#it's just an extra syllable. and for what

[kailoraurelius]

📣📣📣 AND ANOTHER THING ABOUT SWAN, I shout into my empty room. @sun-mo0nshine reblogged my post about Swan being the baddest bitch and said they love the way Jasmine says, "Swan". And I have a headcanon about it that idk maybe y'all would like?? So here it is lol. Sorry it's monsterously long.

We all have animatics in our heads, I'm sure. Or full stage or cinema productions or whatever. We're picturing it as we listen. I have a full stage production in mine. There's a few parts that are questionably possible with today's technology, but whatever. It's entertaining and gets me through very long hours at work sometimes.

POINT IS, in my head, Swan almost never smiles. She sounds nearly bored the very first time she says her name in Survive the Night. But we know her better now! We know she was worried even then!! And all the girls are saying their names in ways that seem to match how they'd be feeling in that moment.

Cochise, vibey, positive. Shown by her share of the lyrics in the rest of the song, because she's the one that sings about Cyrus holding the crown and wanting to see what happens with Cleon.

Cowgirl, more excited and rambunctious, down for a good time. That one is simple lol.

Fox, short and fierce. She's already trying to show she's tough in the first moment of her in this. You can hear her lifting her chin when she fuckin' says it.

Cleon, the loudest and most open voice of all of them. Representing basically her whole character in her intro. She is the one that believes fully in Cyrus and is open to her dream.

Ajax, just above monotone, a little extra emphasis on the "s" sound. It feels a little darker, even snake-like for a moment. Not to say she's a snake by any means, but she is ALMOST an antagonist for her own crew throughout—questioning Swan over and over, picking the fight that ends up taking her away—and this bit of darker voice and imagery kinda hints at that to me.

Rembrandt, always saying her name in two parts, the last syllable usually leaning more toward her feelings. (For example, the first time Mercy adds herself to the Roll Call later, Rembrandt speaks after her and there is very clearly a ???? In the middle of her name and an annoyed emphasis on the T at the end, like she's thinking, "who is this bitch? It was MY turn next.") And in this first Roll Call, her voice seems to fall somewhere between Ajax and Swan's vibes. Not as worried or displeased, but in between. Which makes sense because she is the one that echoes Ajax when she openly questions the plan throughout this song.

NOW. Swan. Worried. Monotone. Mind elsewhere, on what the future is about to bring them. I do not picture her smiling in this.

In Warriors' Cypher is the first time we hear some brightness in her voice, but even then she's talking about "peace so far" and stating that she has everyone's backs if that changes. She's STILL worried, even while they're fooling around and having fun. I do picture her almost exasperatedly laughing at the others' parts or smirking at Cowgirl's line, but not full on grinning. She's still focused on her worry, but she's allowing the bit of fun. And, in If You Can Count, I do see her starting to smile as it seems like the peace is going to be a real, lasting thing.

But, as Swan later says in A Light or Somethin', everything goes wrong from then on. Cyrus, running for their lives, the Turnbull ACs trying to kill them, the track fire. In Track Fire and a Phone Call, everyone is again kinda goofing off. Blowing off steam, razzing each other. But Swan is serious and stern. "When we get there, that's when we've made it." No smiling. She's too focused on protecting her crew.

Then we get to Orphan Town and THIS is where I think Swan's first full, genuine smile would come in. Again, she's worried, she's strategizing. The Orphans are taking some convincing. Swan and Fox start their flirting, where I imagine she would have a placating smile on, at least. Then Mercy comes in.

And I think Mercy amuses Swan. I think she comes out, singing about the Orphans, saying "Witcha hand on your BCACK" and, in my head, Swan laughs, startled into amusement, then quickly hides it so Sully won't turn on her. Then Mercy turns on her.

She starts demanding Swan's vest and this is the first and only time in the album that we hear Swan sound a little dumbstruck. That "What?" absolutely sounds like 0.0 She recovers, offers to try and get Mercy one if she helps them through, and Mercy says she wants the vest off of Swan and what do we hear? A laugh. A small one, entwined with her, "No chance" but a laugh. The only amusement we hear in Swan's voice until A Light of Somethin'. So yeah, I think Swan finds Mercy ridiculous and unhinged and kinda hilarious. Still though, I don't see a full-on smile happening here.

But then everything goes sideways, Swan defends Mercy, Sully changes his mind about letting them pass, and Swan decides to blow their shit up. They start putting together the molotov and it's when Swan calls for a piece of fabric and Mercy offers it up that I see the smile happening. The line "Let's make their world a little brighter" is the brightest we've heard Swan's voice be. In my headcanon, feature film, stage adaptation, I see Swan asking for the fabric and Mercy jumping forward to offer it up and Swan, startled again into amusement and gratefulness, fully grins.

I think it goes away very quickly as she focuses on her task and puts back on her leader face, but I think that quick look is when Mercy starts falling.

Back to everything is hard and sucks for a while. Swan is busy trying to ignore Ajax and Mercy's beef and protecting her crew. Her sole focus is getting them home. Then they lose Ajax and she has to lead the cops away. Mercy goes with her and they end up alone.

Which brings us to A Light or Somethin'. We know Swan was likely freaking out inside. Her Warriors are out there somewhere and she can't help them, can only hope they're waiting for her at Union Square. Ajax is gone, Cleon is gone. So she's quiet as they walk through the tunnel, understandably. But, again, Mercy manages to amuse her. You can HEAR the amusement in her voice. She laughs, saying Mercy won't like initiation. She is playful when she says, "Well, you split from the Orphans, are you loyal?" It's a legit question, but it's said with such a lighter feel. You can tell Mercy has broken through the stern, stoic face she's been putting on for just a moment. I think this is the closest we get to another real smile before the Finale. Not the full blown grin I picture in Orphan Town, but a smile nonetheless.

And when Swan rejects Mercy, her voice drops back down to that more monotone, worried voice we're used to. Except it also has a bit of a rasp to it now. A pain. She doesn't want to be pushing Mercy away. Desperation and agitation fill the rest of the song and then it's, once again, everything sucks and we're running. They lose Fox.

And I feel like there's a smile after the kiss in Same Train Home. It definitely feels like there's a few in the Finale, when Swan says "Anyone sick of runnin", when she tells Mercy she's a Warrior, when Cleon shows up, when Swan and Mercy sing "When I am with you" together.

But I think the only full, unguarded or untinged with sadness/worry, grin is in Orphan Town. When this woman Swan doesn't even know shows up and startles her into genuine happiness she wasn't expecting to find anywhere. Much less on the run for her life.

[fordford]

been seeing a lot of greenhorns in the tag asking why it's called fiddauthor and not fordford, so here's the answer: it's because people have been shipping them since before we knew the author's name. pretty much as soon as it was revealed that fiddleford worked with the author people were asking "in a gay way?". most of the content back then was highly speculative, too - ford's existence had not been confirmed yet and a lot of people thought his name was stanley because the whole nameswap thing hadn't been explained yet either. due to the confusion about the character's identity and name, people at the time decided it would be easier to just call it "fiddauthor" and so that's the ship name now. other names are used but that's The Main One

[anomalymon]

I was looking it up because we were curious about if there's a word for it that has more common use and. How has the endogenic community coined thousands of terms but they don't have a word for "another world experienced by a system such as through walk-ins, gateways, or headmate past lives"

Feel fee to toss me something if I'm wrong because there is no way we are the only system in this community to just string together something like "exoworld"

[dragonomatopoeia]

re: the last post i am constantly battling my inner demons because while I Know language changes all the time and we should be conscious of how it's actually used rather than hanging onto prescriptivist ideals, whenever i hear someone say comfortability instead of comfort i have to close my eyes for a second

[deus-ex-mona]

aw yeeeeeee all ft4 5☆s get!!!!!!!!!

[sysig]

Giggles (Patreon)

[loverboybrightsideghost]

✨🎵🙃 for the ask game!

✨ Do you have any nicknames?

NOOOOO I DON'T HAVE ANY NICKNAMES :((( sadly my name (not iris) doesn't really have any good nicknames that i like. only two people call me iris irl and there's not a lot you can do w iris. i mean i guess you could just say "i" (👁️) but that's not very good, plus i don't really like single syllable nicknames.

🎵 Last song you listened to?

the fourth movement of symphony no 9 by antonin dvorák. we're playing it in my orchestra, and after we first ran through it, i turned to my stand partner and said "this piece is so SEXY. if it was a person and i saw it on the street i'd pass out." it's SOOOOO good.

🙃 What’s a weird fact that you know?

stringed instruments (violin, viola, cello, bass) all have a wooden dowel inside them that is held by tension (not sure if that's the right word) between the top and bottom of the instrument. i mean it's not weird or random but i guess most non-musicians probably don't know that. hell i didn't know that until a few years ago.

you can kinda see them, is you turn your instrument at the right angle (i imagine it's easier on cellos and basses) but yeah. it is very important to the instrument sounding good, don't ask me how though. if the ends aren't fully touching the top or bottom of the instrument even the slightest bit, it will change your sound. in french it's apparently called the "âme" which means soul. so yeah.

[mbat]

i wish i could write songs specifically so i could parody hey west covina but about cass tbh

[dravidious]

You're very very very neato

Finally started watching Dragon Pilot today and it's okay so far I guess, but the dubbing choices made me SO MAD! In both versions the dragons are called "Organic Transformed Fliers", or OTF for short. But apparently the dubbing team doesn't know what an acronym is because they always have the characters say the entire phrase "Organic Transformed Flier(s)" every time. Also in both versions, the titular pilots of the dragons are called "D-Pi" which I'm sure sounds perfectly fine in Japanese, but why the fuck would you shorten pilot to pi in English? Not even DP, D-Pi! That sounds awful! The subtitles on the Japanese version even lengthen it to D-Pilot because that sounds way better in English! And then there's the fact that some of the lines are just. Different. For no apparent reason. Not majorly so, it's nowhere near 4-Kids levels, but like. Why would you make the characters say different things?? Overall I have no faith in the dubbing team so I'm watching the subtitled version.

[supersumc]

Just about everyone: FUCK

I, an intellectual: FECUNDATE

[suguann]

✎. simon will do this, if it makes johnny feel better.

tags. fem!reader, established relationship (simon/reader), threesome, double penetration in one hole, slight size kink, dirty talk [18+ only]

featuring. simon, soap

masterlist

Simon doesn’t share, but he makes an exception this time after his best friend’s date is a no-show, and he isn’t heartless enough to let Johnny hang out at the pub alone. Anybody will tell you: he can be a real nice guy when he wants to be.

And you don’t mind the extra company or another mouth to feed, that the flowers in the vase you put on the counter were meant for someone else, how Johnny gets flirty after his fourth beer, or— 

“Fuck, love,” Simon grunts into your shoulder when he finally eases his cock into you beside Johnny’s. “I guess you can take it like a champ, after all.”

But you hardly hear him over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears and the creaky mattress below your knees.

Johnny thumbs away your tears while you tremble above him, cupping your face to pull you into a kiss so you have something to focus on other than the feeling of being split down the middle—it takes an extra amount of effort not to clench down when you already feel like you’re about to break in two.

“Look at you,” Johnny mumbles against your lips. “Never thought you’d really let me do this.”

Then he pulls out, slick heat gripping him the whole way, and pushes deeper inside, punching a shaky breath out of you. 

He and Simon are in perfect sync, keeping you full while the other drags his cock out, only to fill you up again. It’s almost embarrassing how wet you are—at how much you like it—a hazy cloud settling over you as they use you for their pleasure.

Because Johnny’s sad, and you have a thing for making people happy.

Simon sucks little possessive marks into your shoulder and across your spine, murmuring filthy praise against your skin that consists of “sweetest and tightest pussy, my perfect little fucktoy” and “so fucking pretty.”

“That’s it.” Johnny’s voice is low and strained, barely heard above the loud squelching between your legs, but he sighs it into your mouth as he slowly comes apart. “Fuck—ah—you feel so good.”

A hand dips between you to press against your belly, where you can feel them, hot and heavy against your walls, making you squeal as a little ball of warmth travels down to your toes and all the way to the tips of your fingers. Simon fists your hair, tugging you away from Johnny so you’re looking up at him upside down. 

“So greedy that you needed two cocks to fill this soft little cunt, huh?”

You whine, unable to form an actual response outside of a few jumbled syllables, but a slap against your ass makes you whisper a shuddered yes.

He tells you to open your mouth before he spits onto your awaiting tongue, some of it hitting your cheek. When you swallow obediently, he smears what doesn’t make it across your lips with the thick pad of his thumb. 

“Don’t forget who you belong to,” he sneers, at odds with the soft way he kisses your cheek and reverently chokes on your name. Neither of you hear Johnny groaning under you as you clench down hard at the possessiveness in his voice—because at the feel of his wedding band pressing against your throat like a brand, how can you forget?

Simon doesn’t share, but this, he’ll do. Just this once because you’re already his, and he wants Johnny to know what it’s like to have a woman like you.

[141wh0re]

Just Imagine

gif by @bastardcompany

So, you're the new recruit for 141, the only girl, right. Right.

The guys all give you shit for your size in comparison to them, have a little laugh if you struggle through some training but ultimately will always help you with extra practice, and they always give you good natured teasing with sexist jokes. It never bothers you, you know they respect you and they find you to be a valuable asset to the team, and they trust in your skills.

But if a cocksure little fuckhead thinks they can spout off the same jokes at you, and any of the 141 guys hear about it? Oh, all bets off. They're stringin the bastard halfway up the flagpole, Ghost glaring daggers into them, making damn sure he knows he fucked up. Price is immediately filing the paperwork in preparation for what will, ultimately, end with the bastard being buried 6ft deep - after Ghost makes him dig his own grave - or, he's pissed himself from the promise of his undoing from the stares your brothers in arms give him.

"Get back in the kitchen. You don't belong in the army, slag." the bastard sneers at you as you're coming out of the weaponry.

You don't even have a chance to fire back at him and stand your ground, because here comes Ghost, shovel in hand, promise of death glimmering in his eyes with Soap and Gaz in tow.

The men crowd behind you, Ghost looming at your back, burning holes into the bastard's face, Gaz and Soap flanking either side of you.

"You wanna run that by us again, mate?" Gaz challenges.

It's as if the bastard suddenly has the fear of God instilled in him as his eyes widen, his mouth fumbling over incoherent syllables, and his hands raise in a placating manner.

"Go on. Ye had the balls tae say it tae 'er. Say it tae us." Soap chimes in, taking a menacing step towards the poor bastard trembling in his boots.

Poor bastard turns into a blubbering mess, desperately trying to backtrack over his previous statement.

You stand there with a smug smirk plastered on your lips, arms crossed over the front of your tac vest.

As soon as the guys send him on his merry way, Ghost turns to you, skull mask obstructing everything but those beautiful brown eyes.

"No one gets to bully you, unless it's us." He says sternly.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 5.2k

Summary: Teaching a Siren to read is perhaps the best or worst idea that you've ever had. If only you were half as capable of reading between the lines.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

‘U-G-L-Y’

“Wow,” you drawled. “What a wonderful use of your new talents.”

The fish you were cooking landed upside down on the hot stone with a crackling sizzle of skin that you could feel as a jumping prickle of heat all along your arm. You poked at your impromptu stovetop with your impromptu stick-spatula and prepared your impromptu leaf-plates. A true culinary connoisseur, you were. When you were rescued, you were going to argue to Riddle that you deserved a promotion to the kitchens. Though, apparently not everyone appreciated your talents.

‘UGLY’ the Siren poked again, jabbing his talon into the sand.

“Then bring me prettier fish,” you returned, pointed. “It’s not that hard.”

His sharp, black claws came up to point at you next alongside his wonderful, two-syllable insult. Then back to you again, with four fingers this time. Both hands going for it. There was a tight, irritated expression on his face that you refused to call a pout because firstly, surely this vicious king of the seas could never pull something so childish. And secondly, because in these past few days you’d developed a terrible habit of just chattering each and every one of your thoughts aloud. And if you called him bratty, or dared imply such pouting was coming from his regal visage, you were just setting yourself up to get drenched by his flailing tail all over again.

“You can’t hurt my feelings,” you said, bland. “Ugly is the nicest thing you’ve ever called me.”

He huffed and smacked his fins against the sand. The trailing, dark tips cracked against your leg and you kicked him right back. It didn’t actually hurt, no more than a pinch to the side, but you’d spent enough time with this asshole now that not fighting back like a toddler pitching a tantrum wasn’t an option anymore.

Just over two weeks, now. Fifteen days and counting.

Those first few days had been spent in a nervous, prey-like panic, of course. Watching him circle the bay with his shredded fins, crying at the top of his lungs until your goosebumps had goosebumps. And then you’d helped untangle him from the mess you’d made, delicately working salt-brined twine away from weeping wounds. Sure, there’d been that whole hoopla of him pinning you in the sand after your act of Great Chivalry and promptly threatening to rip your throat out with his teeth, but you’d moved past that. The offering of home-cooked meals had softened his scaly hide, and then the even greater move of handing him your species’ alphabet like some great, guarded secret of old had sealed the deal. Cheers all around. It’d only taken you nearly being eaten, disemboweled, and drowned, but you’d made peace with your roommate. What a success story.

And now instead of trying to murder you, he just called you U-G-L-Y.

So, you know, baby steps.

The thin, pointed end of his tail whipped up from where you’d kicked him to twine around your ankle and give a sharp tug that had you sprawling face first into the sand with an oomph. Your great tumble sent all those pretty letters of his scattering in the breeze, and you spat out a mouthful of grit.

“Here’s a new one for you,” you chirped, digging your fingers into the muck. F-U-C-K—Y-O-U.

The Siren yowled, which you’d come to recognize far too well as a prickle along your nape and that forever echoing tug, tug, tug somewhere in your head that could never return the call with its corresponding answer. His tail flailed out again to smack at your hands. It was thick, and scaly, and all smooth, powerful muscle. The fact that he hadn’t crushed your poor fingers into a sad, bony paste by now beneath its wrath was a miracle. If you were a more optimistic person, you’d say he was being extra gentle with you on purpose. But even you weren’t delusional enough to think he liked you that much.

“Okay, okay,” you grouched, spitting out another mouthful of pebbles. “Fine. Just not around the food. Unless you want to have to go hunting for dinner all over again.”

The Siren huffed, rolling his eyes like it was a professional sport, and settled himself prettily back against the butt of his tail like he’d never even tried to beat you to death with his fins at all.

You sighed and pulled yourself back out of the sand, scrubbing it from your salt-sticky skin as best as you were able. You returned to poking at your fish. They weren’t too terribly singed, despite your distraction. And the Siren seemed to like the edges extra crispy either way, so it wasn’t any kind of loss. You were in the middle of balancing your impromptu stick-spatula against another impromptu stick-spoon to try and flip the fish without destroying it entirely when you felt a gentle poke, poke, poke against your arm.

You looked back and the Siren stared down at you, lips canted in a sharp smirk that was all pride.

U-G-L-Y—A-N-D—S-T-U-P-I-D, the sand said.

He’d been struggling with applying the whole -pid noise to the proper lettering, because of how similar it was to -ped. And the spelling had been tripping him up (with much obvious frustration) for the last day or so.

“Well done,” you sighed, not even too terribly upset that it had taken you months in Riddle’s impromptu classrooms to learn what he was picking up over the course of a few, harried sessions delivered with broken bits of sharp sticks and an ever changing canvas. “Try this.”

You scribbled another message in the sand. An insult, naturally, because he seemed to like those. You sounded out the letters as you hopped the tip of your finger over them one-by-one, and the Siren stared down at the inscription with the sort of intense focus meant for ancient tomes or sacred texts. You watched his lips move silently as he sounded it out alongside your mini-lesson, and then he was reaching forward to trace over the letters with the curved tip of a claw—knuckles bumping yours for a moment before shooing your hand away.

You returned to your dinner—finishing up the poor, murdered fish as best as you could and doling it out as usual. You reached out to hand pretty boy his leaf-plate, which he took like a lord accepting a meal from a lowly servant. All upturned noses and pointed disinterest. He set it beside him and nibbled on the offering as he continued to study the new task you’d given him—grand, purple fins splayed out at his sides to brush against your hip like a habit. And this was your life now, apparently. Sitting and frying lazy, shallow water fish over a heated stone while your Siren student studied curse words in the sand. If you managed to survive this, no one would ever believe you.

.

.

The wrecked ship called to you like, well, did you even have to say it.

(It felt like a low hanging pun at this point. You’d never be able to use the expression again for as long as you lived without thinking of narrowed, purple eyes nearly rolling up into the back of a too pretty head because you were apparently that annoying.)

Every day when you ventured towards the western side of the islet to feed your teeny, round octopus friend, you couldn’t help but sit and stare at the shattered hull. It’s not like it was in any sort of shape to actually get you off your little, sandy prison, but it was… There was something about it that was familiar enough to scratch an itch in your brain, but just alien enough that figuring out what was itching was outright impossible.

Silver songbirds.

‘Not safe,’ the Siren had demanded, with an almost frantic look to him. Not safe.

Every time you tried to venture closer to get a better look, it was like he could feel it. And he’d be pacing the shoreline like a blood-frenzied shark—rattling off muted, angry complaints the whole time that popped against your skin like soda fizz. So, lesson learned. Keep away.  

It was a particularly sweltering afternoon today. Not a cloud in the bright, blue sky and nary a breeze to be seen. Sweat was beading unpleasantly along your brow and all down your back, and you hated it. At least on the Rose Queen there had been shade. And the lower decks of the ship submerged in the waves had always felt at least a little chilled. You could practically feel the damp, cool wood against your cheek. The smell of salt and pine oils in your nose. But here, on this stupid not-island with its barren trees and nothings, you just had to suffer in silence. The memories of your ship had you thinking of the washed up Songbird all over again, and you were in the middle of a heated, internal debate over making a swim for it again when something cold rained down over your face in small, scattered droplets.

You blinked back into focus to see Mister Merman at your ankles. You’d been sitting with your heels in the water, but no deeper. Because the shallows were still his territory, and while he hadn’t tried to hold you under in a while now, it was hard to forget something like that so easily. You didn’t really want to chance it if a foul mood struck him, no matter what sort of fragile truce seemed to exist between the pair of you lately.

Last you’d looked he’d been sunning himself on one of the wide, flat rocks—as he was wont to do. Lavender-tipped hair splayed out along his cheeks in a pool of soft gold and fins spread at his hips like the finest, plum silks. How he never seemed to burn with that delicate, ivory skin of his you had no idea. Maybe it was a Magical, Mystical, Merman perk yet undocumented. Or maybe he was just Like That. But he’d been snoozing away on his favorite boulder, and now he had rolled in with the tide to lounge by your toes. His fingers were spread, still dripping with sea water from where he’d flicked you in the face. You frowned at him—partly curious, but also pissilly blinking salt out of your eyes that stung, because come on dude.

He flicked more water your way and said something that you couldn’t manage to catch the shape of. When you didn’t respond with anything other than a pointed scrub of the water dripping down your cheeks, he reached out to wrap a clawed hand around your ankle and give a gentle tug.

“What?” you frowned, confused, and he tugged again.

He canted his head towards you, and then out to the cove behind him. He slipped back with the soft, frothy roll of the waves—just a foot or two—and clearly meant to pull you with him. You slid against the sandbar with a yelp and dug your heels into the muck to keep from getting yanked all the way in.

“No way,” you snipped, kicking a mess of water into his face. He didn’t even blink, just frowned down at you with a twisty sort of petulance. “I thought we were over this. If you drown me you won’t get any more cooked food, y’know. And I, in turn, would very much like to not be drowned. Win, win.”

That frown of his went stiff, and his lips twitched down at the corners. His amethyst eyes darted away and for a moment you swore that those gemstone irises flashed with something almost like guilt. He rolled forward with the next curl of surf and pressed a claw into the damp, dark sand at your hip. He scratched out a careful message, stubbornly refusing to meet your gaze all the while.

Won’t, it said.

“Forgive me for not believing that,” you returned, dry. “You’re oh-for-two now, I think. And, you know, fool me twice, and all that.” Though maybe the first one didn’t really count, seeing how you were both tangled together and sinking to the bottom in a mutual sort of destruction. But whatever. You were keeping it.

The Siren’s brow pinched in the middle and he reached forward to dig his claws in again.

Accident.

Your own brows jumped nearly to your hairline. You were just about to politely point out that dragging someone to the bottom of the ocean until they were bubbling from the nose and flailing wasn’t really an accident,but then you remembered the startled look on his face. The way he hadn’t stopped you from clawing your way back to the surface and how he’d carefully helped tow you back towards the shore after. And… maybe he hadn’t really meant it. It had to be strange, probably. Being able to thrive so easily below the waves and then be faced with someone who would die if they were left facedown in a puddle.  

“…Fine,” you huffed, and his eyes jumped back up to yours with all cat-in-the-cream smugness. “But just because I’m about to drop from heatstroke. Not because you asked.”

The Siren rolled his eyes at you and returned to dragging you by your ankles into the shallows.

The bay really was very lovely. It was crystalline clear and the sort of brilliant blue that you’d never even known existed until you’d left the land for a life on the open ocean. The sand below your feet was soft and white, with barely any pebbles or broken bits of shell to dig into your toes. You watched a few crabs scurry out of the way as you were led deeper and deeper, but most of the cove’s occupants were spoiled and slow. Unbothered by this weird, fleshy, bipedal creature stepping past because they’d never known anything else. Once you hit waist-deep, the Siren let go of you to sink more fully into the water. He swam around you in a languid, looping circle—plum fins cresting the surface to flick water against your arms and scales shining like polished glass in the sunlight. It was still far too shallow for him to move around in earnest with how massive that tail of his was, and how wide and trailing his great, beta-like fins were, but he was still elegant. Still fast and flexible as he swam rings around you like an orbit.

“Show off,” you scoffed, but couldn’t quite bite back the grin twitching at your lips.

Because creature from the deep trying to devour your crew or not, Sirens really were so impressive, weren’t they? Straight out of a storybook, and deserving of every song and tale attributed to them.

You reached out before you could help yourself to run your fingers along his tail. The scales were smooth, and sleek, and cool against your palm. The wispy ends of his fins caught along your fingers, but other than a bit of a tangle, you almost managed to run your hand along the whole of it. And what was it? Eight feet? Ten? Bigger than you at least, that was for sure. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. No fish, or whale hide, or shark. Something entirely of its own.

You realized on the next loop when your fingers danced over a patch of still healing scales that you’d felt already that he had most definitely realized your err in personal space, and was letting you poke about on purpose. You glanced up, embarrassed and warm faced, to see the tail end of a smirk quirking out from the water’s surface. Preening bastard.

You turned up your nose and waded deeper. There was a ripple in the water around you, like a chuckle, and he returned to his looping circles. Occasionally his tail would brush up against you to get you to jump, but otherwise he kept his hands to himself and—as promised—did not attempt to wrestle you down to the sandy floor and your subsequent watery grave.

Once you’d made it up to your chest, the Siren was able to start his dance in earnest. He darted away to make a wide arc around the edge of the cove—sunshine catching on his scales like a glare on the water. He shot from one end to the other, so fast it was nearly dizzying to try and keep up with. And then he was back to circling your ankles all over again—tangling your legs in his fins and curling his talons against your calves to try and drag you deeper.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, paddling after him until you were well and truly above your head. The bay wasn’t very deep, but there were a few areas that dipped down to at least fifteen feet. So soon enough you were bobbing like a top in the gentle surf as he looped around your idly kicking feet—brushing up along your ankles and tugging at the frayed edge of your shirt with his claws when he passed by.

When he next rose above the surface, you’d already taken in a big mouthful of water in preparation, and shot it right into his face. The Siren’s whole expression shriveled up like a hundred-year-old prune and you laughed so hard he had to curl his tail around your waist to keep you from dipping under the waves and choking yourself. You let him drag you around and only grabbed at his fins a little. He would dive below your feet and you’d sink after him. Not nearly as agile or adept, but competent enough to follow his little game of tag without losing completely within the first few seconds. It was—it was nice. Genuinely. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d swam for the fun of it. Way back when you’d first joined up with Riddle’s crew, maybe. It’d been a hot day, just like this one, and you’d been anchored in a safe, shallow inlet off the coast of an archipelago. Deuce and Ace had jumped in first, already brawling, and you’d dove in soon after. It’d been a mess, and Riddle had nearly hung the three of you up by your toes for it. But it’d been fun. Familial. Warm. Something you’d never forget. And while this moment didn’t feel entirely like that one had, there was something similar about it. Sure, you weren’t trying to give the Siren a bloody nose and there were no rock wars, but it was… well, it was nice.

By the end of it, he was swimming lazy, looping shapes around the cove, and you were being dragged alongside him like a raft—kept afloat by the curling press of his tail and relaxing in the afternoon sunshine with the cool ripples of the ocean water to keep you both comfortable in the heat.

“Do you do this a lot?” you asked, as you relaxed in the gentle lull of the surf. “With your pod, I mean.”

The Siren stiffened beneath you, but after a moment he nodded. Slow and rigid. Which—

Oh. Right.

“…sorry,” you mumbled, gaze darting away.

Because he was missing his family just as much as you were missing yours, wasn’t he?

All that frantic pacing at the start of your mutual stranding had just seemed to… fade away as the days passed. He would still circle the entrance of the cove some mornings, singing towards the skies and tilting his head—fins pricked as he searched for an answer. You’d feel it in your nerves, see the gulls overhead dipping in a trance and watch the crabs crawl up onto the sand like they were being dragged out by their little claws. But most of the time now he just… didn’t. He spent his days mumbling over the letters you showed him, or carefully preening over his healing fins and resting in the sun. Catching fish for you to prepare and roast, and taking his meals at your side as you both snipped at each other with sandy curse words. It was pleasant, this routine you’d fallen into together. But all the same, he never really stopped checking the ocean waters. And you could see a spark in his eyes, an itch. The same one that lit yours, no doubt, every time you caught yourself squinting for the outline of ships on the horizon.

The difference between the two of you, of course, was that in a few more days his scales would be healed enough to face the dangers of the open water alone. Life as a rogue mer was notoriously perilous. The lone Sirens were those that poachers were willing to risk battle with for a trophy. They were the ones caught in fishing nets, and found mauled by rival pods. But your Siren was smart. He was big, and strong, and impressive. He’d find a way to survive it, no doubt. One morning you’d wake up and he’d have darted off into the deep to search for his family. To go home. And you…

You would still be trapped here.

Alone.

Forever.

Rotting under the sun with no one to take you swimming in the afternoons. Or bring you clawed up fish to cook for dinner. Or to use your writing lessons just to insult you with scribbled words in the muck.

Which—that was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? At the start of all of this.

And it was only fair, in the end. He was the better of the two of you, after all. Born and bred to thrive in the depths of the sea that would swallow you whole without a thought. And if either of you was going to survive, to find your home again, it was always going to be him. Maybe you’d be a story, like he would have been for you. The strange human with no ears, just like the rest of the pirates whispered about. Who taught him that fire could make fish extra tasty and that leaves could make perfectly serviceable plates if you tried hard enough.

You sighed, and bubbles of salt water frothed along your mouth.

The Siren raised his head from his own lazy sprawl to arch a brow at you in question, and you did the very mature thing of spitting water in his face all over again.

You ended up being dragged through the cove in a flurry of spitting, Siren rage. Laughing and laughing until he huffed and hauled you back to shore to keep you from swallowing any more seawater like the idiot that you were. And it was fine, really it was. He wasn’t so bad, not really. And if he was able to reunite with his pod once more after all those days of hollow wailing and pacing, pacing, pacing that had made something deep in your soul itch like a freshly scabbed wound that you just couldn’t stop picking, well, that wouldn’t be such a bad ending after all.

.

.

The next afternoon while you were out on your daily Octopus Wellness Check, you came across a piece of pale, purple sea glass mixed into the rocky shore. It was smooth to the touch and frosted over by the endless tumble of the tide. You held it up to the light and it sparkled just like the Siren’s scales.

“What do you think?” you asked the octopus as it grabbed shredded bits of fish with its chubby, little tentacles. “Do you want it? Or should I give it to—”

You blinked, startled, and realized all at once that you’d never learned the Siren’s name. Or given him yours. You’d just sort of been calling each other a variety of derogatory pseudonyms and hoping for the best. Which, huh. You hadn’t even realized you’d wanted to know his name. It wasn’t yours to take, of course. Let alone from someone who would no doubt be leaving so soon. But it was a thought.

“You always give the best advice, you know,” you told the teeny creature, and it hid from you like you were a great, looming monster of old. “Whether you meant to or not. Thanks for that.”

So on the way back to your cove, you picked through some tufts of beachgrass to find the longest, driest spikes. You began winding them together as you walked, and settled down in your favorite little corner of the inlet to continue your weaving. The Siren, naturally—being as nosy as he was—was immediately hovering over you like a child watching someone hold a bag of sweets just out of reach. You clutched your little project to your chest like a secret, and it had him puffing up in irritation and smacking his fins against your sides like your refusal to share whatever had caught your attention was a crime beyond comparison. He arched up as tall as he could to try and peer over your shoulder, and, in failing at that, just outright tried to snatch the thing from your hands.

“I won’t give it to you if you keep being a pest,” you warned, and immediately he was slipping back to rest on his stomach in the damp sand with a starbright curiosity in his eyes, chin pillowed atop his interlaced fingers and gaze following the movements of your hands like a cat tracking a mouse in its hole. Clearly the promise of it being a treat for him was mollification enough to keep him from hovering.

Once you’d braided a sturdy enough chain, you carefully twined it around the sea glass in a little, crisscrossing cage of fibers. Just knotted enough to keep the ocean-worn trinket safe and in place without hiding the shine of it. With that, you held up your trophy with a dramatic wave, and the Siren was popping up all over again. His amethyst glare tracked the swinging pendant with startling focus and a surprisingly wide-eyed spark of confusion.

“Here,” you said, reaching out to drop the makeshift necklace into his lap. He caught it in his claws, eyes still far too round with shock. “It made me think of your scales. I thought you might like it.”

He was staring down at the gift in utter silence. And not the normal sort of quiet either—where your broken eardrums simply refused to pick up on all his petulant grousing against your person. This was actual silence. His lips were parted like they were caught on a breath, but he wasn’t saying anything. Not even a complaint about how plain and ugly it was. He curled his claws daintily around the woven chain, as if he was afraid of tearing right through it with an accidental prick, and then held the sparkling bauble aloft like he was utterly entranced by the soft gleam of it.

After a long, long moment of that near eerie silence and a pool of dread filling your belly that screamed you’d clearly fucked up in some way (overstepped some weird, Siren tradition. Accidentally insulted his father. Handed him a bad luck omen on a string. Something), the Siren was twisting around to show you the back of his neck. He held up the woven chain so it draped along his shoulder blades, and he pointedly shook the ends at you.

When you just gaped back in shock, he turned to sneer over his shoulder at you and jabbed a claw at his throat, then the necklace, then you, then his throat again. Which, oh. Oh! That—that you could do.

So you reached out to pluck the ends of the grass-woven thread from his talons and he immediately shifted around again to make himself comfortable. Curling his tail firmly against the sand with his plum-lined fins spread out in all their glory like a spill of purple ink along the shoreline. He set his shoulders square and firm, and looked straight ahead with that same, queer sort of focus to him as before.

You tied the ends of the necklace in a bow against his nape, making sure it was securely fastened in place and not snagging any of the softer, shorter hairs at the back of his neck. Once it’d been fussed with to his liking, he turned back around and stared you down until you could feel goosebumps prickling up all along your spine. You wanted to meekly tell him that it was just sea glass. Just a little trinket you’d found in the sand that you’d thought was pretty enough that he might like to have it. But the words died on your tongue. They felt wrong somehow. And you’d put your foot in your mouth plenty of times throughout your life, but this definitely felt like it would have been the biggest boot of all.

“…You like it?” you tried instead, because that sentiment at least seemed less like something that was ready to clog up your throat.

The Siren nodded, firm, his eyes still drilling into yours with that unnerving level of focus.

You coughed into your fist and awkwardly attempted to shift away to give yourself a bit of room, and—Huh. When had his tail come up to wrap around your leg? That made running away a bit inconvenient. You’d just have to try and wriggle your way out and hope he would take mercy on your far inferior musculature, and—

There was a poke at your hip. Tap, tap, tap. One, two, three. And you glanced back up at him with a pinched frown, confused.

The Siren pointed to a scrawl in the sand. Tap, tap, tap.

Acceptable.

You gawked, and then swallowed a laugh so fast it nearly choked you. Because he was still himself, wasn’t he? No matter what. Sassy, asshole fish. Gods, you were going to miss him.

You wiped at the bubbling, giggling tears prickling at the corner of your eyes and reached out to pat at his tail in good humor.

“I hope you find your happy ending,” you beamed, and meant it.

The Siren just looked at you with one of his familiar, lemon-sour puckers. He pointedly reached up to flick at the necklace around his throat, like that had anything to do with him finding his family again at all. Like it wasn’t just some silly trinket you’d gifted him in hopes that maybe one day he could look back fondly on the little human that he’d found himself stranded with. To not just forget you outright. To make your fleeting presence in his life something tangible, rather than just a mess of already fading scars and memories that would too easily be swept away in the depths of the sea.

“At least it’s acceptable,” you said finally around your giggling, and he huffed at you in a way that almost looked fond. You stood from the sand and brushed the mess of grit and salt off your pant legs. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner and I’ll teach you some nicer words tonight. So you can give me a real compliment next time.”

There was spray of water all along your back from where he’d no doubt dove back into the shallows behind you and walloped you with his fins to the best of his ability. And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be bothered by it at all.

.

.

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[shewroteaworld]

I'll Hold Your Weight When You Can't

Premise: Brilliant sunshine!reader gets heat stroke on a case. Your best friend, Spencer Reid, is predictably worried about you. What he doesn't expect is to be forced to come to terms with his feelings for you.

Word count: approx. 3,200

TW: Brief mention of vomit and, perhaps, hospitals

(Y/N/N): Your nickname

Author's Note: Super excited to introduce brilliant sunshine!reader (aka, super smart sunshine!reader) onto my fanfic writing scene! Definitely willing to write more of her in the future if anyone is interested. Hope you enjoy!

“Does anybody have more water?”

“Where is the damn ambulance?”

Perhaps your job classically conditioned you to respond to Hotch’s “I’m seriously not fucking around” tone because your eyes crack open. 

Someone put weights on your eyelids and cranked the sun to extra-bright. The harsh rays burned your retinas and washed everything in a white blur. Did someone set off a flash bang?

“(Y/N)? Can you hear me?” Miraculously, out of the screeching white, you made out JJ’s halo of blonde hair. 

“JJ?” You groaned. Even though you could barely see, it felt like the whole world was spinning, 

“Hotch, she’s coming around!” You recognized Morgan’s voice. “Welcome back to the world of the living, honey. We’re happy to see you.”

Your heart rate spiked. You never died. Did you die? 

“Yes, we still need a medic!” Hotch barked. 

You winced. “Wha?” Suddenly, your mouth couldn’t handle a one-syllable world. Even more alarming, your brain, the same brain that kept up with Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid,  couldn’t understand what the hell was going on.

 “What I do?” You whined. 

“He’s not yelling at you, honey,” JJ said like a kindergarten teacher. “You’re just a little out of it right now.”

“Is she conscious?” Another voice entered. Your head spun. “I brought more water.” 

You moaned to suppress a gag. Your eyelids drooped, and you relished in the break from the light.

“Hey, smarty pants, stay with us.” Morgan pat your cheek. “Let Emily get some water in you.” You couldn’t force your eyes open more if you tried.

Your friend Emily. That’s who the voice belonged to. 

Suddenly, JJ pulled your hair from your face, Morgan lifted your head, and Emily forced a water bottle to your lips simultaneously.  The blinding glare seared your eyes and your head spun. You wanted to sob and maybe vomit.

Your chest hitched with a shallow inhale. “Stop.” You whined.

“(Y/N), it’s okay. Take a deep breath.” JJ said.

“No!” You exclaimed.

“Honey–” Morgan tried. 

You thrashed against his hold, but your exhausted muscles couldn’t throw Morgan’s gentlest grip. 

“Maybe we should let her go.” Emily said.

“She needs water.” JJ countered.

“She’s disoriented.” Hotch cut in. “Let her get her bearings first, but don’t let her close her eyes.”

Gingerly, Morgan lay your body back on the grass. Your head swam, and your vision rippled as if you could see the heat waves in the California air. You tried to take a deep breath but choked.  

You sputtered. Every inhale led to a series of dry coughs. In your delirium, you thought of Spencer. Your Spencer. Where the hell was he? Did he not love you anymore?

Suddenly, Hotch loomed over you. His tall frame blocked out the brutality of the sun’s glare, which eased your headache and nausea but not your cough. His eyebrows were so deeply furrowed they formed a trench of wrinkles across his forehead. “Check her airway.” 

Suddenly, you stared into JJ’s blue eyes. Other hands tried to manipulate your body. You jerked.

“(Y/N), relax.”

“Honey, please–”

“Turn her on her side!” Morgan’s cut off by Reid, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard. 

***

Spencer Reid has survived many traumatic situations. 

He's cared for his schizophrenic mother. He’s been kidnapped. He recovered from a drug addiction. And those are just a few items from his dissertation-length “PTSD-Causing Experiences” list. 

But many of his worst traumas were a by-product of being a profiler– a job which allowed him to utilize his intellect to help others. He was willing to accrue trauma like Pokemon cards in exchange for applying his genetic gifts to create a safer world. 

Reid could have framed your heat exhaustion as another scare in the line of duty. But when Reid saw you, his brilliant girl, on the ground, his heart fell through his feet.

Then, he saw how his the team responded to your medical emergency.

When he witnessed you coughing and writhing on your back as the team leered over with water, he thought he might explode.

You could be asphyxiating, and the team could be letting you choke while forcing more fluid down your throat. 

He shivered as he sprinted down the steps of the local precinct and onto the grassy field where you lay. 

“Turn her on her side!” He yelled as diagnoses and courses of action fled through his mind on hyperspeed.

“We’re trying, she—”

“Spence?” You choked out through a coughing fit. He’s surprised his ears caught it.

Reid knelt next to you. “Let’s get you into recovery position.” He said, his voice suddenly soft as clouds. Reid gingerly pushed you onto your left side. “Off your back, there we go.” He bent your right leg and slid it in front of your body to prevent you from rolling onto your stomach if you lost consciousness. 

“Did she faint?” Reid asked the team. He couldn’t take his eyes from your face. 

“We think so. She was dizzy, so she laid on the ground. Then she was unresponsive for at least 40 seconds,” Emily said. 

Spencer pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Predictably, you were feverishly hot. “She’s burning up. Has someone called an ambulance?”

“Allegedly.” Hotch said, an edge to his voice. 

“We have, sir. They’re on their way.” A local police officer responded, exasperated.

Spencer’s eye twitched. “How long has she been down?” You whined, and he stroked your cheekbone with his thumb.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He whispered. 

“In total, 15 minutes.” Hotch supplied. “Emily, pour some more water on her.”

“This was for her to drink.”

“Use one bottle to pour on her face and neck.” Spencer said. “I ran and got Gatorade. She should start with sips of that when she can swallow. Heat stroke can also be caused by salt depletion.” 

Spencer was conversing with a local officer over the safety protocols in the area when a pair of policemen walked into the precinct, gossiping about the FBI agent who “folded fast in the southern Cali heat.”

Spencer’s jaw had clenched. Maybe one of his team members was ill since they put in most of the grunt work to catch the unsub. He would’ve been more annoyed if not for the worry gnawing at his brain. What if they were talking about (Y/N)? She looked a little shaky right after her chase with the unsub, but Spencer didn’t get a chance to ask his friend if she was alright. And, stupidly enough, he forgot to text her to check if she drank any water post-case. Quickly, Reid excused himself, grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge, and rushed to the field where your limp body trembled on the grass. 

“I’m going to pour some water on you, honey," Emily said. You flinched as the frigid water hit your hairline. 

“Breathe, relax.” Spencer said, shielding your nose. The last thing you needed was some accidental waterboarding.

Seconds after the water drenched your forehead, your whole body relaxed into the grass. “That felt good.” You smiled weakly. 

Spencer stroked your arm. “Let’s sit you up in a minute, okay? You should try some Gatorade before the EMTs get here.”

“EMTs? I’m fine.” You whined.

Spencer didn’t think it was possible for his eyebrows to crease further. 

“You’re not fine.” Gentler, he said, “and it’s okay not to be fine, sunlight.”

“But, I’m alive.” You tried to roll onto your stomach, but your bent leg kept you safe on your back.

Some on the team members chuckled, but Spencer didn’t find your delirium humorous. “I know you’re alive, sweetie. But you’re way too hot. I think you’re a little confused right now.”

“I’m just…” You winced. “I’m alive.”

The knot in Spencer’s chest tightened ten-fold. This could be heat stroke. At the very least, you had heat exhaustion. You were dehydrated. You were delirious. 

Best case scenario: you were ill for a few days. Worst case scenario: You had vital organ damage.

Just as he’s about to call 911 himself, JJ interrupted him. “Look–ambulance lights. Help is on the way, honey.”

“You hear that, (Y/N)? You’re gonna be fine.” Morgan said. If only Spencer felt that confident. 

“Spence…” You blocked your eyes from the light with your limp right hand. “I’m scared. I don’t feel well.” 

“Oh, (Y/N), I know.” He cupped your shoulder and hoped you could feel his love for you through his palm. That sent a jolt down his spine. He wasn’t supposed to comfortably think those thoughts about you.

You were sick. This wasn’t the time. He leaned over your body. He gave you plenty of breathing room, but his torso was  parallel to your hip so his eyes could meet your watering ones. “Hey, take a breath for me, Smartie.” 

Your nickname for him slipped from his tongue so easily it spooked him. Suddenly, he noticed his thumb stroking over your cotton t-shirt. He should stop. The whole team was watching. He was being was too intimate; he'd face stupid quips from Morgan for days. He kept stroking anyway.

He observed your chest rise and fall. Your breaths were shaky but deeper. He relaxed a tad. Vital oxygen was reaching your bloodstream.

“(Y/N), can we try something?” Spencer asked.

“Yes. Maybe. What is it?”

The knot in his chest loosened. You responded immediately and with more than two words; you were becoming more lucid. 

“Can you sit up and have some sips of Gatorade? I got your favorite flavor. At least, if your favorite flavor hasn’t changed from three years ago.” It most likely hadn’t. Once your opinion settled, it was frustratingly hard to erode your verdict. 

“I can’t…I don’t know.”

“I know sitting up is hard. I’ll help you. And I’ll prop you against my chest. I’ll hold your weight when you can’t.”

“KK, Spence.” Your childlike tone tugged at his heart strings.

Spencer and Morgan lifted your limp body from the ground. They manhandled you into a sitting position with your head propped on Spencer’s shoulder and your body tucked between his thighs. 

One of his arms stabilized you while the other raised a cold bottle of orange Gatorade to your lips.

After nine sips of Gatorade, you spoke again. 

“Orange.” You took another sip. "My favorite.”

He smiled into your hair. “When have I ever lied to you, (Y/N/N)?”

***

Spencer nearly created a crater in the linoleum floor of the ER waiting room with his bouncing heel by the time the doctor came back with an update. 

“She had a mild case of heat stroke. We currently have her on fluids, and she’ll need lots of rest for at least the next week.” Doctor Bahamani concluded. 

“No signs of metabolic dysfunction? Any respiratory distress?” Reid checked. 

Doctor Bahamani smiled knowingly. “She’s going to be just fine, Doctor Reid.”

“Can I see her?” Spencer asked. 

“Yes. Only two at a time, please.” 

Spencer didn’t care who volunteered with him. He moved without thinking. An outpouring of gratitude for his eidetic memory flooded him. Through the thickest brain fog, he could trust his recollection of the hospital to bring him to the correct hospital room.

The security staff practically had to drag him away from your bedside after the ambulance ride. They might have thrown him out of the ER if not for the flash of his FBI badge.

Something nagged at him as he sped past the nursing station. 

You were going to be fine. The ER doctor confirmed it. Yet his heart was still pounding and he could barely refrain from running. Even more odd, he wasn’t ashamed of his irrational behavior. 

So what if a doctor deemed you were okay? It was you. And he saw you groggier and more out of it than you'd ever been. And who knows how thorough the doctors were with their examination? It was completely reasonable to worry for one of his closest friends. 

He just couldn't believe you were alright until he checked you over with his own hands and his own eyes.

***

When you grinned at him from your cot, Spencer wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry.

Tears glazed your eyes. But, your gorgeous smile was back. 

“Spencer?” You asked, brow raised and head cocked. 

He’d been staring too long. He looked like an idiot, lamely standing in the doorway as if he were the one with heat stroke.

“Straighten your head. Your neck is probably tight.”

You smiled, but this time it was tight-lipped and painful-looking. “You’re too worried.”

He watched saline drip down your IV. “Of course I’m worried, (Y/N). You got heat stroke.” With a deep breath as a shot of courage, he sat in the chair by the head of your bed.

There was nothing odd about sitting with his best friend at the hospital. 

His chest twisted at “best friend” and his resolve collapsed. He couldn’t deny it anymore. 

He liked you. He really, really liked you. He actually might even–

“Luckily, I got out pretty unscathed.” You snapped Spencer out of his spiral. “A little dehydrated. Achy. Might feel sick for a few days.”

“Or weeks.” Spencer corrected.

“Trying to look on the bright side here, Doctor.” You smirked and Spencer swore his right ventricle tightened.

Then, your nose scrunched and Spencer's wiped clean of any concern about his cardiac health. 

“What hurts?”

“Just a little achy, Spencer. I’m alright.” 

He shot you a look. He knew all your excuses. He knew you went to self-harming lengths to not worry people. 

“You’re not alright.” He reached for the red nurse-call button. 

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Okay…my body aches, Spence. And the IV burns. But they’ve already told me that’s normal. No need to take nurses away from an emergency.”

The nurses at the station desk didn’t appear to be rushing around for anyone, but Spencer feared this wouldn’t behoove his case. 

“They can give you pain medication, if you want.”

You hesitated, and immediately Spencer pressed the button. When you smiled weakly instead of bickering, his worry grew tenfold but not without a rush of heat flooding his entire body. 

In Morgan's words, he’s down bad. 

“How are you doing, sunshine?” As if he’d been summoned, Morgan appeared in the doorway. 

Spencer stepped back from your cot. The part of him riled from Morgan’s “sunshine” moniker wants to shove his hand into yours. Spencer thought he hid his annoyance well, but something about Morgan's smirk told him otherwise.

“Um…”

Morgan’s smirk fell. “You feel that bad, huh?”

You chuckled sadly. “Do I look that shitty or am I an open book today?”

“You never look shitty,” Spencer said. A tsunami of blood rushed to his face.

“Anyway,” Morgan said, “Do you want anything, Beauty Queen? I can grab you some jello.” 

“Jello sounds nice.” You said, and something in your voice was so vulnerable and naive Spencer wanted to wrap you in his arms as tight as he could. Which was illogical. That would only hurt you further. 

He shook his head as if that would remove the thoughts from his mind. “I’m gonna see if I can check up on your labs at the nurse’s station. I’ll make sure they’re giving you the good drugs.” He smiled.

You laughed– a genuine laugh– and Spencer’s heart soared. “Thanks, Spence.”

“I’ll go grab your jello,” Morgan said.

“Hold on, you should stay with her just in case she needs anything," Spencer said.

“I’ll be fine, Spence.” You said, but Spencer was not prepared to take "no" for an answer.

“If you boys wants to run her some errands, I’ll stay.” Emily stood in the doorway. “JJ is coming soon too– she just got a phone call from a very frantic Penelope.”

Your nose crinkled. “Oh no.” You groaned, but you were smiling. 

“Oh, yes. Be prepared for some mother henning," Emily said.

“Garcia can’t be any more mother henning than Reid," Morgan said. 

Before his face could turn redder than a baboon’s bottom, Spencer fled.

He’s only two yards from the nursing station when Morgan intercepted him at the end of the hall. 

“So, you’re going to make your move, right?”

Spencer's body temperature plummeted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tried to shoulder past Morgan, but he was no match for his grip strength. “Reid, c’mon. You like (Y/N).”

Part of him wanted to laugh. “Like” seemed too simple of a word to describe the symphony of feelings (Y/N) started in him. “It’s…” He’s too tongue-tied to lie. “It’s complicated.”

You’re brilliant. You’re beautiful. You’re brimming with empathy. You’re everything Spencer could want. And it scared the shit out of him. Because that meant there’s even more to lose. And if he lost you, there would be no one to blame but himself. It was better for his psyche to not go there with you– to step back from the line rather than risk what would happen if he failed to make it work in the end. 

And what if you got hurt? What is you fell in the line of duty? Or worse, what if someone targeted you because of your romantic tie to him? Spencer's already experienced the pain of losing a soulmate-- a concept he wasn't even sure he believed in-- once. He wasn't not sure if he could survive it a second time.

There was too much unpredictability in his life. He chose a dangerous profession. He was gifted a ticking time-bomb of dangerous genes. He’d never forgive himself if he inflicted onto you the pain he’s been through; losing loved ones, whether through death or mental illness. 

Morgan's expression turned sympathetic. “Reid, you should give it a shot. Our lives our hectic. And if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.”

Spencer blinked to block tears from welling. “I just want her to be happy, too.”

“And who says you don't make her happy?”

“His idiotic genius brain.” Rossi appeared from around the corner.

Spencer froze. “You heard?” His face flushed yet again.

“Just the tail end. But Reid…” He trailed off.

Morgan took the hint. “I’m going to get (Y/N) some jello. With my charm, I could negotiate for some whipped cream.” 

“Don’t get whipped cream on it. She’s lactose sensitive,” Spencer said.

Morgan's stupid smirk reappeared. “Gotcha, Reid.”

Rossi took Morgan's place. Once Morgan was out of sight, he began his speech. “You love her. Don’t get in your own way.” Rossi put his hand on Reid’s shoulder. “And (Y/N) is an incredibly intelligent woman. Don’t insult her intelligence by thinking she can’t decide who is or is not worth taking a risk. And for what it’s worth…a man like you is worth the risk.” 

Rossi left Reid staring at his back. 

For the longest time, Reid convinced himself he refrained from asking you out to protect you from himself and his hefty baggage. And that’s not completely untrue. 

But suddenly, he realized he was primarily trying to protect himself from exposing his vulnerabilities to you this whole time. There’s never been a person whose opinion affected him like yours. There's never been a life he's wanted to protect more except perhaps...Maeve.

But just like it’s up to you to decide who’s worth the risk, it’s up to him to decide as well.

And if today taught him anything, shit happens. And if you slip through his fingers, he doesn't want it to because he wasn't brave enough to make a first move.

And being your person was more than worth the risk of rejection.

Author's Note: Thank you to so much to everyone who stuck around through my hiatus! I appreciate every single one of you! You're super cool :)

Happy to be back! Inbox is open to chat about writing and take requests! Please check pinned "Blurb Requests" post before requesting! (Will update the post as my boundaries update!)

Have an awesome day or night, wherever you are in this crazy world. I am incredibly thankful you spent part of your precious life reading something I penned.

Forever grateful,

shewroteaworld

[wileys-russo]

https://x.com/kaitsgooner/status/1752015922892620031?s=46&t=k-Lwg3ELXoOdR-KcbCNumw

Leah’s always gossiping😭 she’s so funny. Would love a little fic of Leah and reader just on the bench and Leah is just full on gossiping to reader while your trying to focus on the game. Eventually getting pulled into Leah’s gossip

gossip II l.williamson

you watched with pride as your girlfriend jogged over to the sidelines, smacking her palm against laia's and clapping the catalonian on the back who raced across the pitch to take her place.

you waited patiently as leah greeted the coaching staff, shaking hands and having a quick word with the defensive head and pointing out a few things as he slid over to speak with jonas and leah made her way down the line of subs, fist bumping each girl as she went.

"hello bench warmer." the blonde teased with a grin, quickly pecking your lips and dropping down onto the grass in front of you, waving off frida's offer to move down a seat so your girlfriend could sit beside you.

"charming as ever darling." you sighed with a smile, handing her a recovery shake as she shuffled back slightly to lean against your legs, patting your knee affectionately.

as she locked into a conversation with alessia who was sat on your other side you zoned out a little, chin resting on your fist and watching the game.

"babe!" you glanced down as leah shook your leg, raising an eyebrow. "do you remember the florist? the one down the street from that bakery we like?" leah questioned as you smiled.

"lee we can gossip all you want on the drive home, watch the game." you laughed quietly, knowing the blondes tendencies far too well as she huffed and turned back to speak with alessia.

arsenal had a two goal lead but you knew even if there was only twenty minutes left that anything could happen, which is why you paid little attention to your girlfriends stories.

though you could tell she was getting into them given the way her hands darted about as she spoke making you smile fondly as alessia and now kyra hung off the older girls every word, also now clearly invested into her tales.

"leah!" you whined shoving her shoulder as your girlfriend pinched your inner thigh, having tapped you a few times and getting no response. "i called your name nicely first! space cadet." her hand reached up to poke at your cheek as you pushed it away and sat back properly.

"you know the girl from the bakery we like yeah? the one who always slips us extra pastries when the boss isn't in, olivia? olive? i think its olivia." leah again tried to draw you in as you shook your head.

"you're a terrible gossip williamson, watch the girls! and you, stop encouraging her less!" you warned the grinning blonde beside you who shrugged, kyras head popping over her shoulder matching her eagerness. "why? she's a great story teller!" the australian defended as leah hit your knee with a happy smirk and you rolled your eyes.

"stop yapping and support your teammates! all three of you." you warned a little more sternly, the younger girls beside you deflating somewhat as leah rolled her eyes but turned around to face the pitch, sipping at her shake.

but once the beverage was finished it failed to serve as a distraction, leah growing restless and leaning over to tap alessia's knee and you sighed as within seconds both her and kyra were once more hanging off your girlfriends every syllable.

"-the florist!" you only caught the last of your girlfriends sentence, drawn into the conversation by the loud gasps of shock from the younger girls beside you and even frida who leah seemed to have sucked in now too.

"wait what?" you questioned with a frown, clearly having missed the build up as you watched manu make a diving save and breathed a sigh of relief.

"well well well. look who wants in on the gossip train!" leah smirked as you rolled your eyes and shook your head, ignoring her and instead turning back to the game. "whatever." you rolled your eyes stubbornly, focusing on the pitch again but feeling leahs eyes bore up into you.

"fine! you've twisted my arm, i'll tell you." leah tapped your thigh to gain your attention back as you couldn't help but be amused by her obvious enthusiasm. "back to my original question, you know the florist-" leah began tracking backward as you nodded.

"the one near the bakery we like, i do. what about him?" you frowned as leah huffed. "bubba theres layers to this story, don't interrupt!" the blonde warned sternly wagging a finger at you as you shoved alessia who giggled.

"well the florist. so he's married yeah? he has that photo of his wife and kid on the counter, and he always has that gold wedding band on. i remember because its got his wives initials carved into it which is quite cute, or maybe its their kids initials?" leah frowned, pausing as you again nodded though this time wordlessly.

"anyway not important. well i went in to see him on tuesday, remember i got you that huge bouquet and brought you breakfast in bed and then we had second bre-" you hurried to cover her mouth as the tips of your ears flushed red.

"leah what we do in the bedroom is private!" you hissed in warning for the words which you'd stopped before they fell. "we already heard about it when she told us the story." kyra piped up cheekily as you groaned and removed your hand, shrinking a little in embarrassment.

"anyway. well i went in on tuesday and no wedding band, no picture." leah continued on completely ignoring your reaction, pulling your hand away and kissing your knuckles sweetly before letting go.

"which is weird right? but then i also went to the bakery because as we both know their bread is the very best bread for a ham sandwich. so i went in to get a loaf and i noticed there was a different woman serving, not olivia or olive whatever her name is who usually always works on tuesdays." leahs eyes narrowed as you hummed to show you were listening.

"so i subtly asked, more so joked really, about where she was. turns out she's on maternity leave? i didn't even notice she was pregnant but apparently she's due in a few weeks!" leah scoffed in disbelief as you frowned, also not having picked up on that throughout the many months you and leah had frequented the bakery.

"so while i was waiting for the bread, and i won't lie babe i did get a croissant and finish it before i got home so you wouldn't know." leah smiled apologetically as you shoved her head with a playful roll of your eyes.

"but this is the scandal of it all. so i overheard one of the bakers on the phone and it turns out that-" leah was cut off as cheers errupted around meadow park, the final whistle blowing signalling the game was over and arsenal had indeed reigned victorious.

you waited patiently for leah to finish, watching as she placed her palms on your knees and used them to help her push up to her feet before holding out her hands to help you up.

"turns out that..." you trailed off eagerly with wide eyes as the rest of the girls began to jog out onto the pitch to congratulate everyone and greet the fans.

"i'll tell you later. come on gorgeous!" leah kissed your cheek and wandered off after lia as your jaw dropped. "what happened?" you grabbed alessia with wide eyes who shrugged. "its leahs story! i'll probably miss details and tell it wrong." the blonde tugged her hands away and followed after kyra as you groaned.

"leah!" you huffed in annoyance, hurrying after her and hating how much she'd peaked your curiousity.

"leah you can't leave it there, finish the story!" you whined catching up to her as lia just smiled in amusement not even needing to know the context as your girlfriend just tutted and slung an arm over your shoulder, kissing your cheek again with a grin.

"nah we can gossip all you want on the drive home, right baby?"

[murdrdocs]

just had this thought about using hobie's web shooters to tie his hands up, just so you can dominate him. but you're slipping into a more submissive state, whimpering as you ride him, eyes adorably pinched shut as you try to reach your peak mostly on your own.

and hobie's below you, cooing at you, eyes soft with that teasing look as he tells you to untie him. "lemme make you feel good, sweetheart. let me take care of you." his hips writhe and you smack his lower abdomen, not failing to notice how lean he is as you feel the taut muscle underneath you.

"can take care of myself," is what you're telling him, but it comes out in a mix of frustrated grumbles, the syllables all mushed between your pursed lips. hobie snickers, tone nothing but condescending and you peer down at him just in time to see his eyes rolling just before they set back onto you, heavily lidded.

you watch his lips pull into that signature smirk, lip piercing glistening in the low light and you're suddenly really wanting to feel the metal against your own lips as he kisses you. but you hold back by biting down onto your lower lip, hips still doing their –– truthfully, slightly pitiful –– work.

"yeah? you can? 's not as good as when i do it, though, is it?" and he's got you there, the point clear in your otherwise hazy mind.

so when his heels dig into the mattress beneath you, and you're thrown a little forward, you let him fuck up into you, immediately reaching to try and help him out of the binds for the extra leverage.