With a trusting nod, you moved to the button on his pants, undoing it with ease, and the zipper followed swiftly along.

You had to wrap your fingers around his shaft to pull him out, his cock having filled the fabric to the point where it was a struggle to just tug the material down his legs. 

A sound in between a gasp and a moan left your lips at the sight of him. No matter how many times you’d seen him like this, it never failed to amaze you.

“You’re so pretty, Spence.”

His eyes were focused on the way your manicured nails tapped along his length. “Thank you.”

You used your thumb to paint his tip in sticky pre-cum, prepping him for what might come, as Spencer fought the urge to hiss in delight. 

“You want more than just my hands, though.”

Spencer’s eyes found yours. He tried to read you, but it wasn’t as easy as it was on the job, distracted both by your beauty and by your warm touch as you played with him.

“If I’m allowed to,” he responded in perfect politeness. 

You didn’t smile, solely shrugged. “I’m still pretty pissed at you,” you squeezed him in your palm. “Don’t know if I’ll allow you the pleasure.”

“But you deserve the pleasure,” he quickly intervened. “I’m not doing it for me,” lie, “you deserve to feel good.”

The wheels were turning in your head, and he used the chance to convince you more, adding some oil to the rusty mechanics. “You don’t even have to look at me. I’ll— I’ll turn you around. You can just focus on you. On feeling good.”

“Alright.”

He could cry in relief, his balls straining at the prospect. If there’s one situation he’s been most grateful he’s learned negotiation for at the academy, it might be this. 

Gently, he helped you off the dresser, only to turn you around and attentively bend you over it. It was only then that he noticed the large round mirror on the wall above. He didn’t say any of it. Praying desire has clouded your mind as well.

After becoming aware of the mirror’s presence, he seemed to not be able to look away. It was a picture-perfect image, after all. Your face scrunched in pleasure as he held you by your hips and entered you in one smooth, long stroke.

Spencer sucked in a breath. “So warm, baby.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the skin to soften his whines as he started moving into you.

Your hands were gripping the sides of the dresser, nails biting into the wood as he stretched out your walls. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned into your shoulder, his breath starting to heave as he picked up his pace. 

He was absolutely enamored by the way your breasts bounced, having asked you to pull the straps of your dress and bra down, your dress now bunched around your waist as Spencer used it as extra grip to slap his hips against you.

“Can you squeeze them for me, please?”

Catching his expression in the mirror, you couldn’t even try to hide your amusement at the question. Spencer held you steadily enough to let your hands roam to your tits, cupping the soft flesh before pressing them together.

An actual cry came out of his mouth, absolutely lovestruck with you as he fastened his speed. 

“Mmhm,” he moans in a muffled tone, lips pressed against your hair, unapologetically taking whiffs of the sweet scent. 

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he praises as he picks up his speed, heavy balls slapping against you as his hot body is hovering over you. 

The heat of his skin warming yours and the weight of the words he speaks engulf the entirety of your body in tingling sparks. 

“So nice, Spence,” you softly whine as he presses into you deeper, leaving a mark inside that was only for him to feel.

“I know, baby. It’s so nice for me too,” he hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against your back.

The sensations were overwhelming, Spencer having his cock nuzzled inside of you, gratefully accepting him with every flutter of your cunt. 

“So pretty. So messy, baby,” Spencer whines as he covers your shoulder in wet kisses, matching the sounds of skin against skin. 

Through the reflection in front of you, you could see his face shining in what you first thought was sweat — but upon another look, realized were tears streaming down his face.

In concern, you commented on it. “Spencer, are you crying?”

“I— I’m sorry. You just feel so good, angel. I can’t help it.” He squeaked, not stopping the steady and deep rhythm that he had created. 

You laughed, but the sound turned into a loud moan when his hand ghosted over your stomach and found its way to your clit. 

“Can I make you come?”

“Yes!” You whine, teeth sinking into your lip. “Yes, please, Spencer.”

“Oh god, baby,” Spencer groans back. Hearing you be the one to beg him drove him crazy. He positioned you on his cock with his free hand, finding a new angle that made his eyes roll back in delight. 

Sweat dripped down his face to his jaw, mixing with yours. His chest heaved against your back while he pinned you down against the dresser. His lips were on your shoulder and neck, sucking marks without any precision or care, just need. And two of his fingers moved against your clit at a speed that continued to fasten. You felt him everywhere. 

A desperate sound filled the room. “I’m gonna come, baby, I can’t hold it anymore.” Spencer panted. “You feel so good. Jesus, so fucking good, angel.”

“Mmh,” you nod. “Want to feel you come inside of me, Spence. Fill me up.”

Your request was immediately answered. With a deep groan, followed by smaller moans and cries, he spilled into you. 

He doesn’t stop like he usually would because of the sensitivity but instead prolongs the moment as long as he can — most of all, because he needs you to come too.

“Almost there,” you gasp in a breath as his fingertips are pulling you under.

Just a moment later, you’re shaking. Hands patting the dresser and reaching out to grab his arms in an effort to ground yourself as he makes you come. 

You thought you saw it wrong when you looked at him in the mirror, seeing his mouth form the O-shape you knew all too well. But then his cock twitched inside of you, never having softened, and warm drops of his seed filled you again. 

“Oh, angel,” he cried, his arms moving up to wrap around your waist. 

“I know,” you reassure him. “You did so good, Spence. Made me feel so good.”

His hips shake and twitch until he’s given you his all.

He presses another kiss to the side of your forehead. “‘M sorry for today.”

Reaching your hand behind you, you cupped the other side of his face, forcing him to look at your reflection in front of him.

“It’s okay. You made it up to me,” you gently smiled.

“Should’ve just left work,” he sniffled, his grip around you lessening.

“Hey,” your tone takes him out of his thoughts, and you place your hand atop his to strengthen his hold on you. “She’ll still be in town. Why don’t we visit tomorrow morning? It’s on the way to Quantico, so worst case scenario, you drop me off and take the subway.”

A smile creeps onto his face, accepting your touch when you intertwine your fingers with his on your stomach. “That sounds good.”

[ruinix]

can you do one where reader goes to one of his games and shows up on the big screen then it switches to quinn and him smiling looking up 🙇‍♀️ i fear this would kill me

( i love all ur writes they fuel me throughout the day esp w the cannuck season over )

Hello, lovely. This is such a cute prompt for a lil fluffy thought.🥺Thank you for reading, lovely, sweetie. I am sending you lots of forehead kisses, mwamwa. Apologies for only getting to your ask. Hope you're still there! (Game photo from Pinterest.)

18+. Fluff thoughts. No warnings except it might not be realistic. (Optional) Bonus content on your POV included!⬇️⬇️⬇️

Quinn would always want you to attend his games. He knew you would sometimes prefer sitting with the crowd, sometimes the family box. Depending on your decision, he would try to get you the seats you wanted, always eager to ask whether you would be going or not, especially for home games. Except tonight, you told him that you had plans.

He was dejected. Of course, he was. He only wanted you to see the brief intermission featuring Fin—you've always loved Fin—and perhaps even get the chance to interact with Fin when the mascot roamed the crowd during the game. He would even make that happen, perhaps drop hints to the mascot wearer where you would be, but you would not be attending tonight.

However, instead of telling you that to entice you to cancel your plans, he didn't, fearing you would cancel your plans. He didn't like interfering with your plans no matter how much he craved your very presence in the arena. You were his good luck charm, but that included your presence wherever you were. As long as he had you.

Currently, Quinn was fucking thankful you weren't in the crowd. He was playing like shit. The Canucks were down a goal in a 2-1 game with no change in the score since the first. It was more than halfway through the last period. He tried to make plays but the puck was getting swiped away. It didn't help that he could feel his fatigue, his heart pumping hard, his nearly cramping.

Yet he pushed himself. He knew you would be watching, even by checking the NHL app for the score or play-by-plays. He had to do you right, especially when you gave him actual good luck kisses before he went out. He just—

A whistle was blown for a stoppage. Quinn swerved behind the other team's goal line, taking deep and regulated breaths, taking full control of himself, skating towards the bench when the coach called for timeout. He sighed, taking sips of water, listening to the strategy while he rested himself.

At that point, he was starting to get overwhelmed. From the countless plays to be done, to the slight cramped spaces next to his teammates. Until he heard the crowd cheer, he dared to look up the jumbotron, seeing Fin holding a messily done sign.

In broad black markers, in fucking glitters, it said, "GO CANUCKS. GO QUINNY, MY LOVE!"

He nearly frowned until he saw you, jumping and cheering despite the frustrating score, wearing the signed home jersey and red-black-yellow outfit. He could read your lips, shouting "Go, Quinn! I love you!" before you spun to show off his number on your back.

Quinn laughed, earning looks from his teammates and the coaching staff, but he didn't fucking care, because you spun again, grabbing your sign from Fin and waved it in full avid fan energy. Nothing could ever bring him down, not even at the sight of his game-exhausted yet grinning face being blasted on the Jumbotron for at least a second before it flipped over to you cheering harder. So this was your plan. Fuck, he loved this. So much.

"Huggy, do you hear me?" The couch called. "You either get back to the bench or—"

"I'm rested. I'll play," he said just as the whistle was blown, signaling the end of their timeout. He nodded at his teammates on the ice. Feeling renewed, feeling the burn of your kisses earlier, wishing that you were still on the jumbotron, he adjusted his helmet one last time. "Let's do this."

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

They won. The Canucks actually won 4-2 with Quinn having the game-winning goal. Three goals on the last 5 minutes.

With glitter under your nails, on your jersey that you purchased in arena store, on your seat, on the floor, you screamed with the crowd, waving your crumpled sign. Even more when Quinn got the first star.

You were shaking all over the place from the adrenaline, zooming onto Quinn when he went back on the ice to give out his Canucks hockey stick. You felt so proud of him. He played so amazingly, so breathtaking, especially after their timeout.

Your heart did backflips when you noticed him turning to your general direction before he skated away for an interview. Then there he was again on the jumbotron, his voice raspy, his hand running through his hair to keep it away from his face yet a few wet strands fell on his temples. It should be a crime to be that handsome, no?

After Quinn disappeared, everything felt like a blur. You walked with the crowd, determined to go to a specific place in Rogers arena to wait for him.

Your phone pinged with a message, "Don't leave. Wait on our spot."

Our spot, he said. You let out a giggle, ignoring the concerned looks you received. You called him and he instantly answered.

"My Love...hi." He sounded like he was breathless.

"It's our spot now, huh, Mr. Game Winner?"

There was a pause on the other line. "What else is it then?" You could hear the smile on his voice, could see the blush blooming on his face. Quinn has always been so simple. Shy but so eager to brag in his own way.

"Our spot," you echoed, giggling so much that you heard him chuckle. "Don't take long."

"See you in fifteen."

"Make sure to shower!" You whisper-yelled.

That made him laugh. The loud and cute laugh of his. The exact laugh you wish you had heard when he was on the ice after your quick five-second-jumbotron fame. You felt so soft all over, like you were swimming on the clouds with Quinn's laugh on repeat in your had.

"Longer then? Thirty?"

"Thirty. I'll wait for you, Quinny. I love you."

"I love you more."

You both spent a whole minute just listening to each other's silence before you ended the call with a soft kissing noise which made him laugh again, leaving you so happy like you won the world when it was Quinn who won the game.

I tried my best. This was written with me who doesn't attend hockey games face-to-face (or any sports) as an avid TV watcher (i fear the crowds).

-> more thoughts? List.

[lost-and-cursed]

Idk. You can't never know quite for sure. The older are you, the longer you are in specific friendship it's easier to figure out. It's easier with other neurodivergent people, but ultimately:

— you shouldn't be the one chasing friendship for the long period of time. You can initiate contact, invite someone somewhere. But if they're constantly postponing ('because of the work'), canceling, not inviting you back — they're, at best, your pal and, at worst, tolerating you.

— Look for genuine enthusiasm in people. Someone who enjoys your rants, asks additional questions. Someone who seems to be happy that you asked to join, not just okay with it. (Though sometimes it can evolve gradually overtime from acquaintance to friend)

Watch out for 'yeah, okay I guess', 'you joining wouldn't hurt' and similar noncommittal answers that not so much express enthusiastic consent agreement, but just not neccesarily minding you being there. (Again it's fine to acquire some social contacts, but that's not friendship starter)

Watch out for generalised invites — 'everyone's welcome' and even seemingly enthusiastic 'you should totally go, there's gonna be everybody'. It won't hurt to have some buddies that can be established in such events, but again that's not sign that they like you

— As someone else advised, shared interests is a good basis for friendship, just like regular meetings for shared purpose. Most people, who would seek you out one on one after club or whatever, would be actually interested in you and what have to say. (At the very least on topic of shared interests and you can build it up from there)

— People shouldn't be laughing at you. It's fine-ish if it happens like once in 10 meetings, though, I imagine it still wouldn't be comfortable for you due to previous trauma. People will say 'Oh you should be able to laugh at yourself'. No, you shouldn't.

If you find yourself with group of acquaintances and they start laughing and you don't understand why. Ask them to explain. If they wave you off, ask afterwards whoever you consider to be the most trustworthy in the group. If they refuse to elaborate or are shifty about that, that's red flag. And so is regular exclusion from the group jokes.

If you know they're laughing at you, ask them to stop. Say 'hey, i hate people laughing at me. can you please stop?' (or it upsets me instead of hate).

Outright refusal is red flag. Dodgy answers and platitudes aka 'Well it's just joke", "We laugh at everyone", "Sorry it's just was too funny" is unfortunately beige flag. Neurotypics just be doing this shit. (Though the smaller the group, the more responsive they should be. If there's like three of you second step is more applicable) If they apologize and say something along the lines of 'Sorry we really shouldn't have laughed' or 'we'll try to be better in the future ' that's green-ish flag.

It's important to try to communicate it as early as possible once you're included in the group. But what's indicative is patterns. Do they continue? (If they do try second step or run) Do they laugh the same way at majority of group members? (That's good actually, because that means this is group dynamic. You might still not feel comfortable in such group, but they aren't out to get you).

If they continue, but you do actually like some of the members. Pick someone you trust the most and say something along the lines of 'Hey, I was afraid to speak up with the group, but I was kinda bullied a lot in high school, so laughter really hurts. Do you think (you could help speak with *group leader*/there's someone in the group who could make *initiators* stop). It makes you somewhat vulnerable to them, but if they aren't outright dick at worst they dismiss your concerns (then you ask them to not speak about that to others) and do nothing. If you have trouble differentiate whether someone is a dick, it's risky and I would try to convey the 'trusted person' the sake message, but in more veiled way. 'Remember the *situation*. I still don't quite get why they laughed, but it really hurted. And it hurted even more that noone seemed to care. Do you think it would make sense to speak to them about it or it's just me problem?'

— The most of the previous point is damage control and attempt to navigate gray dynamics, which brings as to this point.

Pick small-group or singular-friend over large group dynamics. If you're unsure about big group (over 4 friends) you might be better off leaving.

Unfortunately, if you lack social awareness it's almost impossible to affect in meaningful ways large group dynamic. The behaviour of people in big groups tends to lean on more unruly (or even cruel) and less conscious (or even sympathetic). They are not evil, but they sorta guess what's acceptable amount of sympathy, tact, and any other traits is. Usually they base it around leader traits or perceived average, but occasionally you find yourself in situation where every member of the group is more sane separately than together.

So if you want to stay in the bigger friend group you need as much allies as you can get inside it. People who you're talking to outside of group on the personal level that can shield you from some neurotypical backlash, protect you interests and help you affect group dynamics in more favourable way.

But that's kinda tall order, so I personally prefer (and recommend people who are insecure) to rely on one to one contact for meaningful friend connections.

— I kinda spoke terribly a lot on the topic of friends already, but, in short, you should be comfortable with them. You should be able to ask them questions and have them actually answered. Yeah, even if you ask why were you angry with me yesterday. You shouldn't be judged or mocked for your interests. They should support your ideas and interests. You should just vibe.

It's not 100% guarantee that you'll get it on first try or that you'll be best friends, but most people who meet the criteria will value you, if maybe not always to the degree you would like them to.

— About earning respect. Being competent in valued topic. Valued topic can vary from group to group. For book club it's books, for nerds it can be dnd, for dudes in general sports or computer games, for gals it might be fashion or specific series. Figure out what's the dominant interests in the group that you wish to join are. Learn at least basics and some people won't even mind teaching you, but if you know a lot you will be respected more

— Addition that noone asked for, but important to remember about neurotypicals.

They operate on fae rules. They have a lot of very rigid rules about social interactions that they will not tell you about, but will bend them to their wishes in the ways you won't be able to comprehend.

They're not malicious about it. They don't even know that rules exist, they just affect them like gravity, like the only thing that makes sense.

So they can be polite and cruel, because they know that polite is good, but they never learnt why.

Some people were given more comprehensive list of guidelines that they follow more consciously and they are a lot more pleasant to be around.

Most people mocking you for existing are frankly just too stupid to recognise that being weird isn't a choice. It doesn't excuse them, but it helps conceptualise cruelty that comes from stupidity and their own lacking.

— About not being weird... Advising people on masking is always unpleasant business. Because masking is a burden. It's a piece of heavy armour that will never quite fit, will chafe, is heavy on maintenance and won't ever protect you completely. And yet a lot of neurodivergents find it necessary sooner or later.

Frankly my first advice would be to seek other neurodivergents, queers and outcasts who will be more likely to accept you as you're. You still might need to figure out how best apply yourself to social skills, but it won't be quite as big burden.

There's no general advice on masking. You'll need to find out 'what's wrong with you' (nothing, but society certainly has opinions on that). You can just go for diagnostical criteria for your neurodivergence and remember specific times and examples when it applied and ruined the experience for you. And then you'll need to figure out counter for it. Most often the counter is A System.

A System is the set of rules and if thens that make sure that you're in the clear with neurotypicals in certain situations at least 90% of time. (It might be something like 'if everyone laughs laugh, even if you don't understand' or 'If they say 'it's up to you' if they were angry I apologise, if they weren't I say 'its fine either way')

General principles of the system is sorta like dnd. Some of your stats are low, and others are high. You need to figure out how to resolve problems linked with your low stats by your high stats or avoid them all together.

And since one of the low stats is intuitive speaking, you compensate it by preparation, by walking yourself through scenarios and trying to come up with universal cheatsheet of answers

I also included some common types of complaints neurotypicals make about neurodivergent behaviour to maybe help you figure out the general direction of how to approach it.

It's under cut, because while I wanted to include at least some direct examples, I felt honestly gross elaborating. Because complaints are 'I kinda hate you for existing' and advice is remarkably vague and unhelpful. It's figure out how to bend yourself over and backwards to fit the mold.

Because masking is always grounded in cruelty, in fundamental idea that you're not enough and dominating ideas of behaviour are correct. You are and they're not.

I am proud of y'all for living and trying and being yourself. I know that sooner or later your found the friends that appreciate you for you. Sending love and hugs💛

About those ridiculous types of complaints

Annoying. It can be talking too much, having vocal stims, having trouble to perceive social boundaries, being active to the point of overshadowing others, speaking out of turn or without regard of how much you speak, asking questions (And ironically being intense or unfitting)

Unfortunately main masking strategy is usually to shut up as much as you can and watch people a lot. Depending on specific problem you can read up on it, but generally you need A system and creating alphabet of signs that things go wrong and the person reacts weirdly. In my experience a lot of figuring that out is connected with finding how much od your personality people find acceptable and how to backpedal really fast and apologise at drop of hat.

Intense. It's usually Why do you care so much? and Why are you so focused on the thing. The common complaint is lack of moderation, both in speech and behaviour. Unwillingness to backdown, lack of social awareness when you cross from maybe acceptable to Definitely Not, using strong language or lack of cushioning down your speech, can be just speaking too much on the topic. Might be linked to purely behavioural stuff like staring, fast or loud speech, crying etc

Main masking strategy is to figure out how to look chill when you aren't and pace out your response. Figure out acceptable amounts of talking and reacting. Having designated friends to vent about blatant unfairness of that all.

Uncooperative/Unfitting. When people have problems with you being not in the line with social norms at all. Refusing to show respect to people who don't deserve it, not laughing when everyone laughs, not following unspoken rules or spoken that are stupid, not being interested in common interests, not responding to the social interactions in expected manner. Essentially being perceived either as entirely incapable of being part of the group, or actively sabotaging social norms and group dynamics.

Main masking strategy... is studying and learning as much social rules and expectations as you can, fulfilling at least third of them.

Uncanny valley. Usually behaviour 'problems'. Your behaviour might not even be disruptive, people just don't fucking like it. Sometimes neurotypicals look at neurodivergent people and see something alien. The cadence of voice, of trying to hard or not enough, too stilted movement, inappropriate resting pose and bunch of other bullshit.

Main masking strategy is studying people's habits irl or in the non-parody movies to figure out how 'normal' behaviour looks and try to replicate it. Practicing smiling or what not, maybe even watching footage of yourself

The single person tells me to delete the addendum and I will. I hope it's helpful or illustrative or something. But I am not expert on everything and while my personal coping mechanism is studying every single social context imaginable. There just isn't much to advise in general terms.

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever

[81pastrys]

Timing Mishap

Summary— Lando allows an unplanned sleepover with his current girlfriend but forgot one important detail: it’s his weekend with Lexie

Warnings— sex joke (not around Lexie)

A/N— I’ve been strangled by school stuff, apologies for going MIA

Dad Lando List

Request— could you do a fic where the drivers forget to pick up their daughter from a previous relationship because their current girlfriend wants them to spend time with them? whatever ending is up to you

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

The mid-day breeze felt nice, the balcony overlooking the Monaco shoreline of yachts and expensive looking people. Lando’s current girlfriend had begged to stay the night in which he agreed, only to realize late afternoon that it was his weekend with Lexie.

“Shit.” He muttered. His girlfriend, who was comfortably sitting on his lap, was startled at his sudden curse. He rushed to get up and grab his phone. As expected: missed calls, texts, even voicemails.

“What’s wrong lan?” His girlfriend inquired, confused. She knew about Lexie, but hadn’t the faintest clue of the schedule him and his ex had agreed upon.

“It’s my weekend with Lex, I’m sorry I completely forgot when you had asked to stay.” He rambled, now putting more clothes on as to go and get his little girl. “You can stay another weekend, I promise.” He said with a kiss before rushing out the door.

She knew she couldn’t be around Lexie unless they were to get married or more serious, so she grabbed her things and left not too long after he did. She wasn’t particularly mad, but she wanted to spend more time with him.

Lando broke a few road laws on his way to his exes house. He called her and she didn’t answer so he texted her in hopes she knew to expect him. When he arrived and knocked on the door he had to wait a while, punishment he supposes.

The door opened and his toddler came running to him while her mum stood to the side. “Daddy!!” She squealed in delight. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he picked her up from there.

“Hey my girl!” He said after returning the affectionate squeeze. “I’m sorry I’m late I slept too much.” He added, knowing how excited she would get to stay with him. “How about to make it up we get your favorite treat?”

“Ice cream!” She said with a giggle. Lando confirmed they could get ice cream and prepared for the scolding his ex was about to give while Lexie gathered her things.

“This is the second time you’re late.” She said monotoned. “You’re never late, maybe on time- but never late.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“I’m really sorry, I let my dick think before my brain.” He joked. Well not really a joke but she knew that, they had a kid for crying out loud. “I’ll keep on top of it now, I’m sorry I kept you waiting..again.”

“You’re lucky she has your last name.” His ex scoffed. The little girl came back with a small book bag and a stuffie cuddled to her chest. “Alright, be good for daddy okay? I love you lots!” Lexie hugged her mum before grabbing Lando’s hand and he whisked her to the car.

He took immediately to his promise and drove to her favorite ice cream shop. He noticed she looked a bit glum in the car seat and frowned. “What’s wrong my baby?” He asked.

“I thought daddy forgot about me.” She mumbled. Lando felt a pang of guilt, he had chosen someone else over his little girl. Not once, but twice.

“I can never forget you baby, daddy accidentally slept too late.” He carried the lie, not wanting to further upset her. “Tell you what, we’ll get ice cream, then we can watch a movie and cuddle to sleep.” He knew that was her favorite. They usually only slept in the same bed during race weekends but she secretly loved it.

“I sleep in daddy’s bed?” She asked cautious but excited. He nodded with a smile and she brightened up. He got them ice cream and they ate it while giggling over nothing. They went to Lando’s and his girlfriend left a note, short and sweet.

Grabbed my things, hope you make the weekend special for your little girl -xo

“Alright, what movie should we watch?” He asked. Lexie yawned and Lando realized they would never make it out awake on the couch this late while watching a movie. “How about bath time and movie in bed?” He asked softly at her level. She nodded with a small smile.

After her bath, Lando brushed her hair and she put on pajamas. Lando putting his on in his closet when she crawled in bed. He put on a princess movie of her liking and she got cuddled into his side under the covers. He kissed her head.

“Goodnight my baby, I love you lots.” He whispered in her hair. They fell asleep not long after the movie had started.

Little bit of Lexie for you all 🙂‍↕️

@il0vereadingstuff @pandabiiissh @itznotsophia @justaf1girl @kallanfiona @angelluv16 @chertik-007vvv

[in-tua-deep]

Was thinking about how even though ART threatened its life and terrified it the literal first time they met and even so ART is its best friend while gurathin is clearly cared about but will always get the label of “the client that murderbot Doesn’t Like” in a way that just feels different to me

And I genuinely don’t remember but… did gurathin ever apologize to murderbot??

Not for being suspicious or careful or whatever, but the way ART did. Bc in their first interaction, ART apologized not for threatening it, but for scaring it

Acknowledging that it has feelings and that ART’s actions had consequences that directly affected the wellbeing of murderbot and that murderbot had valid reasons for “sulking” or not wanting to engage with ART in that moment. Because ART scared it.

I think that waking up hurt and vulnerable and finding out that someone you didn’t trust dug inside your mind and dragged out your biggest secrets that, if known, you are certain will directly lead to your death. Well. I just think that would be incredibly scary is all

[nekonaps0]

I will always be next to you...

✦characters: House warden

✦ gn!reader

✦TW: abandonment issues, hurt comfort

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, he doesn’t understand.

You flinch when he raises his voice. You panic when he’s late. You apologize for things that aren’t your fault, begging him not to “get tired of you.”

Riddle is silent for a long time when it finally clicks.

“…So that’s why you’ve been walking on eggshells,” he murmurs, the realization hitting like a brick.

He takes your hands, carefully like you’re the most fragile thing in his hands.

“I don’t intend to leave you, ever. You don’t need to prove your worth to me. You're… already enough my rose.”

He may not always say the right thing, but after that day, he works hard to keep his schedule in check. He will leaving notes, waiting patiently, and showing up when he says he will.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s reaction is frustration. Not at you, but at the world that made you feel disposable.

“So that’s what this is about,” he mutters when you pull away from him after a small disagreement, your voice trembling as you say, “I just don’t want to be left again.”

He scoffs under his breath. “Tch… You think I’d just toss you aside like that?” He pulls you into a loose, lazy hug, but his grip is firm. Protective.

“I’m not perfect, I far from that, but I’m not a heartless asshole. If you think I’d just go and leave you…” He exhales deeply. “Guess I’ve gotta do a better job showing you otherwise. Because there is no place I rather be than by your side”

He’s not always good with words, but he’ll fight tooth and nail to be your anchor. Even if he grumbles about it, he stays. He would always choose you and stay.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul’s mask cracks the second he realizes.

You’re not clingy. You’re scared.

He remembers all too well what it’s like to be left behind, mocked, ignored, unloved. His voice wavers a bit when he says, “Have you… always felt this way?”

You nod. Quietly.

He takes a trembling breath and gently brushes your hair back.

“Then… we’ll make a new kind of contract. One where I promise I won’t go anywhere. No loopholes. No conditions. Just me… staying. For you. Always there for you.”

He makes sure to check in more after that emotionally, not just with gifts or gestures. He holds your hand longer. Answers every text, even when he’s busy. You’ll never question whether he cares again.

Kalim Al-Asim

“Oh…”

Kalim’s expression drops the moment he hears it. There’s no confusion. No delay. Just pure, immediate empathy.

“You’ve been scared I’ll leave? That I’ll stop loving you?”

You nod, tears welling, and he just pulls you in. No hesitation.

“I would never, ever do that!” he says fiercely, his voice trembling. “You’re stuck with me! I mean it! Even if you pushed me away, I’d still come back! I’m not going anywhere!”

Kalim becomes even more affectionate checking in on you, hugging you constantly, sending little messages saying things like “Just thinking about you!”

He treats your heart so gently so caring because it’s the precious thing to him. And he promises over and over, that you’re not alone.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is quiet when you finally tell him. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t argue. He simply listens, his gaze sharp but not cold.

“…So all this time, you were terrified I’d just… disappear,” he says slowly. “Like you weren’t worth staying for.”

He exhales. It’s not exasperation. It’s heartbreak.

He cups your face with both hands and presses your forehead to his.

“You are not a passing thing in my life,” he whispers. “You are not disposable. I chose you because you shine in ways most people never will. And I will not walk away. You saw the ugliest side of me and you stayed. No matter what I will always there with you no matter what”

He becomes more verbal about his feelings, more transparent because he knows how much the silence hurts you.

And when he says, “I love you,” it’s clear he means forever.

Idia Shroud

Idia panics. Literally.

You confess your abandonment issues during a vulnerable moment, and Idia just freezes.

“H-huh?! Like… wait, like really? You think that I could?— wait, I mean—!”

He stops when he sees the pain in your eyes, and his shoulders fall. “…Crap. I made it worse, didn’t I?”

But then, in a small, shaky voice, he says:

“I know what it’s like… to feel like you’ll always be alone. I didn’t think anyone would ever stay for me either.”

And slowly, awkwardly, he reaches out. His fingers brush yours.

“I might not be good at this boyfriend stuff… but I’m not leaving. Ever. Not unless you tell me to. And even if you do I don’t think I could”

After that he even makes a digital avatar of you in one of his games, just so you’ll “exist in a place where I can always find you.”

Malleus Draconia

He understands immediately.

When you whisper your fears to him, expecting him to laugh or dismiss them, Malleus just tilts his head.

“You fear being abandoned… and yet you still opened your heart to me.”

There’s something ancient and soft in his voice, like he’s cradling your very soul.

“I know that kind of loneliness. Mine lasted centuries.”

His fingers are cood, but gentle when he takes your hand. “I do not love you lightly. If I have given you my heart, then it is yours completely, and I won’t allow you to return it… it’s all yours. I will not disappear. Even time itself would not keep me from you.”

His hand moves to your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks “I would find you in every universe, every lifetime and I will always choose you, over and over again”

After that, Malleus makes a quiet habit of always appearing when you need him, sometimes even before you realize you do. He stays. He always stays.

..............................................................................................................................

[mimosasys]

ok illurso freak (affirming) this one's for you.

p.s. check our bio if you wanna see actually who's around here (pronouns link thingy)

fav. colour: magenta? lilac? that sort of variety of colours you know the one

currently reading: nothing :( sorgy. really should keep reading House of Leaves but we need a notebook to make sense of it and that's so much effort

last song: lemme check uh. Tubular Bells by Mike Oldfield. it's fire what can we say

last film: I think we watched La Vita è Bella with my family like a week ago but I don't remember it, was good and a tough watch though

Tea or coffee: ok this one depends. most of us drink tea and most of us have it with milk but Lara has it completely black and with no sugar (freak), Cyn has it with milk and sugar but has to always have the same teacup, then Doppio usually makes coffee (milk and sugar) if he's around and feels like it. and then some of us would just rather have water instead. also the drones desperately want to drink hot oil but we can't let them do that (sorry guys I think it'll just kill us immediately). this is just the tip of the iceberg. don't even get me started on DIO

Sweet/salty/savoury: savoury all the way. why doesnt that include salt? I mean not a huge amount but you gotta have salt in things come on that's cooking

Currently working on: well um you see we're probably going to be releasing our debut album in like a month or so and also haven't decided on the name but I guarantee it will happen soon. in true 70s prog style it's got only two tracks, both of which are ~20 minutes long, and is mostly instrumental. will actually post more about it soon I hope

also we're in the process of writing a couple things, one JoJo fic with an original cast and stuff called Sketches of a Mirage that we haven't updated in a bit because we're not sure how to write the next chapter because it's important, and also specifically Rebecca is writing a sort of memoir about the things she gets up to called The Divine Art of Change (On Humans and Otherwise). both are on AO3 if anyone wants to give them a read, no pressure, read the tags etc etc.

DIO is also writing a diary (again) privately at least for now, and the drones + Tessa have a blog of their own @three-drones-and-a-human for whatever they wanna post about. they're also actually writing down their memories and stuff and might post them somewhere eventually? but we'll see I guess

er i don't like tagging people and also don't know enough people to do this with.. I have failed you all.. /j

- Amelia (I think? we just woke up 40 minutes ago and had a migraine yesterday so it's a bit fuzzy rn, apologies)

Nine People I Wish I Knew Better

i've never gotten tagged in these before, it's kinda exciting :D -> and so a very special thanks to: @rose-margaritas n @robyngoesrogue

Favorite Colour: green!!! or grey, or sage

Currently Reading: Like We're Gonna Die Young (Again) by RoseGanymede95 [go read it, it's amazing >:3c]

Last Song: E.T. by Katie Perry

Last Film: i don't really watch movies that often, so i couldn't say ^óWo^ |u u |__

Last Series: last one i watched all the way through was Étoile, and i'm currently debating watching Red, White, and Royal Blue :3

Sweet//Salty//Savory: i prefer more savory things, but my drinks are sweet enough to give ya cavities hehe

Tea or Coffee?: my sociology teacher told me that if i replaced all the coffee i drank with hard drugs i'd have a serious addiction problem

Working On: ooh... so much actually.. so so much. i've got a post-canon Étoile fic i've gotten like- halfway through [featuring jayenne AND gabias] a pokemon Étoile au [bc i love pokemon] a stobotnik fic i'm struggling with, two wbk fics, a link click fic i'm stuck on, QUITE a few polychampions fics, annnd a few more in the beginning stages of fleshing ;3

Tagging [i hope it's not a bother]: @sun-shine-lolli-pops @noteofjoy @technically-human @justcallmeemily @littlepocketuniverse @zephie-zee @candy-coated-eyes @notthemonthbutmarch @starguardianniom

[demonic0angel]

Joker is being held in Walker's prison for crimes against humanity, reality, and a bunch of other stuff.

Turns out it's really hard to keep this clown locked up.

"Sir," one of his men said as he floated into the room. "The Joker has escaped again."

Walker slammed a fist down on his desk in frustration. Humiliation still burned within him from the meeting with the King just now.

Being brought before a group of humans, the Justice League, in order to make his case and almost beg His Majesty to allow him to use heavier methods to keep that clown maniac within his prison—

It made him shake with rage just at the memory of it.

"That whelp—!" Walker hissed. "He's worthless as a King! If he doesn't have the mental fortitude to do what's necessary for peace and safety within this realm, then he should've left the throne to his sister! At least then, she knew how to handle matters like this! We can't keep that damn psychopath in our walls if we aren't allowed to use specific methods!"

'Of force,' went unsaid.

"Sir, be careful, that's lèse-majesté," another one of his men said worriedly. "Remember that Her Highness has decreed that if there are any offenses towards His Majesty, the law will not protect the person who insulted him."

Walker snarled. "If he wasn't so much more powerful than all of us, I would've lead a revolt by now and put his older siblings on the throne! The nerve to be kind to a criminal like the Joker! 'Treat him like a human as he deserves.' What idiocy! The boy is much too—"

Before he could spout more treasonous words, the door opened again.

"Sir! A letter from His Majesty!"

Walker frowned heavily and then took the letter. He opened it and then paused.

There was two pieces of paper within and as he read them, he suddenly laughed.

"Hah! Maybe I was wrong..."

"Sir? What's in the letter?"

Walker hummed. "A decent enough check to pay the cost for the containment of the Joker once more, and a letter from the King himself, telling us to do what we can to keep the Joker as long as it's kept out of the Bat's eyes. See for yourself."

And true to his words, the letter was from the Ghost King, short and efficient. There was a brief apology for his public humiliation, but he cited a need to make the League trust him, since Ghost Zone culture differed from mortal realm morals.

After the explanation, the rest of the letter could then be summarized as, "The Joker just needs to stay in jail. Do whatever you want but don't let Batman see."

Walker grinned broadly. "Maybe he is his sister's brother after all. Alright, boys! Let's go catch a certain clown and show him what happens when someone breaks the law!"

Cheers rang through the air.

The Joker would finally be learning the ghost way of how they punished evildoers.

[tiramissyoucake]

Sorry for never posting, I'm depressed lol here's a quick one with Mark

You slowed the car down as you finally reached the location Mark sent you an hour ago. You were late, yes, but you had a plan that was a sort of apology. you saw him approaching with an annoyed look on his face as if preparing ammunition to fire at you for making him wait so long when you promised you would be one time; you approximate that he's been waiting for well over an hour and maybe 30 minutes.

The car door opened as he shuffled in, he wasted no time. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you?! I told you to pick me up a—mmffm?!"

You anticipated this. You anticipated a lot more actually, which is why you prepared your own countermeasures. The first was a tasty burger from his favourite fast food place, and it seemed his mouth chewed faster than his brain can scold you and yet he still managed to complain as your hand held up the burger, his own quickly cradling the burger close to his lips.

"I tod you to come a' fou' so I egpec' you at fou'!' Mark tried to speak as he chewed, his body seemed to go against his anger as he happily munched, his mouth was once more occupied as you guided a soda straw to his lips and he hilariously took an eager sip like a parched traveller.

"—don' make promises if you won't follow through, I could've ubered!" You could tell his resolve was weakening, you held up a box of fries to him silently and he took the bait too quickly. "A-and don't think this means we're good! I'm just hungry! You're still on thin ice for pissing me off!"

It was cute how he insisted he could stay mad at you when you knew him so well, you easily slipped two boxes on his lap; specifically the Science Dog figurines mystery boxes exclusively released on an obscure website you had trouble signing up for to purchase. (he swore it was sold out, the poor idiot.)

Mark swallowed the lump of food in his throat as he toyed with the boxes and slurped on his soda, finally relaxing in his seat. "You're still late but don't do it again— now take me home..." he mumbled, his attention clearly not on anything else but his spoils.

You held back a smug smile from showing on your face as you began driving. "Sorry, I'll come early next time." He hums in response, mumbling a non-genuine "you better be..."

[ssa-dado]

Stale Cigarette(s)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Deep talk instead of deep throat (pre-relationship mutual pining?) Hurt → comfort → hurt → final reminder that old dogs don’t change, they just find warmer corners to lie in Summary: You get dragged to a bar by your coupled-up friends and end up chain-smoking on a bench with your FBI crush. He offers you cigarettes untouched for exactly two years... so- um... what the hell happened two years ago? Warnings: age gap dynamics, smoking stale cigs, they're both a bit tipsy, objectification of the Hotchner body, grief (Haley mentioned), reader is not a reliable narrator! HOTCH SUCKS. HOTCH REALLY SUCKS. Word Count: 4.8k Dado's Corner: To all my readers named Haley: no you don’t. Not for a full 4.8k words, anyway. My deepest apologies. (Feel free to send hate mail. I deserve it.) Edit: if any of this sounded self-indulgent… that’s because it is. An ode to loneliness. Yours, always, Phi :3

masterlist

It’s not always the right historical era to go out with your two very not single friends.

You try. You make an appearance. You sip something overpriced and pretend to be fascinated by the structural integrity of the ice cube.

“My fiancé-” This man used to be called Matt until he got on one knee.

Not that you’re judging.

You’d absolutely pull the same shit if someone proposed to you. You’d probably milk it even more. Refer to them exclusively as “my betrothed” and update your mailing address to include your ring size. But the problem is-

It hasn’t happened.

You. As always.

“…the food was amazing…”

You smile. Take a sip. Your face performs basic social functions, trying to channel what middle-aged FBI speedo guy would do if he were politely enduring small talk at your place.

You are happy for your friend. Truly. (She’s your friend, for fuck’s sake. You should be happy.)

But sometimes happiness is… situational.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, you get blindsided by this sudden, lurching gut-punch of awareness of just how alone you really are.

Every empty seat next to you turns into a flashing neon sign that screams “STILL SINGLE LMAO, ENJOY DYING ALONE”

And then everything goes kind of foggy after that.

“…ever been there?” Not a question meant for you, obviously. (When are they ever?)

You kill time wondering what it might feel like to be someone who’s not just… a guest in this kind of life. To live in it full-time. With central heating.

“No, but Jonah took me to this really cute little-”

Cute little gentrified colonizer gastropub.

Ah, Jonah. The man. The myth. The boyfriend with the brilliant idea to bring his girl (your other friend) to an overpriced bar that looks like it was designed by a tech bro who hasn’t spoken to his mother in six years.

And tonight, instead of the usual dive you could actually afford, they decided this was the perfect friends night out venue.

You’ve never seen this many white men packed into one place outside of a church service. Or a David Fincher retrospective.

To be fair - Jonah does earn some credit.

The eavesdropping is phenomenal.

Behind you, someone is monologuing about astrophysics and the scientific inaccuracy of some Star Wars stuff.

You’re actually kind of into it - until he’s immediately shut down by a dude who goes, “Bro, A New Hope came out before you were even the fastest swimmer in the race. Oh- oh, wait… speaking of someone who’s swimming for real…”

“What about this pool guy?” your friend yanks your attention back, firing a perfectly accurate laser beam straight from the 1.40-carat rock on her finger (it’s cut so clean it reflects light directly into your retinas… ouch. It fucking hurts.) “I’ve heard from a certain someone…”

(Aka the woman sitting directly beside her-)

(Aka your other friend-)

(Aka the only one who actually knows the whole story because she’s the one you drive to swimming lessons every week since Jonah’s dick is allegedly 7.5 inches long but apparently can’t drive stick. Or park. Or show up on time. Or do anything but say “vroom” and hope for the best.)

“…Something you’d like to share about your new boy?”

(Ah. So this is what it takes to be included in the conversation - find a real, non-fictional man to thirst over. Got it. Message received.)

“Oh, definitely not a 'boy',” #PoolFriend adds, laughing.

“But you said-” (Mystery solved. Certain someone = swim friend. Wow. Shocking.) “Wait… is he a she?” (God, you wish.)

“No… it’s just that he’s… older?” you try not to sound defensive. (Defending your mighty little FBI princess is, of course, a sacred duty - but you’d rather not look that pathetic in front of the other feminists.)

“Sooooo old,” she beams. “Like, 60? You can see the forehead lines even when he’s resting his face.”

…Which is meant to be a dig, but actually makes you weirdly feral. You try to be diplomatic. You do. “He’s actually forty–”

“Oh- also, guess what?! He’s a dad too!”

Right. Great. Perfect.

Denied even the dignity of curating the lore drop on your old man, you make the emotionally mature decision to nurse your disappointment with alcohol.

You’re not getting drunk – it might soothe your soul, but one too many and you’ll be working your one day off just to pay the plumber who still hasn’t fixed the leak. So... fuck no.

Still, it’s funny how the tiniest buzz in your limbs, compounded by the fact that dinner was just…a whisper of carbs and a prayer, has evolved into such a deep, primal craving.

You want a cigarette.

One. Just one.

A menthol, preferably.

You’d trade your last serotonin molecule. You’d set fire to your own moral compass for a single drag.

But no. Life (your friends), in its eternal comedy, has placed you (without warning) here: in a… *drumroll* cop bar.

“Jonah said this is where the forces of order” (cops) “usually hang out. What if you find your FBI dilf here?!?”

First of all, that man is definitely not here, slumming it with the masses. He’s at home, swaddled in his sacred cocoon, reading a 700-page book on the macroeconomic collapse of the 1970s and calling it a wild night by page 26.

Second of all, you didn’t catch what she said next because your brain automatically dissociates in spaces that reek of both beer and casual misogyny disguised as patriotism.

Anyway: cop bar.

Which makes the mission of bumming a cig both ten times more illegal… and ten times more boring.

Like - sorry - when did smoking become lame?

When did it stop being for artists, rebels, and hot French women who cry in alleyways, and become the property of fascists puffing cigars the size of traffic cones?

(One comically large cigar to overcompensate for their undersized... moral compass. Among other things.)

Can’t they leave one thing alone? Just one? No. Of course not. They’ve colonized tobacco too.

You don’t even bother looking up from the sad little bench you parked your ass on the second you escaped.

Just sit there sulking, already familiar with the sound: the front door creaking open on hinges that haven’t seen oil since the Clinton administration (fascists don’t believe in lube - it’s too homosexual), and that cheap-ass bell above the frame, probably bulk-ordered from a themed decor warehouse trying to Irish-wash this bar into charm.

(It’s all performative heritage, anyway. Just so a white dude with a colonial guilt complex can feel like his ancestors survived the potato famine, instead of, you know… causing it.)

(Not that he could find Ireland on a globe if it came with a magnifying glass and a voiceover.)

Anyway, the bell rings, it’s time to strike again, “Do you have a cigar-”

“Hello to you too…” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Hello to you too, Aaron Hotchner. So much for your bedtime tea and lights out by 10. No. Of course he had to be here. Now. Tonight. And of course he’s caught you mid-junkie act.

Stunning. Absolutely divine timing.

“Um- hi- so- I was kidding-”

“Hold on,” he says, already turning on his heel. No urgency. Just casually blessing you with a full high-definition shot of the jeans he clearly chose for tonight’s FBI Besties Night Out.

Jeans that almost, miraculously, give him an ass.

Almost.

(It’s more myth than meat. You know there’s nothing back there except air and possibly unprocessed ambition. [Maybe a little guilt in there too. {Or maybe he just padded}])

(You don’t care. You’re willing to suspend disbelief.)

He makes a beeline for his Serious Government-Issue Black Vehicle™, opens the passenger door, grabs something, shuts it again, and strolls back - front view this time (superior).

That something? Your desired little cancer sticks.

The universe provides.

“Shit, you a smoker?”

“If I were, don’t you think I’d keep them in my own pocket?” he says, topping it off with a little cherry on top (a sigh) that tells you he’s already regretting his detour, as he takes out his lighter.

One that’s clearly been used. A lot. The kind of wear no casual user puts on a Bic.

Unless Aaron’s got a Yankee Candle addiction (doubtful), that thing’s been through it.

“Look…” he starts. (Ah. So he noticed you noticing.) “I used to smoke a lot back when I was…” he fumbles - clearly seconds away from saying your age before veering off, cowardly, at the last second.

Loser.

“I quit when Jack - my son,” he adds, as if you haven’t already bookmarked his LinkedIn, archived Facebook, and the BAU team photo from 2009. Still, you nod, all “ohh” and innocent, so you don’t blow your cover. “-was born. I wouldn’t have been setting a good example. And it was bad for his health.”

“Yours too,” you murmur.

“Sure…” he musters the guts to chuckle. Tipsy? Maybe. Maybe just… soft. “Fuck that shit.”

(Definetely not soft.)

Except he’s full of it. Because if he’s so retired, why does he even have the pack in the first place?

You glance at it. Then down. (Not that down. Okay, a little.) The contradiction is right there in his hands. (And, arguably, in his jeans. But focus.)

Aaron goes all starey and confused, like he’s trying to telepathically summon a reaction from you. Maybe expecting you to scold him for swearing like a big boy. Maybe waiting for you to drop something coy like Wow, I’m sooo impressed, sir. Either way, he’s clearly starving for commentary.

So, in true martyr fashion, he opens the box.

Red Marlboros. Lame-ass classics. Of course. (You mentally pin that detail to your Bullying Vision Board.)

Only one cigarette is missing. Wait - no. Two.

Because he slides one out, tucks it between his lips, and just like that, your primal urge to bully him gets temporarily eclipsed by your even more feral desire to suck that exact cigarette out of his mouth.

“So much for being a quitter… aren’t you training for, like… some sports thing right now? You sure any of this is good for you?”

The cigarette bobs between his lips, his chin tilting just enough to let him peer down at you through half-lidded eyes - drawing a perfect little cardiogram of your heart rate spiking into cardiac arrest as he asks, “And how do you know I’m training for something?

Um...

By his tits.

Specifically: the ones bursting at the seams between the third and fourth button of his denim shirt, testing the tensile limits of ready-to-wear denim.

This is what happens when a man dives headfirst into some unsupervised fitness spiral and forgets to monitor his pec-to-fabric ratio.

Volume expansion was clearly not accounted for - or maybe it was, and this is all part of the plan. (Tactical slutwear.)

Because through that tiny, blasphemous gap in fabric: chest hair. An irresponsible amount of pale pec flesh. And a single freckle positioned so seductively you’d happily trade your liver, your birthright, and three months of overpriced therapy just to tongue it.

“Educated guess.” You’ve been caught - whatever. Still. Bless his midlife crisis. Unironically* the best decision he’s ever made.

…You’re joking, of course.

*Ironically. Yes.

Because all you get as a reply is one boyish little shake of the head instead of some broody retort in his usual Middle English.

He’s showing off.

Lighting up while you’re still empty-handed, selfishly enjoying the moral high ground and the taste of the butt of a cig.

Right hand cupped against the wind like a practiced sinner, flicks the lighter, flame kisses the filter.

He inhales slowly. Cheeks go hollow. Lashes dip low. Lungs greedily taking in what, by all laws of karmic justice, should’ve been your hit.

He leans back the tiniest bit, exhales with a sound that could be a sigh, a groan, a spell - and sends a perfectly petty swirl of smoke drifting up into the night sky…

And directly into your face.

“Are you gonna let me steal one of those or are you just getting off on making me watch?”

He squints. Takes another drag. Blows the smoke directly past your cheek. “Bought these exactly two years ago. I’m just making sure you’re not inhaling mold or… God knows what else.” (Why is God always the third wheel in your conversations?) “…You could try being grateful instead of giving me lip.”

You bite down the urge to say something about lip (or head, being medically accurate). “But I never asked you to do that… I just asked for a fucking cigarette. Let me inhale mold in peace.”

Anyway. Because you’re nothing if not polite - and not in the mood to witness a grown man get misty-eyed outside a bar at whatever-the-fuck o’clock - you sigh, lift your hand toward him, and slap on the biggest, fakest smile in your arsenal. “Please.”

The federal martyr mutters something - probably just for himself - about your relentless display of patheticism, but you’re too busy delightedly accepting a lone cancer stick as it emerges from the raven-haired 40-inch emotional support wig he calls knuckle hair.

“It’s a bit stale. Tastes like shit, honestly - just a heads up,” and drops onto the far end of the bench, manspreading just enough to make it clear that his long-ass legs now own every inch of that square meter.

The lighter gets passed to you wordlessly.

His fingers do not.

They linger - just behind your shoulders, just beyond plausible deniability.

Not touching (God forbid), but drifting into your orbit with the kind of casual inertia that feels anything but. One breath away from contact. From consequence.

Convenient, really - how something can feel so deliberate while technically doing absolutely nothing at all.

Just like how he jolts from his relaxed pose the second he hears you cursing the wind for cockblocking your nicotine hit. No hesitation. His hand curls in around yours, close enough to shield the flame - but closer still for the effect.

And you smell it.

Tonka bean.

Supposed to be subtle. Barely a base note.

But here, up close and concentrated and radiating off his pulse point, it turns narcotic. Sickly sweet and warm and grounded by something woodsy. It spins your head more than the nicotine ever could.

The lighter sparks.

And so do you.

His beautiful eyes.

The fire warms them into the richest hazel - gold spun through molasses - eyes that cast shadows so sharp they immortalise him into myth. Cheekbones all angles and darkness. Jaw tight, like he’s holding back the next thought from spilling out.

You’d kiss him. You would. Kiss his face, kiss his mouth, kiss that stupid expensive smell off his pulse point, kiss the glow from his lashes-

If only your own lips weren’t already wrapped around a filter. (If only you weren’t a monumental fucking coward.)

You hate that his gaze does this to you. That it tastes metallic on your skin, sharp and mineral and weirdly sour-

Just like the cigarette.

Especially when he finally breaks it, glancing down at the concrete like the tension might drain there, too.

“Man, this is barely hitting,” you wheeze - blaming the stale stick, of course, not yourself. Never yourself. Always safer to fault an inanimate object than admit you’re the common denominator of all of your problems.

“Told you,” Aaron gloats, flicking ash off the edge, all giddy because #HeWasRight. “It’s old and fucked. You’ve gotta wait it out. If you’re lucky, the nicotine kicks in and it just sucks slightly less... not as good as a fresh one but - this is all I’ve got.” (…Right. He’s so totally referring to the cigarettes.)

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is better than nothing,” you mumble, dragging again. “Anything that helps me forget this waste of a Friday.”

Which is a lie, obviously. Because sitting on a sad bench chain-poisoning yourself with a middle-aged… (oof) cop… is easily the best part of it.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

God forbid he ever clocks the fact that all your chances with him are already in the gutter because of how openly, stupidly rueful you’ve been acting.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s his fault.

Maybe he’s pulling some sick, gravitational field of pitifulness out of you just by existing.

Just by making you feel more at ease than your actual friends do - friends who drag you out to overpriced bars and call it “catching up” but barely ask a single question.

Maybe it’s because he actually listens. Doesn’t rush to fill silence. Doesn’t take and take and take.

And that’s all it takes.

One line of smoke down your throat, and the floodgates swing open. Words start tumbling out like it’s a compulsion. Like he’s the first pair of ears that hasn’t immediately gone looking for someone shinier.

“Let me guess… you’re one of those people who only smoke when they fuck something up? What happened? Divorce?”

Aaron tuts (man?!), “Close… though I’m not sure you’re in any position to judge - seeing as you only seem to smoke when someone else fucks up.”

How ironic.

If you were ever stupid enough to end up together and he managed to fuck things up (which he would) you’d both be right back here, smoke in your lungs, hands shaking, pretending it’s not about each other.

Hopeless. You’d never work. You’d ruin each other on principle.

Maybe it’s the cigarette. Maybe sharing something as self-destructive as this creates a kind of camaraderie. You’re both shaving off a few years of your lives, like the ads promise, so it only feels fair to share the minutes too.

So as ash falls onto the concrete, he learns a few things about you. That this was your friends’ idea. That it was supposed to be “a fun night out.” That you didn’t really want to come. And somehow - God knows how - maybe it’s his Catholic guilt boiling in his bloodstream over dying in sin - but he finally says,

“You didn’t really look like you were part of the conversation.”

You nearly drop the cigarette.

He was kind of right. The nicotine takes a while to hit - but maybe it’s more the hit of being noticed.

By him, no less.

(A man.)

(With a tit out.)

Suddenly, the whole thing feels archaic - like you’ve time-traveled back to the era when women weren’t allowed to vote, but still hoped the town’s handsomest soldier might remember what color dress they wore at the spring fair.

Or when tampons were taxed as luxury items. (Wait a second...)

What a world.

What progress.

Progress also means he admits he recognized you… by the back of your head.

He’d been sitting behind you. Of course you hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen you. Not your face. Just your outline. Your posture. Your absence. And still - he knew it was you.

Which should make you feel triumphant. Gloaty, even.

FBI DILF has your silhouette burned into the folds of his premature memory loss? That’s deranged. That’s power. You should weaponize it.

Feels… bittersweet.

Because it wasn’t the presence of your face that triggered recognition. It was the lack of it. The gap. The space you take up when no one else is looking. And somehow… he looked anyway.

Fucking hell.

You need to stop smoking Aaron’s cigarettes.

They don’t just burn your throat - they peel you open, down to the bone. Turn your lungs to pulp and your brain to mushy existential soup. This is not you.

Or maybe this is you. Maybe this is the real you. The needy one. The one who just wants someone to see her.

And worse - he does. He might. And maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.

Maybe he sees things about you that you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Or maybe he’s just like every other man who ever looked at you and called you a friend. Right after unzipping his pants.

Stale cigarettes, overpriced alcohol, and unsolicited introspection. The worst threesome of all.

“It just fucking sucks, man,” you mutter. You’re not blaming yourself. Plato probably said something similar while chain-smoking scrolls or whatever. “Like, I know love is fake. I know it. But even if it’s childish - rooted in all that patriarchal storybook bullshit - I still feel like I deserve the kind of love they read to me about as a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Aaron softens his voice. “I disagree with that first part.” Of course you do, old man. “I don’t think love is fake, maybe the forever part is what’s unrealistic. The happy ending…” (What’s wrong with him???) “The happily ever after, that’s the myth. But you shouldn’t blame yourself for wanting something that lasts.”

…Something real. Something that doesn’t flake like ash in the wind.

You can smell the incoming boomer sermon from a mile away - and yep, here it comes. “I just don’t understand this fear men seem to have now about settling down. Is it fear of choosing? Dating apps make everyone feel disposable. Like if you commit, you might miss out on someone better. So you never do. Or maybe it’s something worse. Fear of feeling. Of loving.”

Shit.

How exactly are you supposed to explain to Aaron Hotchner that he just accidentally summed up your entire Notes app without sounding like you’re about to snap into a spoken word piece about modern loneliness?

"Easy to say when you’ve only got a few years left and don’t want to die alone." You’re not being mean. You’re just out of emotional vocabulary. That was the cleanest sentence you could manage with the filter still burning between your fingers.

He taps his cigarette against the bench. Smoke curls out of his smirk. “Funny - I was just about to say you don't sound like a horrible person.”

You snort. “See? You’re not that different from all the other dickheads out there.”

"Maybe, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of being loved .” (Pause. Beat. Murder.) “And - frankly - you underestimate how many masochists would find your tendency to call people out when they’re being dickheads… oddly endearing."

“Masochists? Really?!”

“Miss, you called me a dickhead… heavily implied, yes, but still,” he chuckles, “Masochists aside - I’m serious. I hope you know that.”

“Well… thank you then.”

“Anytime.” Said like it doesn’t cost him anything to be generous for three seconds. Must be nice.

You’re not naïve.

This (whatever this is) this rhythm of trading barbs and pretending not to notice how good it feels to be seen? It’ll end with the cigarette. That’s the expiration date.

Once the last drag’s done, so is the spell. Back to real life, back to no obligation to talk. Back to being strangers again.

So maybe that’s why it slips out.

“I think what gets to me the most is... I just want someone to actually listen. Like, really listen. Not out of pity, not out of politeness. Not because it’s their fucking turn to play therapist. Just… because they want to. Because they care enough to. I want to be helped. I want to be seen. And it sucks. It sucks that no one ever really does. It sucks not knowing if that someone… exists. Ever feel that kind of lonely?”

“I understand what you mean. If it helps… loneliness might be the most universal condition there is. It’s paradoxical - everyone feels it, but no one wants to admit it. You grow up being told people are essential. That you need connection to be whole. But the truth is… most of the time, it’s just you. You think your own thoughts. You carry your own weight. The rest… they’re- complimentary. Temporary. Additions. They matter, but they’re not the foundation.” (Man… that’s depressing.) “Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“And you’re fine with that?! Not having anyone who can help you make sense of… everything?” You shake your head, baffled. “I don’t even know how you function.”

He breathes in deep, doesn’t look at you when he answers. “I compartmentalize. I separate myself from the problem and keep going. If I let myself really sit with it… I wouldn’t be useful to the people who need me more.”

Hero complex. Exhibit A.

“You’re telling me you never talk to anyone about your feelings?” you ask. “Like… not even one friend? Not even one of your little apocalypse buddies you save the world with?”

“We’re colleagues, not friends.” (So he’s basically admitting he has no friends… isn’t he?) “And for the record, I am opening up to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Dude…” This man. This man is the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet at the bottom of the ocean. And you want him. Disgusting. “Despite some of the stuff you’ve told me being… like… genuinely borderline horrible, and you’re so lucky I didn’t deck you-”

He smirks. “You could’ve. I probably deserved it.”

You glance over. He’s chuckling to himself now, the corners of his mouth tugged upward just slightly, cheeks flushed, probably from the scotch finally catching up with him.

“Aside from calling me a dickhead, of course…” he adds.

You fumble. Damn it. “I was trying to say - despite that - your words did help. A little.” Smug little upturn of his mouth. You want to slap it off him. For real this time. “Not like… made-everything-better kind of help. More like - didn’t make me feel worse. Which is basically the same thing, right?”

He smiles. Pretentious asshole. You need to stay strong - not linger on it, not let it do things to your insides.

So you pivot. Hard.

“Sometimes it helps, you know? Getting a fresh pair of eyes on your mess. You just have to - I don’t know - admit you’re a loser, peel off a couple layers of that bulletproof manhood you’ve wrapped yourself in, and actually say what you’re feeling. To someone. Out loud. With words.”

He looks at you. He’s supposed to take another drag, but he doesn’t. Just watches. Still. Quiet.

“Yeah, I know. Wild concept.” You shake your head, let yourself soften - just a little. Just for him. Maybe he’s worth it. “But if you don’t do that, no one’s ever gonna get it. Not really. People can’t read your mind, Aaron. They’re not gonna understand unless you tell them. And even then, it’s a gamble. But it’s the only shot you’ve got.”

“You always make it sound so easy, Hales.”

“That’s… not my name.”

“What?” *The Bluetooth device is ready to pair.* You can hear the connection click in his skull. “Oh – God - I’m so sorry.” *The Bluetooth device is connected successfully.* “I didn’t- didn’t mean- I’m sorry, you just… you sounded exactly like her.”

You don’t know who he means. Not for sure. You have a guess, of course. Everyone has a guess when a man like him says “her” with that look in his eye.

But you’re too annoyed to admit it. Too annoyed and – maybe - just a little dizzy. From the cigarette. From the him of it all. From the ache in your chest that shouldn’t be there, not really.

Because the one fucking time someone actually seems to listen to you, to hear you, it’s not even really you they’re hearing.

It’s her. It was always her.

You were just close enough in shape and tone and timing to wake the shadow of someone else.

“It’s just that… it’s been two years today.”  Oh, mysterious boy. From what?! From what?

You want to yell. You want to pull his stupid loose shirt tighter so it stops falling open every time he leans forward and says emotionally damaging things.

“Actually…” he gives a watery little laugh, and you hate how beautiful it is, how it lands soft and splintering right in your chest.

“It’s been two years since I bought these too,” he says, pulling out the same battered pack of Marlboros. Same lame-ass, fermented cigarettes from his glove compartment. Same pack with only one missing - until tonight. The same ones he offered you.

 The same ones he last smoked two years ago.

“…And two years since my wife’s funeral.”

The filter tastes rancid.

You know the situation is deeply, apocalyptically fucked when not only does he casually drop a circumstantial bomb to imply she’s dead - because actually saying the words would clearly cost him something vital - but he also slips. Calls her his wife.

Not ex-wife.

(You may or may not have stalked him so thoroughly that you accidentally uncovered his signed divorce papers on a weird, half-archived subpage of her attorney’s old website. Whoopsies.)

So it’s not just the grief. It’s the grief plus the guilt plus the very subtle, very devastating slip that he maybe never stopped thinking of her as his wife.

Even after.

Even now.

Which would be a perfect cue to walk away. To protect yourself. To not indulge whatever haunted cathedral of unresolved feelings he’s got going on behind those wet lashes.

You should leave.

You should definitely leave.

…But he’s so hot when he cries.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[siri-ike]

It's been 4 months. Litteral, actual, earth months since Cujo showed up and wrecked something. In that time, Danny has been to school, the mall, near cars, and no Cujo. Something has to be seriously wrong.

"You haven't seen any ghost dogs around, have you?" Danny turns to the girl sitting in the car seat next to him.

"LOOK OUT!" She frantically screamed.

"Tea, no, we're not going to crash. These seats aren't even attached to anything." He gestured to the open field around them. Less than a yard away was the road where her and her family died in a car crash 5 days ago. He took her hand in his. Her eyes are a solid pinkish purple. Danny had done this long enough to know what that meant. She hadn't accepted her death yet. And how could she? It was so sudden. And she was only 15. If anyone knew a thing or two about not moving on, it would be Danny.

"AHHH!!!" She cried out.

Danny sighed. "I'll see you again tomorrow." Sometimes they do just need more time to process.

Danny tried to go home, but his dad must have spotted a mouse or something because the ghost shields were up. He might as well check the cemetery. There's usually something there. And if not, he could at least sleep in one of the crypts.

In the cemetery, Danny didn't find a ghost in need of help. He found a ghost, already receiving help. From another boy around Danny's age. Wearing a white hoodie.

"Hello, Jeremiah. Who's your friend?"

A second ghost? This one's a teen, a bit older than Billy. He almost looks living. He must have died recently. "I'm Billy." He could have an open murder investigation. There's a finders fee for murderers, right? "I can help you, t-"

"I didn't ask you." He snapped. He looked angry. No, not angry. He looked betrayed.

"I'm, sorry. Are these your grounds or something? I didn't mean to overstep." Billy apologized. Some ghosts can be territorial. Usually, that meant they met a violent end.

"Are the Guys hiring kids now?" The boys eyes glowed. "You can let them know they're not getting any of the ghosts in my town." He spat.

"What? No, I'm, I'm not with anyone. I just help ghosts move on sometimes. Like, with their unfinished business." It's never a good idea to meet a ghosts aggression with more aggression. They're usually just lashing out because of the trauma from dying. "Maybe I can help you, too." The ghost dog burrowed back up from the man's grave with a book.

"There it is." The ghost cheered. "I knew my sister would bury it with me. She was well aware of how much I hated this book." He glowed bright and disappeared.

"Thanks, buddy." Billy took the book from the dog before he ran straight for the ghost boy. It was an old astronomy book. He looked over to the ghost boy, who stared in shock at the dog. "Oh, do you know each other?"

The air chilled, and the dew on the grass froze in an instant.

The ghost boy breathed faster, his feet left the ground ever so slightly, and Billy's heart dropped.

"YOU TOOK MY DOG!?!" The boys hair turned white, and his clothes turned black. A whirlwind of snow twisted around him. "ITS NOT ENOUGH THAT YOU WANT TO KILL US. YOU HAVE TO TAKE OUR PETS, TOO?!!!" Entire gravestones ripped from the ground and joined the storm.

This was no longer a job for Billy Batson. "Shazam!" Lightning flashed. It steered straight towards him until... it turned? Sucked directly into the twister. That was new. Billy watched in horror as the bolt hurdled through the tornado and pushed the ghost out the other side. The storm subsided, and Billy rushed to the kid.

The boy sluggishly dragged himself up off the ground. Guess Billy shouldn't be surprised that ghosts wouldn't be too affected by electricity. Billy reached out "Are you ok?"

The boy slapped Billy's hand away and huffed. "This," he inhaled, "this is my home. I won't leave. You can't make me."

Billy sat down beside him. "Of course I can't make you leave." The dog came running up to them and firmly planted himself on the ghosts lap. The boy held onto the dog like a life preserver. "Do you wanna tell me what's bothering you?"

The boy sniffed. "I'm Danny." He was silent for a moment.

"Hi Danny, I'm Billy. Let's start with when we're you born."

Danny straigened up a bit. "1990. I died in 2004."

Billy’s Sidegig

Billy has a side gig. It’s something he’s recently cooked up as a way to get cash.

He’ll help ghosts pass on!

Now, granted, ghosts don’t carry cash, but! But, they can lead him to cash. Or food. Or safe shelter! Point is, it’s a very lucrative job. A job that Billy takes very seriously.

Female Ghost (FG):“Well, aren’t you just a dear?”

Billy: “Thank you, miss.” *takes out little notepad* “Now, can you tell me anything about yourself?”

FG: “Well, I was born in ‘09!”

Billy: “19?”

FG: “Yes, 1909. And I was a dancer when I was alive. The only thing I think I’ll need to pass on it for me to perform one last time.”

Billy: “I see, I see.” *scribbles down in notepad* “I’ll see what I can do, miss.”

Billy proceeded to get her a gig at a restaurant. It was safe to say she was floored when Billy corral her inside. She just thought the boy would gather a group of people and have her perform in front of them in the street. She didn’t think he’d get her anything professional!

Then there was a really fancy British guy. He’d been ran over by a train, and Billy could see his innards as he floated in front of him.

He wanted Billy to find a monocle. It left him digging for hours near a train track.

British Ghost (BG):“I believe it was a little further to the left.”

Billy: *digs around there*

BG: “Or was it the right…?”

Billy: *groans and digs over there*

BG: “Don’t groan at me. You are the one who decided to undertake this job, chap.”

It was three hours of searching until he found it. Thankfully, for all his trouble, the British man told him of a nice abandoned building that still had running water.

It was actually in the abandoned building that Billy got another job helping a ghost.

This time a ghost doggy.

Billy: “You want belly rubs?”

Ghost Dog: *barks and rolls over*

Billy: “Don’t mind if I do.” *tries to pet it but hands go through it*

It was through this that Billy went on an epic quest to find ectoplasm. He then dipped his hands in it and was able to eventually give the doggy belly rubs.

It passed on after giving a Billy a few licks on the cheek.

Billy didn’t get anything from the dog, but that was one of his favorite jobs ever.

[strwberrybils]

AHHHH UR WORKS ARE SO GOODDD!!! can I request a part 2 of rival!cait where reader gets hurt on a mission and cait just then realizes that she actually loves reader and starts being sort of nice towards reader and their hookups start being vanilla and eventually reader comforts cait and they get together!!!

PT. 2 WITH RIVAL!CAITLYN

contents. caitlyn kiramman 𝑥 fem!reader. smut and fluff. oral (r receiving). lots of cute love dovey shit. love confession.

masterlist ‧₊˚ taglist

gabi’s quick thoughts. sorry this took so long but here you go!! here's the first snippet for those who didn't see it :)

the silence in the infirmary is louder than anything you’ve ever heard on the field.

you blink what feels like eons of sleep out of your eyes, your vision a bit blurred due to injuries. there’s a dull ache that spreads through each and every rib in your body, encompassing pain building up in your entire chest area. 

instinctively, you grab your chest and heave out, eyes scanning the room around you. there’s an aura of saline and cleaning supplies that’s thick in the air, paired with the sounds of beeping and blinding med-grade lights. 

there’s a figure that’s sitting at your bedside and you blink hard— twice— and your whole face softens when you see her. 

“c-caitlyn?” you rasp out and she immediately perks up, her perfect posture somehow straightening out even more, and you’re too tired and lightheaded to offer a slick one-liner like you usually would. 

“you’re awake.” she remarks, her breath full of relief and her eyes gleaming with something foreign. she’s not in her usual attire— instead, a dark blue robe with a lacy bra underneath. you’ve never seen her this vulnerable— hair all mussled against her scalp, her uniform discarded to God knows where, her iridescent eyes reverent and almost…scared. albeit, it’s alluring. 

you wait to respond to her statement. the way she’s looking at you, hard and longing, you’re sure that she’s got something else she wants to say. she folds her hands over her own lap, sighing out, her eyes drifting to the floor like she’s burdened with guilt. 

“it should’ve been me,” caitlyn strains, “i was too slow… it’s all my fault.”

your head tilts in confusion, though she doesn’t see you do it. “what happened?” you inquire gently, and she runs a trembling hand through her hair, reluctant to answer. whatever took place hours prior was clearly enough to make her feel like she had failed you.

there’s something different about her. you knew she wasn’t that careless to leave you injured and alone in your bed, but the way she’s speaking to you, her whole demeanor— it wasn’t the usual her. no, this was a completely and utterly different caitlyn kiramman that you were speaking to. 

she folds her arms above her chest, “you took a pretty bad blow. it all happened so fast, and i— it was supposed to be me.” she repeats, “but you…you jumped in front of me. it was bloody brave of you, might i say.”

she tries to give a light-hearted chuckle at the end, but it’s short-lived. her chin drops in embarrassment, out of shame, and it speaks to you like a nonverbal apology. you reach your hand out to touch hers, “i’m glad that you weren’t the one that was hurt.” 

her head raises, slowly, and she looks at you like she never has before. her whole face is so much lighter, and not to be mistaken with pale— her eyes are full and bright, her features literally softening when she looks at you. 

something is way off of its axis. the both of you are usually either at each other's necks or in between each other’s legs, no in between. but there was a greyer area now, something that was much more tender, and the quick difference made you have whiplash. 

but you’re too exhausted to comment on it, so you sink into the cushions of the infirmary bed and allow sleep to overtake you, the last thing your ears hearing is that caitlyn will always take care of you, and you aren’t sure if you’re just imagining it, but you surely hope not. 

it’s been two weeks since you and caitlyn’s mission, and nonetheless, things had began to grow even more weirder than before. 

when you were allowed to return home, she helped you round up all of your belongings and move them back to your place. instead of bickering the whole time, caitlyn was nothing but gentle with you, almost to the point that it made you feel like she saw you like a child. but you knew it was out of kindness, which is something that she hadn’t really ever shown you, and you basked in the moment as long as you could. 

only two days after you were allowed to be left alone, you were woken up by the ringing of your doorbell. worn and slightly sore, you peeled off your covers and padded to your front door, pulling it open and being met with a bouquet of flowers and a card. with a mere wince, you bent down and grabbed them, closing the door back and plopping onto your couch. 

the flowers were beautiful. an assortment of greens, blues, and pinks were woven together to create an elegant yet unique number, and the card likewise. it was hand-painted, and had a stick figure of you smiling on the cover, which made you laugh. 

you opened it, and your heart immediately melted when your eyes scanned over the neat, cursive lettering.

dear y/n,

i do truly hope you’re feeling better by now— though i suspect you’re still too stubborn to rest properly. you always were annoyingly persistent, even when bleeding.

the latest missions have been far too quiet without your sarcasm echoing through them. ridiculous, i know, considering how much i’ve claimed to hate your voice. (i don’t.)

i won’t pretend this whole ordeal hasn’t rattled me more than i care to admit. seeing you like that, on the ground, in pain— it made something feel off in me, something i haven’t quite managed to ignore since.

i suppose what i’m trying to say, in my tragically roundabout way, is that i care. more than i meant to. more than i should, maybe. and if that frightens you, know that it terrifies me too.

if you’re up for company (or just need someone to shout at), i’ll be by the precinct— or outside your door, depending on how brave i’m feeling today.

take care of yourself. please.

— caitlyn

if the recent interactions that you’ve had with her didn’t make you confused, this definitely did. it felt like she was admitting something in her letter, though you weren’t fully understanding the intended context. you still appreciated the gesture, and made sure to thank her whenever you saw her next. 

day after day, more spontaneous gifts would land on your doorstep, from treats to more bouquets, and even an entire self-care basket full of all your favorite things. though you appreciated the gestures from the bottom of your heart, earnestly, the only thing that you really wanted was caitlyn herself. 

in present time, you had just finished eating when the doorbell rang, and you were expecting to be met with another round of gifts, or something likewise. however, when you unlocked and opened the door, you were met with the kiramman girl herself, a little wet-eyed, but she cracked a half smile. 

“hi.” she spoke softly, “can i come in?”

you blinked at her for a moment, hand still on the doorknob.

caitlyn was never one to look unsure of herself, never one to show emotion so plainly on her face, but now, her eyes were glassy, her usually perfect posture a little slouched. and still, there was that small, almost nervous smile on her lips.

“yeah,” you breathed, stepping aside to make room, “of course you can.”

she walked in slowly, like she wasn’t sure if you’d change your mind, and she was hoping that you wouldn’t. you closed the door behind her, watching as she stood in the middle of your living room, hands clasped in front of her like she wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“didn’t bring flowers this time?” you joked gently, and it made her chuckle— just a soft, genuine sound you rarely got from her, so you appreciated it.

“i thought I’d try showing up instead of hiding behind deliveries,” she said, “though i wasn’t sure if i’d be welcomed.”

you moved toward her slowly, “caitlyn…you always are. i didn’t want the gifts. i wanted… to see you.”

caitlyn looked at you for a long moment, blue eyes searching, and then she looked at the floor, shameful. “i’ve been awful to you.”

“we were awful to each other,” you admitted, “but even then, it was never hate. not really. at least…that’s now what i think.”

caitlyn stepped closer, her eyes still glued to the ground, “i think i told myself it was easier to dislike you than to admit how drawn i was. you infuriated me. and i still thought about you every night.”

“me too,” you whispered, your voice earnest, “even when i wanted to punch you, i still thought about you. yet i treated you like shit.”

she smiled again— tired, almost a little sad— and lifted a hand to your cheek, brushing her thumb gently beneath your eye, “you really scared me,” she said, voice cracking just a little, “when you got hurt… i thought i’d lose you before i ever got to tell you that…”

your hand came up to cover hers, holding it against your cheek, “tell me what?”

a beat passed before she leaned in slowly, and kissed you— soft and easy, like she was making up for every argument, every bicker, every eye roll and frustrated groan that she directed towards you. your hands found her waist, tugging her gently closer, and for the first time, neither of you were trying to win anything.

it was solely just to feel.

you led her to the couch, where she curled into you like she belonged there all along. her fingers traced lazy patterns over your arm as you kissed again— deeper this time, but it was never rushed. caitlyn’s body warmed yours as she leaned over you, kissing along your neck, your jaw, your shoulder, as if she couldn’t get enough of you now that she’d finally let herself have you.

“let me take care of you,” she murmured against your skin, voice thick, “properly this time.”

and you nodded, breathless, “okay.”

caitlyn’s hands roam all along your body, yet her touch is still gentle, careful not to cause any pain from any injuries that may still be healing. your hands find either side of her face as her lips press onto your own, soft and loving, and your cheeks burn at the contrast that you’ve known all along. her usual harshness faded completely, turning into something more honest and vulnerable.

cait’s hands travel down your shoulders to the curve of your breasts, to your stomach, and to your waistband, where her fingers curl and pull down your sleep shorts with a swift movement. you shiver at the sudden cool air, but sigh when her warm hands squeeze your thighs.

“i’m so sorry,” caitlyn whines– literally whines into you, her lips still eagerly latched onto yours, “for treating you so badly."

you don’t respond, because her statement seems rhetorical. she knows you forgive her.

her fingers dip into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to your ankles as she finally breaks the kiss, letting out a whimper like it pains her to do so. you let out a sigh as you watch caitlyn move down to where her head is resting on your thighs, a half-smile etched onto her face, “what do you need from me?”

“i don’t care,” you heave out, “just…just touch me, please.”

caitlyn’s quick to adhere to your request. you spread your legs before she can even ask you to, and her eyes are drawn to your sopping pussy, and they soften at the sight. she brings her fingers up and works them into you gently, curling them just the way you like, and she chuckles at how easily she can work you up. she coaxes her digits in and out of you just right, slow and intimately, her lips falling to kiss and suckle at your clit.

you let out a light moan, caitlyn’s name passing through your lips as you bask in pleasure, eyes fluttering closed and head thrown back. she’s so careful with you, and you can tell that every move she makes is purely out of adoration for you, something way more loving. her fingers gently graze against your sweet spot, her tongue circling around your clit a little harsher now, but nothing like usual. it’s tender.

you’re so sensitive it’s sickening, and caitlyn can tell by the way your hips are bucking into her, the way your hands are finding a fistful of her hair, the way your moans only grow louder as time goes on. she looks up at you with soft blue eyes, “you’re so pretty, darling. i just want to make you feel good.”

you can hardly get any words out, “c-cait, mmph– fuck, i’m…i’m close, please, don’t stop.”

usually, whenever you and caitlyn would have your little hookups, she’d either stop when you were close, or just completely snap you in half until you were lightheaded and worn out. but now, her movements only speed up ever so slightly, and she’s peppering little kisses all on your thighs, your stomach, anywhere she can get without ruining her technique. you feel your body grow tired as you lean back into the cushions, that familiar wave of pleasure washing over you as you cum around caitlyn’s fingers. she coos sweet nothings into your skin, helping you ride out your high before you back away out of sensitivity. she pulls her digits out of you and licks them clean like it’s nothing, and then she looks up at you with gentle eyes, “was that…okay?”

“yes,” you heave, smiling, “yeah. more than okay. c’mere.”

she obliges, grabbing one of the blankets resting on the back of the couch, unfolding it before coming up to lay on your chest, wrapping it around the both of you. your hand comes up to stroke her hair, gently, and caitlyn sighs, “y/n?”

“yes?” you hum.

“i have to tell you something,” she speaks honestly, “but i don’t want it to scare you.”

you nod, and there's an interlude of silence before caitlyn sighs into your chest, “i’m…in love with you.”

you feel your heart soften. the way she says it, quiet and shy, it’s not like anything you’ve ever seen from her before. she’s so vulnerable, laying on your chest, hair a little messy– it’s the first time you’ve ever seen her like this, and you’re not complaining at all.

“cait?”

“yeah?”

“i love you, too. i’m in love with you.”

she reaches for your hand and you let her take it, and she turns to where she’s still laying on your chest, but you’re face to face, your noses touching as the both of you smile at each other for just a moment.

“i want you to be my girlfriend,” caitlyn whispers, “is that…okay?”

“of course it is.” you grin, and pull caitlyn further into your arms, fingers running through her hair gently as the both of you succumb to the pull of sleep, hands intertwined and foreheads resting against one another’s.

₊⊹ taglist: @drunkinyourbenz

[itzahazbinwriter]

Too Hot in New Orleans

(Human!Alastor x f!Reader)

CW: GRAPHIC SMUT. Alastor being a tease, referenced death, referenced violence

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (one day I'll have a pretty banner thingy like other people do) - THIS IS AN 18+ STORY

(CRAZY thank you to my girl @degen-fics for betaing this for me and making sure i didn't use the same words/phrase 50+ times <33)

If you enjoy this, want to talk about this besides on Tumblr, or just want to - maybe come join the VoxTech discord server where I'm feral as fuck. And also there are some other amazing artists, writers, and fans! https://discord.gg/e6GXYCwqtu

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Hot. It was just too hot. Every inch of you dripped sweat in the unrelenting summer New Orleans heat. The thought of even the littlest of clothing made you too warm. Even your slip had been peeled away in a desperate attempt to cool down. You laid on the cooler wooden floors of your home, a silk robe discarded nearby. There was nothing on this planet that could move you from this only mildly cooler spot. 

As if summoned by the very thought, there was a knock at your door. You groaned, hoping they'd go away. Opening the door would mean more heat and you couldn’t handle even just the idea of that. You closed your eyes, just wanting to be cool. Please go away, you pleaded with them silently. But some things were not to be. 

After a moment, there was a pause in the knocking and you imagined they'd be listening at the door to hear if anyone was home. Thankfully, your bare form was tucked out of sight from the door. It'd be a scandal if anyone could see you lying naked in the parlor of your home. No proper young lady would dare! 

The knocking resumed and you groaned again. Wasn't it obvious that no one was home or didn't want to answer the door? You startled when you heard a familiar voice call out your name. Alastor... good gracious, how could you have forgotten about your plans? Quickly, you sat up, calling out, "Be right there!"

Standing, you quickly draped your robe around your form before answering the door. You opened it and instantly greeted Alastor, your smile matching his own. Before he could say anything, his smile faltered.

“Hello, Alastor! I--” You started to speak before you saw his cheeks start to turn pink as his eyes darted down your form then quickly back to your face. 

"Perhaps I should come back some other time since you are.... Ahem… indisposed." He averted his eyes, something he never did, favoring eye contact. You glanced down and let out a soft startled noise akin to a squeak. The silky robe you put on was falling off one shoulder and open down to your navel, showing one of your bare breasts to the famous radio host. 

"Al, I am.... oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Gasping, you clutched the silk robe closed so as to not expose yourself any more. Your cheeks burned as you fumbled over another apology, tears stinging at the corner of your eyes out of sheer horror. 

There was a long moment of silence that scared you more than anything. “Cher..." Alastor's voice was lower, more gravelly than you'd ever heard before, notably without his usual radio perfect transatlantic accent. A moment passed, as if he was trying to decide what to do next. 

You watched him with wide eyes, feeling your skin prickle under the scrutiny. Was this the end of your pseudo-friendship with him? You opened your mouth to speak but never got the chance. He pushed forward into your home, making you stumble back. The front door shutting behind him sent a chill down your spine. It felt so… final, but you had no idea what to expect.

For a moment, the only sound between the two of you was shaking breathing and eerie silence. Then, Alastor leaned forward, one hand softly cupping the left side of your face as he delicately pressed his lips to yours. You let out a small gasp before pressing your lips against his, scared but too enthralled to draw back. He pulled back for a moment, eyes seeming to search yours for something. You didn’t know what he looked for, but you nodded before he closed the tiny gap between the two of you. 

The second kiss sent another unexpected chill down your spine. Kissing Alastor felt so dream-like; never had he expressed interest beyond friendship with you. The faint early attraction you had to him never fully faded, but you were content enough with the situation. For him to now kiss you like this, react like this… it was a fantasy come true. You couldn’t believe this was real, but if you were dreaming, you never wanted to wake up as you moved your lips against his. 

Carefully, Alastor placed a hand on your hip and closed the gap between you, pressing against you lightly to make you step backwards into your home. You let him guide you as the two of you continued to kiss, too distracted to care where Alastor took you as long as the kissing didn’t stop. 

It didn’t take long for your knees to press against the couch and you eased yourself down, finally breaking the kiss and his hold on you. Breathing hard, you stared up at the smiling man hovering, hesitating over you. “Do you want this?” His voice was barely above a whisper. Despite it all, he was still a gentleman. 

Instead of answering verbally, you reached out and fisted the fabric of his shirt, having abandoned his usual suit in the unforgiving heat. He used one hand to hold your wrist before you could try to pull him down on top of you. “I need your words, cher. I… I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop once we…” His voice trailed off, leaving you a little breathless at the implication of you making him lose his careful control, making him crack from his perfected radio persona simply by showing him your body. 

“Alastor,” his name sounded like a prayer from your lips as you tugged his shirt despite his grip on you, “I want this. I need this.” Something behind the radio host’s eyes seemed to change and it sent a spark of desire through you as he let go of your wrist, leaned down and closed the distance again, biting your bottom lip before kissing you. 

You released your grip on his shirt as he closed the gap between you. Instead, you slide your hand over his shoulder and the nape of his neck, his hands wrapping around your waist. Thick brown curls tangled around your fingers as you tugged lightly. Alastor growls into the kiss, nipping at your bottom lip. Breaking the kiss, he pulled back long enough for you to get a good look at him. His eyes were wild, but stern. “Don’t tug, darling. I’ll have to tie you up otherwise.” Oh. That sent some thrill straight through your body. Your heart raced as you stared at him, mouth open and chest heaving. “Oh cher, you look good enough to eat.”

Alastor leaned back down again, kissing you even deeper than before, using his tongue to push past your lips. It felt like he was going to consume you, and you wanted nothing else. You arched your back to press your upper body to his; the silk of your robe teasing your nipples into hardness, sending an electric pulse to your loins. He swallowed your moan before sliding his hands down your back, gliding over the silk robe, to angle your hips against his. Arching into him, you moaned again when you felt firmness against your inner thigh. He broke the kiss and pulled back enough to stare into your eyes, and you whimpered. Another smile tugged at his lips, before he licked his lips. “I’m going to savor you…” He promised in a whisper before pulling away slightly. “But not on your couch, cher.” 

Alastor stood, pulling his arms from behind you. His eyes scanned over you and you could only imagine the picture you painted, panting and staring at him with your robe barely covering you anymore. Despite the heat, you shivered and bit your bottom lip, tearing open the tender flesh. Blood started to spill from your lip and his eyes focused on it with a sharp, thrilling intensity. Shakily, you took in a deep breath and felt the silk robe start to slide down your shoulder again as you started to sit up from the couch. “Alastor…” It was hard to recognize your own voice, low, gravely and breathy. 

He extended his hand to help you up. As you grabbed his hand, it felt like he was on fire, just like you. It took barely a tug of his hand for you to be pressed against him completely again, barely balanced on your feet. Quickly, he pressed his lips to yours again, tongue swiping at the blood from your lip. A wave of arousal crashed through your body again as you pulled away, hand still in his, and pulling him towards the stairs. His lips were stained a faint red as you stared at him. 

To you, there was nothing in the world but you and Alastor. Not even the oppressive New Orleans heat could compare to the desire burning in your heart and loins. You led him through your home, up the stairs, and to your bedroom, glancing behind you every few steps to make sure this wasn’t a fever dream. He followed, grin still in place. 

As soon as the two of you reached the bedroom, Alastor closed the door behind himself. “Darling, I simply must taste you.” You gasped as he spun you to face him, the light silk of your robe flying open. His eyes trailed over your skin, slowly moving from your lips to your neck, down to your exposed breasts and tightened 

nipples, tracing over your soft stomach and down to your most private area. Nervous, you bit down on your bottom lip and tried to move your arms in front of your body. Him being fully clothed… it felt surreal to be bare in a way no one but perhaps your mother had ever seen. Having forgotten you held one of his hands in your own, it startled you 

when he pulled the arm away from you. “No, cher. Let me see you. Let me worship you.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Please, my darling…” Hearing the proud man beg for you, your knees nearly gave out beneath you. You moved your arms out of the way and released his hand to shrug the robe completely off, breathing hard. 

“Alastor…” His name felt like a prayer falling from his lips. “Alastor, please…” you begged him breathlessly. He didn’t hesitate to close the gap between your bodies. One hand reached up to cup your cheek as he kissed you again. You felt the soft cotton of his shirt brush against your skin, teasing you even more. Shifting your legs, you could feel moisture between your thighs - the moisture that previously only came when you touched yourself. 

Alastor’s other hand drifted to your waist and pulled you completely against him, chest to chest, hip to hip. You shuddered at the feeling of him straining against his pants, opening your mouth to let his tongue move against yours again. His hand moved from your bare waist, up your side with the softest of touch so goosebumps formed, slowing down along the sides of your breasts. He pulled away to stare into your eyes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re lovely, far too lovely for this lowly sinner… but I will cherish you as you’ve never been cherished before. Is that alright, my love?” 

You didn’t have a chance to answer before he reclaimed your lips for a passionate kiss then moved his lips down to your neck. He pressed delicate kisses to the column of your neck, moving down with each one. “Alastor, please… I, I don’t know if I can stand much longer.” You barely recognized your voice, breathy and desperate as it was. He pulled away from his kisses, grinning as both of his hands moved to your hips, gripping the fat of them tightly. 

“Of course, cher. I’ll take care of your every need.” He lifted you with ease and moved in such a way for your legs to be wrapped around him. The very core of your being pressed into the hardness in his pants and you let out a breathy whimper. “Oh, you make the best noises. I wonder what others I can get from you.” 

There was no way he didn’t feel your wetness seeping into his trousers and the thought made you blush and try to hide your face in his neck. He chuckled before he took a step forward and then leaned down. “Let go, darling,” he ordered once you felt the softness of your neatly made bed against your back. 

You obliged and fell back onto the bed, sprawled out so he could see every single inch of your body. His stare felt like electricity running through your body before he slid onto his knees. He hovered over your naked form, looking intensely at you as your flushed chest heaved. “Do you still want me, cher?” The whisper felt heavy in the moment and you knew he’d stop if you asked, but that was the furthest thing from your mind. 

“Yes, Alastor, please.” You reached up, lightly tugging him down on top of you, him having to brace himself with his arms to not fall completely on you - it was one of the few times he seemed just as off balance by this as you. Your lips met again. Intoxicating was the only way to describe his kisses - every move made you warm like whiskey, just as addictive on the tongue. He obliged you a few kisses before starting to kiss down your neck, each spot tingling for a moment after every time he pressed his lips against your skin.

Once he reached your collarbone, he switched from soft kisses to playful bites. His teeth scraped lightly against your bone and you shivered at the intense feeling. “Al…” He hummed in response before switching back to kisses as he kissed down the center of your chest, trailing towards your breasts but stopping for a moment as he reached the skin in between them. His eyes darted up to meet yours before he moved to begin kissing and nipping at the mound of your breasts. An animal-like whine escaped the back of your throat at the sensation of his mouth on you; the whine turned into a keening noise as he slipped his tongue over your nipple before dragging it into his mouth. He started to suck lightly against your breast, making your back arch towards him. His hand slid behind your back, your nipple hard between his lips as he held you close.

A light graze of his teeth against your nipple made you moan louder than you ever imagined. You felt him grin against your breast before he sucked a little harder. Your hands clawed at his clothed back, needing desperately to touch him, to let him know how good he made you feel. His chuckle against your back made your nipple 

vibrate, sending another sharp flash of arousal to pool in the bottom of your stomach, maybe even leak out of you with how you were spread out underneath Alastor. After a few more moments of sucking, he pulled away; a string of drool stayed connected between your nipple and his mouth as he moved to the other breast to give it the same attention. His hand on your back flexed, nails starting to press into your skin and trailing down in claw marks down your spine. Instead of pain, the pressure made you whimper again. “Alastor, Alastor, please.” You chanted his name, desperately wanting him to do more; whatever that was. 

The clawing down your spine stopped right at the small of your back and he pulled away from your nipple with a tiny last lick as he looked at you. You could only imagine with mild horror how you must look. Completely bare to a man that was fully dressed, not even one courting you as your breasts heaved after having your nipples teased even further. 

“Beautiful, cher. Simply beautiful.” He praised as he slowly drew back to kneeling on the bed, pulling his arm from behind your back. You smiled at the compliment before watching with rapt attention as his hands came up to his neck before he started to untie his bow tie. Letting out a shaky breath, you watched as his nimble fingers moved. He 

started to unbutton his shirt once the tie was tossed to the side. It was a sin, what you were doing. But as the first button came undone, as you saw more of his chest, the less you thought of heaven and hell. No, your eyes stayed on him, flicking up to his face to see him watching you with hazy eyes.

Before popping the second button on his shirt, he stopped. His smile turned mischievous as he instead took a small step back from the bed before falling to his knees. The change in angle made you gasp as you moved to stare down your body to see Alastor staring at your bare sex. Instinctually, you tried to close your legs but strong hands grabbing your knees kept you bare to him. “Now, now, cher. I did want to taste you…” He trailed off as he used his grip on your knees to pull you to the edge of the bed, bringing your sex only inches away from his face. You let out a gasp at how close he was as he moved his eyes to meet yours. “I just know you’ll be the sweetest thing I’ll ever taste.” He cheekily winked at you before leaning closer, still smiling. 

Your head fell back against your blankets when you felt his breath against your bare skin. His hands slid from your knees up the front of your legs until he grasped your hips again. A whimper escaped you and he chuckled before pressing a tender kiss to the inside of your left thigh, your right thigh, then just above your wet slit. It felt like forever and an instant all at once as he slowly licked his way into your slit. His low groan seemed to reverberate against your skin; your back arched at the intense sensation. 

Alastor took no time licking further into you, lapping at the wetness that he caused. Immediately, you had no thoughts in your head besides a chant of his name. The only thing you could look at was the white ceiling as you made noises you didn’t think anyone was capable of making. His tongue moved against your lower regions, dipping in and out of you and his hands slid from your hips down to your thighs, gripping the flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The idea of him leaving marks on you, a physical reminder of the intense pleasure he was giving you… You moaned loudly again and he paused in his tongue motion to look up at you. 

“Eyes on me, cher.” He commanded and you obeyed without question, propping yourself up so you can watch him devour you. His grin widened before he moved back in. But instead of going directly back to your slit, he licked his way a little further up until it felt like live electricity was running through you. You desperately tried to keep your eyes on him, whispering his name at how ethereal he was making you feel. “Ah, there she is…” He focused all of his attention on the nerve, sucking it into his mouth and pressing his tongue against you. 

“AL!” You screamed his name, eyes clenched shut . He didn’t pull away, instead choosing to continue lavishing attention on the sensitive nerve ending. After a moment, he stopped sucking and instead just gave it the tiniest licks. It completely escaped your notice that one hand slid away from its resting place on your thigh and moved in between your legs. The lightest bit of pressure from his fingertip against the entrance to your body made you whimper his name again. “Al… Alastor, Alastor… please…” 

“Shhh, darling,” he cooed in between licks. “I have to prepare you. You don’t want me to hurt you, do you?” The questions made you shudder, arousal overwhelming you. A moan came from the back of your throat as his tongue pressed against your clitoris and the tip of his finger started to enter you. You clenched your muscles as Alastor continued to push his finger in and out of you while his tongue worked against the sensitive spot. It felt like time stopped as he slowly licked and fingered the place that was only meant for your future husband, but all you wanted was Alastor. Nothing but Alastor. Slowly, you felt a second finger join the first, stinging at first but slowly he worked you open. He started moving faster than before; the squelching sound obscenely loud besides your panting breath. “Al… Al…” It felt like the only thing you could say was his name. 

Slowly, he pulled his mouth away and you saw the way your slickness coated all around his mouth, shining obscenely in the daylight. If your mother wasn’t already dead, you’d send her straight to the grave with how you were acting. You whimpered as he gave you one of his charismatic grins and then pressed a sweet kiss on your thigh. “You’re doing so well, darling,” he praised you easily before curling his fingers against a certain spot inside you. Spots danced in front of your eyes at the intense feeling, your whole body tensing up at each touch. He hit again and again, making sure to keep his eyes locked on you as he gave you ecstasy. “Do you want another finger, sweetheart? Can I prepare you to take my cock?” The only response you could manage was a long whine of his name as his fingers found that spot again and pressed, holding there until it felt like you were about to lose your mind. He pressed a kiss to your lower stomach, just above where his fingers were working in and out of you, as a third finger joined the first two. 

The stretch hurt more than you thought - it’d been so good until now. You tried to pull away but Alastor’s other hand moved to your stomach and pinned you there as he moved in and out of you. “I…I…” You struggled to get the words out as he kept you in place with his hand and his eyes. 

“Does it hurt, mon cher?” Amusement tinged his voice. “Poor thing… what if I just…” His words trailed off as he pressed the spongy spot again, making your back arch. The pain faded as he continued to move his fingers inside you. “There she is… my pretty little thing… such a darling, taking me so well.” Hearing his praise made you roll your hips against his hand. “Oh? Does she want more?” 

You didn’t finish nodding before he slowly pulled his three fingers out of you. Your throat went dry when he licked his fingers to clean your wetness from his skin. “You really are delicious, cher.” He stood again to his full, towering height and you felt so bare and vulnerable as his eyes raked over every visible inch of your skin. “But to really savor you… I’m going to have to ruin you.” It sounded like a promise and you nodded in agreement, reaching for him. 

But, Alastor didn’t let you reach him before he started unbuttoning his shirt. His dexterous fingers moved quickly, button after button falling open and baring his skin to you. Scars marred his skin, light indentions against his darker skin, and you made yourself watch the man’s hands as they dropped to his trousers. “C…can I?” You finally managed to speak, biting at your bottom lip. “I… I want to… you know.” Raising a hand to your lips, you hoped he knew what you wanted without you having to say the scandalous words. His fingers never stopped moving as he took off his belt, carefully setting it off to the side, though leaving his shirt open and fluttering around his chest.

“No need, cher. I much rather have all of you.” He gave you a charming grin and wink as he slowed down but still started to unbutton his trousers. Your mouth went dry as he pushed the pants and underwear down to the floor, revealing himself to you as intimately as he was seeing you. Head swimming a little, you wondered how he’d… fit inside you. He looked much larger than three fingers and that was painful at first. “Don’t panic, darling. I’ll take good care of you,” he promised, drawing your eyes from his narrow hips up to his face. “Now be a good girl and move so you’re completely on the bed.” 

There was a pause before you complied, moving to lay across the bed properly as it felt like there were a thousand butterflies in your stomach. You glanced quickly at the vanity that showed you how flushed you were, how debauched you look. A chuckle drew your attention back to Alastor as he moved closer to you. His warmth radiated from his skin as he climbed onto the bed next to you before positioning himself almost on top of you. The silky skin of his cock brushed across your thigh as he moved, drawing a breathy noise out of the back of his throat, one of the few noises he’d let slip during the whole time. 

The two of you met eyes and you felt like you couldn’t look away; he must have cast a spell on you to make you feel like this, to make you want him this badly. Alastor leaned down to kiss you again, his teeth grazing your tender lip. Not wanting to be an inactive participant any longer, you wrapped your arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. His tongue pressed against yours as you felt him adjust on the bed before you felt something brush against the bundle of nerves he’d found before. It took you a moment to realize that it was his… He greedily swallowed whatever mewling noise you made before prodding the tip against your entrance. “Relax for me, my love. It’ll hurt less.” 

Alastor distracted you with another tender kiss as he rolled his hips forward, using one hand to guide himself. His tip caught on the edge of your entrance before sliding in. The pain struck like lightning. “H…hurts…” you whimpered and he tensed for a moment before stopping moving. Closing your eyes tightly, you wanted to move away from him but his weight kept you on the bed. 

“I promise, cher, it gets better, just relax.” He shushed you, pecking you between each word he whispered against your lips. “I’ll make you feel so good… just…” His hips moved forward, pushing him further into you. Your body stretched around him, clenching against the intrusion. He hissed out your name as he stilled his hips again, moving the hand from his cock to hold onto your waist. 

The touch made you open your eyes again, taking in the wild expression of the man on top of you. Alastor’s eyes looked predatory as he gave you a smile with a shaky exhale. “Just a little more,” he promised before moving his hips more. You felt his hips press against yours and you never felt so full and whole, even with the pain of stretching around him. “You’re mine now, cher,” he promised in the stillness of your room. “I’ll never let you go now.” The possessiveness made you shiver and he hissed at the feeling. 

Another moment passed before he looked deep in your eyes, looking for something. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it as he started to move his hips back. The movement made you whine a little, the pain fading a little as he moved out. You could tell Alastor was starting to lose control because he wouldn’t stop talking - babbling, really, about everything he was feeling. “You’re so tight, so perfect for me…” Overwhelmed at the praise, you captured his lips in a kiss, desperate to find the pleasure he promised. 

As soon as it was just the tip of his member inside you, he started to push forward again, a little faster than before. The air seemed to be pushed from your lungs as the pain returned, though not as sharply as before. Alastor shifted his hips slightly to the left and the tip pressed against the spongy spot he’d previously found with his fingers. It felt like fireworks were going off in your head as pleasure shot through you. Was it possible to feel this good without him inside you? You doubted it and never wanted to try. Moaning, you moved your hips against his, wanting more. A choked laugh escaped him as you wiggled underneath him. “Shhh, cher, I’ll give you everything you want and more.” He promised, pressing his forehead against yours and exhaling as he pushed back into you sharply, hitting that spot and stretching your hole against the base of his cock. “Do you trust me?” You didn’t even need to think before nodding. His ever present smile turned a little sharper, a little more dangerous. It sent a thrill through you, knowing this man was all yours. 

Moving his hands, he intertwined his fingers with yours gently. He guided your hands above your head, all the while slowly fucking himself into you with a ferocity that should have sent you running but it was too late; he ruined you, just like he promised. “Keep your hands here,” he ordered before pulling his hands away. The backs of his hands trailed down your arms, along the sides of your breasts before pausing to squeeze them and flick at both nipples at the same time. He punctuated the movement with another hard thrust that was almost too deep, a touch of pain coming back but the pleasure never fully ebbed away. 

Your hands twitched as you tried to keep them where Alastor told you as his hands moved down from your breasts, tickling along the soft roundness of your stomach before clutching at your hips with bruising force. He nuzzled his face into your neck, pressing kisses to the soft, tender skin; you could only imagine the number of marks he was leaving on you. A tiny groan escaped you as he thrust his hips into you again, moving faster. Pressure was building inside you and you were only vaguely aware of what was happening to you. It never felt like this with the few innocent touches you’d ever given yourself. “Al… Al, please…” You didn’t know what you were pleading for; all you knew is that you wanted - needed more from the radio personality turned your lover.

“You want more?” Alastor spoke mostly into your neck before biting down a little harder than before. You cried out his name as he started to suck and lick at the tender spot. “I’ll give you everything I have and more, cher.” Your heart fluttered at the promise and you could almost imagine being married to him, having him take you like this every night. Whimpering, you arched your back and moved your hips against his as he moved faster and faster within you. He hit that magic spot within you with each thrust and you felt your everything tightening as you seemed to near a peak, closer and closer to tipping over from the sensations he was stirring inside you. 

Alastor squeezed tighter on your hips and hissed into your neck. “You’re so soft, so good for me, my darling. You squeeze me so well, making me want to give you a baby.” A gasp escaped you before you could stop it, quickly thinking of you being round with a child, his child, and him giving you as many babies as you wanted. “Is that what my girl wants?” 

You couldn’t stop yourself from whining what someone could only assume was a yes. He grunted and with a sharp thrust, it felt like a dam within you broke. Your whole body trembled at the overwhelming pleasure, fireworks shooting behind your eyelids. It only took a few more strokes of his hips before you felt Alastor collapse gently on top of you, face still buried in your neck. 

Several moments passed as you laid on your bed, drenched in sweat and trying to catch your breath under your lover. He pulled back and pressed a small kiss to your forehead, following one on your nose then lips, more chaste than any other you’d shared in the afternoon. You moved your arms down from where you’d been holding them to brush a hand over his sweaty hair, laughing lightly as you realized he’d never taken off his glasses, leaving them askew on his face. 

Slowly, Alastor pulled out of you and you blushed as he stared at where you’d been joined. You could feel his seed spilling out of you, making you blush as you tried to cover yourself. “It’s a little late for that, darling,” he cooed as he moved off the bed. With him standing in front of you, you took a moment to admire him as you sat up. “I hope it was… satisfactory for you?” The formality of the question made you laugh louder than perhaps you should before nodding. 

“You’re wonderful, Alastor,” you assured him as you slid to the edge of the bed. He offered you his hand and you took it, standing next to him, feeling the slick of his release beginning to slide down the inside of your thighs. “I’ll run us a cool bath. We should be able to cool down.” Standing on your tiptoes, you pressed a kiss to Alastor’s cheek before going to the bathroom to run the two of you a bath.

----

It hurt. When you realized that Alastor left while you were in the bathroom, daydreaming of a future that would never be. The news broke a few days later - Alastor, famed radio host and darling of New Orleans was the Bayou Butcher. Rumors said he died while cannibalizing his latest victim. You threw the paper away as quickly as you could, avoiding the radio entirely. That day… he could have killed you as easily as he fell into your bed. And then he vanished into the afterlife before you could even ask him why.

[caffieneaddictt18]

Who's a Heretic Now?

Got this idea listening to Which Witch by Florence + The Machine. I hope yall like it!

You are by the stream when you hear the tell-tale sound of horses on the soft dirt.

This was your first warning.

"Ma'am... we have reason to believe that... you are a witch." The captain of this small squadron addresses you from atop his stallion as you stand to your full height by the stream.

This was your second warning.

"You will find no witches here, good sir." You square your shoulders and look him in the eye.

The Infamous Price... given his name by the people he slaughters. The one whom he makes pay.

You can hear the two of the men on his team start to circle you, and you firmly dig your foot into the ground, just enough to be discreet and send out a signal for the roots to come back. There's someone in the trees... behind y-

You stop when you notice their armor seems to be clinking. Something... something's happening.

And this... your final warning.

You immediately withdraw your magic, and the clinking stops. Price just smirks.

"We knew you were the Witch of the Woods." He pulls out a necklace, the medallion on it radiating magic like uranium radiates nuclear energy.

"I am no witch. There are no witches here." You stand your ground, not willing to die for who you are.

"No use lyin', lass." The Scot, Soap, leans forward on his horse, watching you carefully with a carefree smile on his face.

"We just got confirmation." Gaz swings his medallion in the open air.

"Let's not scare her." John gets off his horse, and takes off his helmet.

"What are you going to do? Kill me? Torture me? Make me give you secrets that not even I know?" You prepare yourself for a fight... a fight you'll lose, but not without getting them too.

"Why make you if you don't even know them?" Ghost on his death-black mare emerges from the trees, his long bow slung across his back, "It would be easier to just kill you."

"Simon-" Price scolds his second-in-command, his hands on his hips. Ghost looks away, seeming to be scoping out the surrounding area.

"We... we need your help." Price starts, setting his helmet down and leaving his sword in his scabbarb.

"You need my help?" You let yourself slowly come out of the anticipatory stance, "Apologies, but I don't help killers."

"You kill." Gaz states, sounding so sure of himself and a smug expression to match.

"Do you think I'm doing myself any favors out here? There's no townspeople to convince that I'm a cunning woman that can help them. There's no protection out here." Gaz's face falls as he understands your situation a bit better now.

"So that's what you want." Soap gets off his horse.

"I never said that."

"Didnae have to, lass."

"Regardless, we need your help." Price cuts in, pleading for your kindness.

"Like I said, I don't help killers." Your face is stony as you begin to walk back to your cottage.

"The crown prince gave us the order to kill you." Price's voice slices the silence like a sword against stone.

You pause as you turn around to face them. "You are known for making your victims beg... why not make me plead? Why not force me on my knees and draw pleas from me like a chant? Why not kill me?" You take slow steps towards the captain, stopping at a comfortable distance.

"He was going to send us on the same day that he intended to banish us. For our crimes."

Your eyes narrow. "What did you do?"

"We operated under the General, with the Queen's express permission. However... she was found dead at dawn."

"And the prince assumed it was you." You come to the conclusion of this story.

"The General was not particularly fond of her anyways, and this would be an easy way to become the top of the military with his extensive training, overseen by the Queen and General themselves." Price explains, his arms outstretched.

"So you wish for me to protect you from the... King now, I assume."

Price's head hangs in defeat. You could see through his armor... through him.

"Fine. But I want something in return." You speak, your back straightening.

"What do you want?"

"Your swords." Your voice hits them all in the chest, understanding the weight of this. Soap, however... takes this a little too literally.

"Not actually. I have no need for a sword. But I do need your expertise in fighting if the new King were to ever find us." You look at Capta- Price... Just Price now...

"Boys?" He gathers his team together, the three of them looking on apprehensively.

"You said we would never have to do this again." Gaz look at the Captain, a sad look in his eyes.

"We never have to kill innocents anymore, Garrick. The men she is asking us to fight... they are guilty of every charge."

"They were our brothers in arms." Soap retorts, his arms crossed in front of him.

"No, MacTavish, they weren't... Not really."

As they discuss their little moral debate, you walk inside your cottage and gather your materials. Moon water can be made again... Eye of newt only grows in this area, gotta take it. It will be hard to find marshmallow elsewhere... I'll take that and grow it.

As you exit the cottage with everything you need, you look at the group, seeing Price give his men an inspirational speech. It makes you roll your eyes as you turn back to the cottage and say a spell, while holding your hands together, thumbs out to form a triangle over your head. As you chant your spell, and slowly bring your hands down, your home starts to crumble and form back with the Earth.

"Captain... I think she's leaving." Gaz nudges Price's shoulder, pointing at you.

Price turns to look at you, "You made a deal!" He shouts, angry at you seeming to double-cross him. "You said you would protect us if we gave you our swords!"

You sigh and close your eyes, feeling the setting sun on your face. You turn around, looking down the hill at him, the sun iluminating you, the wind caressing your hair.

"Who said 'I' was leaving? You're coming with me."

Price, shocked, stands there and takes in your words. And then your power... and your majesty. You are the most beauti-

"Apologies," He clears his throat.

"Besides, you haven't promised me your swords yet." You shift your gaze from Price, to the team, and back to Price.

Price, recovering from seeing you in this golden moment, takes his sword out and slams it into the ground in front of you. He slowly kneels on one knee, head bowed and hands gripping the hilt.

"I pledge my sword to you."

His team stands in amazement. They have only seen this happen one other time and... it was never this devout.

Gaz was the next to follow, throwing his sword in the ground close to his captain, mimicking the older man's stance. "I pledge my sword to you."

You look on in slight amusement and definite shock as Soap follows close behind. "I pledge my sword to you."

It is Ghost that takes the longest. He simply stands there and stares at you, his hand gripping the longbow like's ready to notch it and kill you any second.

"Ghost. I understand your apprehension. But I can't help you unless you are willing to fight. I will take you to safety. I will never ask you to kill an innocent. But I do need this of you." You look at him, understanding flowing between your gazes.

He slowly follows behind his group, using his bow instead of his sword.

"Great. Are you boys ready?" You turn from them, facing the oncoming dusk, "It's going to be a long ride before we get to safety." You start walking towards the sun and down the other side of the hill.

Price smiles slightly as he stands, putting his sword back in its scabbarb.

"You heard the witch. Let's pack up." Price gives the order to follow you as he heads for his horse and saddles up, his men following in his stead.

"Where are we going?" Soap asks when they catch up to you.

"I don't know. But I hope it's safe."

So... I have an idea for this to become a series with no idea of whether or not I wil have the energy to do so, but let's hope so. Have a great night/day!

[karaaeilish]

★ old habits; b. eilish. . .

★ a/n — i don't wanna directly connect this to the new pics of billie and nat. this fic's been in my drafts for a long time, and now seemed like the perfect time to post it. i don't encourage hate or anything like that. so please treat this work the same as all the others !

★ angst `

for as long as you were together, you had one little habit that never went away. it was just something normal, something ordinary. it was a sign that you were okay, that nothing had changed, that your heart still beats just as hard at the thought of seeing her again. and it doesn't matter if you haven't seen each other for two hours or two weeks.

you always jump on her. just run up and throw your arms around her neck, legs wrapped around her waist every time when she was coming home after a long drive or any other situation when you saw each other after a while. billie was always strong enough to hold you in her arms calmly while you wrapped your limbs around her like a little koala. that was the nickname she gave you.

on normal days it was always energetic and joyful, hugging her tightly around the neck and leaving kisses on her cheek, her lips, her forehead, until her whole face was covered in traces of your lipstick and you were both giggling. she would carry you around the house for a few more minutes, making you feel like a little girl.

other days, after fights or tense moments, it was touchy-feely, slow, sensual. you would approach her with eyes puffy from crying, slowly climbing on top of her or holding out your arms for her to lift you herself, letting you lean completely on her. you'd hold her tighter than usual as she carried you to the bedroom, gently lowering your body onto the soft mattress. she'd take your hands in hers, listening patiently as you told her what had hurt you. so you could sincerely apologize to each other, and then fall asleep with her head on your chest, listening to your calm breathing and counting the beats of your heart under her cheek.

it was always so normal. so real.

but this time, apologizing wouldn’t help.

billie was leaving for a few days to support one of her friends before their concert. you didn’t have to ask her who would be there. she just laid her head on your lap, telling you every detail and every plan. said she just wanted to have fun, and you let her go without a second thought, knowing that the only thing you’d worry about was that she’d fall over again, coming home with a bunch of new bruises.

it was dark outside, the summer air ventilating your apartment through the small crack of an open window. the clock had just struck 10 PM, and you heard the soft click of the front door. and then that achingly familiar voice. your chest tightened. billie put her bag down on the floor, shouting that she was home and opening her arms wide for you to embrace her. but you remained still. there was only silence in response, and then she really tensed up.

“baby?” she nervously takes off her shoes, hurrying further into the apartment and entering the only room with a light on — the living room. billie's eyes scan everything she sees, and her gaze lands on you, sitting on the couch, curled up into a ball, making you look even more fragile.

there was a shit ton of papers scattered across the coffee table, and billie didn't realize what they were until she got closer, picking up a few of them in her hands. her eyes glazed over. her heart stopped for a few moments. pictures. her. some girl you didn't know. kissing. her stomach dropped.

the half minute of silence stretched on for an eternity as she continued to stare at the same photo, as if hoping the image would change. fade. burn away under her gaze.

“is this how you hang out with your friends now?” your voice was quiet, broken. so hurt that there was no accusation in it. just the raw pain tearing at your heart for the last few hours that you had spent in the same position, staring at the same images. and the longer you stared, the more unreal they became. everything became so unreal, so empty and meaningless. “i thought i could trust you, billie.”

using the full form of her name made her almost choke on air as she began to realize the scale of the disaster. the air between you grew heavy and thick, preventing either of you from breathing properly.

"baby, i…" she takes a step forward, as if trying to reach you, but you just move, sinking further into the soft cushions of the couch. you were disgusted. disgusted by her, by yourself, by this woman whose face you saw for the first time. a woman who turned out to be better if your girlfriend decided that kissing her was something that would bring her pleasure. no matter how much you loved her, it was only her choice and her decision. only her responsibility.

the thought of her touch chokes. a few hours ago, you wanted nothing more than to hold her again, to feel the warmth of her body warming your eternally freezing limbs, but now? now you're afraid that if her skin refuses to touch yours, you'll break up. forgive her. let her fix everything.

but there is no point in that when she's already broken your heart.

"i'm so sorry my love, i didn't know what i was doing.." she tries to justify herself, but you won't let her. you don't want to hear anything else, just because you know that every next word spoken with such tenderness will crush your heart even more. "billie. please, shut up. just stop talking."

you stand up from the couch abruptly, too abruptly for your usual behavior, making billie flinch.

"this is the end. we're done. i don't wanna hear your excuses."

your words are dripping with venom. or rather, you make them sound like that, just so she won't be tempted to continue apologizing. just because you know that eventually the tears will break through, flowing like a river down your cheeks and you'll find yourself in her arms, drowning in the tenderness of her words and the caress of her touch. you give in to the way her strong arms hold your trembling body, not allowing you to move an inch.

"i love you" she whispers. desperately. tears pool in the corners of her eyes.

"i love you too. that's the problem"

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch @mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts, @thebluediner, @xiletay, @eilishsfantasy, @ariieeesworl