#just a little reminder ily

[not-equippedforthis]

spock's brain s3e1

[downthedraincomic]

his friend look like despair

[justablah56]

Aether I have the most delicious terrick scene in my mind but I can't convey it without like 20 minutes of backstory first because it's wrapped up in the depths of an au I'll never write. It involves Nicky holding a knife to Terry's chest though (with stabbing intent but also not really)

icy I need the 20 minutes of background rn . icy . icy you can't just say well there's this scene in my brain with terrick and stabbing but there's a lot of other stuff that leads up to it :( and not expect me to stare at you with grabby hands for the other stuff as well as the stabbing even if it is dm word vomit and not neat nice fic .

[auracinnabon]

trying to pretend like im not bursting w joy over my friends talking about my ocs/my oc world. hi chat

[strafepanzer]

Leese! My fellow sugishita lover fucker enthusiast 💗 how are you? I hope you’re doing well!!

Can I ask you about the sugi wip you mentioned? :3

NANA HIIIIIIII 🥹🤍✨️

im good (for monday morning RIP) but i will be better when it's thursday afternoon NGL.

oh yes yes yesssss our sugi wip 😍 i am writing the best friends to sex friends leg of the fic in which something happens at our place after ingesting too much booze 🫣 i am definitely not sure if he is in character HAHA but im having so much fun with it!! thank you for asking 🥹🥹

[mauricemylittlemeowmeow]

rabid growling im cataloging CD music rn and one of the tracks was in dulci jubilo Everything Reminds Me Of Him

[aro-aizawa]

yeah the sonic the headhog movies wholeheartedly and unironically slap so hard i love them

[wabblebees]

im like if the most useless boytoy twink was also an incredibly handy butch lesbian

[ghost-proofbaby]

hi bff idk if you're the type to give advice so it's totally fine if you don't answer BUT : there's a story i've been working on for the past few days and i wanna post it but i think all of it sounds stupid? i know the best way to get better at writing is to keep writing but like - i read your stories all the time and i want to be good like that but i'm worried i'll always sound stupid

hi love!!

i’ll be honest — every time before i post a story, i still have that moment of “god i sound stupid don’t i”. sometimes i’ll even get it in the middle of writing. even after how long i’ve been posting (not just in this fandom), no matter how many stories i’ve written, even with the knowledge that you all are always so goddamn kind towards me, that terrible self doubt still exists.

i’ve been writing for over a decade. this is what i want to do career wise. and even then, i’m still by no means one of the best/a great example, because there’s still tons of flaws in my writing. for every story posted that you guys have enjoyed, there’s at least 3 that are simply bad, or had to be completely scrapped, or i had to rewrite.

my point is — don’t feel that you sound stupid. even the writers you enjoy feel they sound stupid at times. this is fandom, and it’s meant to be fun. post that writing. draw that niche art. stand by your headcanons. i promise you there will ALWAYS be at least one other person who’s gonna look at it and just get absolutely giddy and feel love for it. i pinky swear. 🖤 so go for it. and if you feel no one’s gonna support you, just know i’m always here on the sidelines, with my lil pom poms, cheering you right on. 🖤

[velvetwyrme]

Font anon once more to shower you with praise. Thank you!!!

I love your suggestions. You hit it out of the park. I love the idea of making the fell! skeletons specifically have serif font names.

I originally was stuck between Trajan and Roman for fell! Papyrus. They are both sharp and elegant fonts. I finally settled on Roman because it is more well known and also sometimes disliked.

Bradley for swap! Papyrus is perfect! It mimics handwriting which matches Papyrus (the font) so well but a smoother version. (Also kinda matches him speaking in Smooth Papyrus visually.)

I was switching between Courier and Cooper for swap! Sans. I like the roundness of Cooper. I definitely see his font name being more cartoonish/silly.

You nailed fell! Sans as Rockwell. He would absolutely go for a font that torments people.

Swapfell! Papyrus was the hardest for me to decide too. There are so many variations on his personality that no singular one fits best. You make good points for each option.

Thank you so much again for indulging me!!! I love being able to chat about headcanons with someone. You are so insightful. I’ve been puzzling this over more than a year. I finally can settle it.

Yaaaaay! I'm so glad I could help 💛!!!

I loved seeing all the options and ideas you had for them too!! Headcanons are always more fun when shared, and please feel free to come back any time ;D!!

[detective4blog]

I wrote a follow up to this because I'm foaming at the mouth

Sebastian stared at the reply and the address he already knew. He didn't expect to get an answer. Maybe assuming that John was constantly busy was a bit stupid on his part.

In his defense, how easy is it to balance being a doctor and an assistant to a detective?

He shuddered at the thought of having a normal job on top of everything he already does. Managing the other snipers within the network, making sure Jim doesn't get his pretty face damaged or killed, take care of the occasional target he gets...

God, doing some other job would either kill him or lead him to more violent urges.

Not the point. He could see John today. He could get the answers to those stupid questions that bothered him all night. He could...act like he was normal.

Damnit.

Sebastian rubbed his face and groaned. He could act normal, sure, but if he wanted to keep talking to John, he had to have a good cover story. God forbid he says he works at a bank one day and the next say he's something else.

Though never keeping a job would fit him. Not the point.

"In-between jobs right now," he muttered to himself. It was the best answer he could have now. Maybe he could get some pathetic sod from the network to spew out a fake identity. It'd be easy considering his "rank" or whatever.

Clothes. Did he have any that didn't smell like alcohol, blood, and gun oil? Probably not. Maybe those nicer clothes Jim buys could work if he managed it. A button up and jeans, and the least stained t-shirt underneath.

He started digging around, tossing the needed clothes on the bed. Good thing he already showered. Shaving wasn't a big concern; besides, people like a scruffy, tough looking man!

...hopefully.

He got dressed, rinsing his mouth with mouthwash as he started getting the regular things to leave the house.

Keys. Phone. Pocket knife. Wallet.

How much money did he have? If things went there, getting a hotel room would be in both's interest. He fumbled through the wallet, scowling at the sad amount he carried with him.

Great. Now he has to stop at the bank and get money from the account Jim deposits payment into. Which will be noticed because he never does this, and then Jim will ask questions and-

Whatever. Cross that burning bridge later, he wanted to be prepared for the best and worst. Good thing he kept condoms in his wallet already.

Tugging on the first jacket that he saw, Sebastian left. He called a taxi, not in the mood to figure out which train he has to board and when. For being born and raised here, he really had no clue about the Tube system.

Curse his rich bastard of a father.

...

Sebastian stared up at the red sign, wondering if this was a dream. He kicked the side of his leg to check, wincing slightly.

Not a dream.

"'Bastian?"

His heart nearly exploded. From being surprised or an ungodly amount of joy, he wasn't sure.

There was John, wearing a nice jumper. Looking like a piece of sunlight captured into a human vessel. Eyes bright with happiness, lips curled into a grin...perfect in every way.

Say something, dumbass!

"Hey, doc."

I'm fucking hopeless. "Doc"? Real original! I'm sure he's never heard that one before-

John laughed. He was laughing at that shitty nickname, head shaking slightly. He was laughing and it sounded like it would be the call of an angel, not the laugh of a regular human.

Sebastian had absolutely no memory of going inside the cafe and sitting down but at some point, that occurred. He prayed that he wasn't just staring at John the entire time like an idiot.

"So, how are you?" The doctor asked kindly, hands wrapped around a cup of tea. The blonde laughed a little, wetting his lips nervously. He still wasn't used to the scar tissue over his lips that disrupt the texture.

"I'm alive, at least. In-between jobs right now, and surprisingly single." He answered so easily, a crooked grin shifting onto his face.

More of that honeyed laughter. "Really? I thought out of everyone I knew, you'd settle down first."

I would've if I didn't fall into a fuckin' pit and-

Sebastian cut his own thought off by laughing in return, shaking his head. Bits of his hair curled around his shoulders now, bringing that smell of fruit with them. "You though that I'd settle down? I got described as a little heartbreakin' bastard by pretty much everyone!"

John shrugged in response, taking a sip of his tea. It was difficult not to stare at his lips but somehow the sniper managed. "You were the one who'd muse on about living in the country with your partner."

He remembered that?

Sebastian blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Haven't found someone to go off into the rolling green hills yet." He managed to respond, acting like he hadn't forgotten his own damn words. "What about you?"

"It's...difficult keeping a girlfriend with my flatmate. He isn't a...people's person." John explained with an awkward chuckle. Sebastian bit back a comment of agreeing.

"What's that bloke like? I didn't really read much on the blog." He admitted, head turning to the side.

John stared into his cup for a moment, obviously trying to think of a way to describe the detective in a way that wasn't a long rant. "A bit of a know-it-all who knows he's smart and makes sure everyone knows."

Interesting how that was the exact way he'd describe Jim. Though it'd more that he makes it everyone else's problem that he's the genius in the room.

"I see. Hopefully you'll find a gal who doesn't mind your...friend?"

John nodded at the last part, shrugging again. "Maybe. Where are you living? Please say it's not back home."

"Fuck no. I've got a place with Severin. It's a cheap flat that frankly needs destroyed, but it's ours." A complete lie at the moment. He was still living with Jim for the time being. Eventually he did plan on moving out and getting someplace for him and his brother.

"That's good. Tell Severin I said 'hi' for me." John looked relieved by the answer. Sebastian nodded in response, placing his hands firmly on his knees to stop them from bouncing. "Looks like you've seen some excitement. The scars, I mean."

"Oh, these old things? Turns out I'm not the only one who doesn't always fight clean." He couldn't hide the excitement in his voice at the topic of...well, fighting. If he could only have two interests for the rest of his days, it would be space and fighting.

John raised a brow, looking amused. "It helps your whole...tough guy with a heart of gold thing going on."

He thinks I have a heart of gold? I could get him a heart and cast it in gold if he asked.

Maybe he should stop listening to Jim's attempts of dating advice.

He laughed, head shaking a bit. "Sure, it's a golden heart, but it's a pretty damaged one. Dirty, too."

"Doesn't mean you're any less worthy of love, 'Bastian. One day you'll find someone that'll cherish that heart, help you repair it and clean it."

You are making it so much harder to not fall back in love with you, you sweet bastard.

Sebastian felt his face heat up, avoiding eye contact while his heart pounded in his ears. "Right, yeah. Someone that'll cherish..." He mumbled, too flustered to think.

It wasn't even something to get flustered over!

He heard John laugh, the cup be lifted from his saucer, then placed down gently. "Your ears still go red when you blush."

Fuck.

"Good thing I've got hair to cover that up." He managed to say, pushing his hair in place to cover the reddening ears. More laughter from John, pitched so sweetly with lightheartedness.

"God, I haven't laughed this much in a while." The doctor admitted, fixing the collar of his shirt. "You always make it easier to laugh."

I'm going to fucking fall in love with you, stop it.

"What can I say? I'm just gift to all who have the pleasure and displeasure to know me." A signature cocky grin spread, followed up by a playful wink. "It's nice to hear you laugh again."

John's eyes seemed to brighten with something. Sebastian couldn't tell what had sparked in his eyes, getting lost in those beautiful eyes. It was like gazing into a blue crystal ball that carried so many human emotions inside. Grief, joy, anger, regret, love...

"I still have that pendant you made me."

Sebastian's eyes widened, jaw nearly dropping. "Holy shit, really?"

The doctor nodded with vigor, eyes glimmering with memories. "It's been sitting in some little trinket box for the longest time. I nearly forgot about it until now."

You kept the shitty little charm I made you by melting down a pound and burning my fingers trying to put a fingerprint into it...and then failing to do so and just making a weird dip in it?

"That's bloody insane. I mean, I'm glad to hear it but...damn. I should get you a chain for it, it'd be a better keychain or whatever. Maybe a Christmas ornament."

"I'd like it as Christmas ornament. I'll get that taken care of so you can see it if you stop by. We...try to host little holiday parties. Keyword try." John went from overjoyed to slightly dimmed down, likely remembering disastrous Christmas pasts.

Wait. You want to see me on Christmas? Have me over, spend time with me? You're going to make that broken little heart get fixed without raising a finger, John...

"That'd be nice. I mean, I'd be the first holiday party I'd go to willingly. I'd want that to have you there, yaknow?" Was it obvious he was fumbling over his words? Was his face more red or did it just feel warmer? God, this was a blissful disaster.

John brightened at that, nodding. "I'll do everything in my power to make it a good one, then. You'll get to eat some good homemade food if all else goes wrong."

Sebastian nodded, a more gentle smile growing on his face. "I think those girls who left you just because your flatmate is a bit of a dick didn't see how sweet you are."

Was that too flirty? I mean, I'm not trying to flirt or anything but...

John blinked, bursting into laughter after processing what was said. "Ever the smooth talker, 'Bastian!" He covered his mouth to stifle the continuous laughter, face flushing with joy-

Fuck, that's adorable.

Sebastian bit his tongue to keep back what he wanted to say. He wanted nothing more than to spill out all the yearnings and wishes that had been plaguing him all of last night and today.

"Hey, I'm just being honest over here!" Joining the laughter was irresistible, John had a contagious laugh. "You're a bloody sweetheart, mate."

A darker pink tint glowed on John's cheeks, finally managing to get control of his laughter. "I think you're the sweet one here, mate. I mean, you've been like...a ray of sunshine. Just positivity and the works." The doctor paused, brow furrowing. "Or I've been around my friend a bit too much."

Sebastian was still trying to process being called a ray of sunshine to respond, face absolutely burning a dark red. His heart had to be working overtime for how fast it seemed it was beating.

This has to be a dream. It has to be. God, I want to kiss him.

"Pretty easy to be all positive and...sunshine-y with you, doc."

That fucking nickname again? Really? At this rate I'm gonna greet him with "what's up doc" like an idiot!

The banter continued, John's tea getting cold as it was abandoned in favor for conversation. Sebastian lost count of how many times the smallest thing the doctor did or said that made him feel...alive.

He felt alive, like the rush from energy drinks had been put in his system without the chemicals and flavorings. And god was it more addicting than any of those drinks. He felt like he could go a whole week without sleep if he had John with him.

Parting ways felt like removing a bandaid. It had to be done. His cab was by the side, John waiting outside to see him off. Sebastian wanted to linger, to reach out and hold, be held. But he didn't let himself try, getting in the cab and giving some ridiculous farewell with another mischievous wink.

His heart ached for what he knew he couldn't have. If he got what he wanted, it'd end in tragedy. The truth would come out, either from his own slip ups or from either of the Holmes spilling it. Then the way he was perceived would change, be tainted with "innocent" blood spread, and he could never be held in those arms again.

I want to be ordinary.

[gothsuguru]

@teddybeartoji @staryukis @mossmurdock @mikichko @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat @hayakawalove @jel-lyy

“Exorcise. Consume. For whom?”

[illogicalghost]

i used to get so uncomfortable when strangers would call me she/her, but now i just find it amusing 🤭 i don't think i really care that much what random people call me, i'm not gonna see them again most likely, and honestly they can just believe whatever they want about what gender they think i am, i really don't care 😝

[earthtooz]

x : TO LOVE, TO CHANGE: *+ﾟ

in which: you tell veritas you love him. he gets upset with you.

warnings: contrary to what the synopsis implies, it's fluff, i promise. 1k words, first time saying ily, slightly cranky reader, no mentions of reader's gender, dr. ratio being so in love he becomes so soppy and lovestruck. confessions.

a/n: there's a phenomenon that happens whenever i write for dr. ratio, and it's that my heart literally lunges out of my chest and begins typing at the keyboard for me. i should get it checked out. anyways, this is to preemptively celebrate his release!!

“Why- why are you mad?” You exclaim, watching the way Veritas crosses his arms and pouts with the petulance of a child. His gaze has strayed away from your eyes, and all you can do is sit in his lap with your arms hanging at your sides, brain tirelessly racking for all the reasons that you could have angered him.

He doesn’t give you any clues, displeasure brewing in his eyes instead.

“Is it because I said ‘I love you’?”

The purple haired scoffs and sticks up his nose, hair bouncing with his actions whilst you jostle slightly on his legs from the quick action. As much as you love his side profile, you’d love it even more if he spoke to you about what is bothering him.

During this moment, the world stills. You think he’s genuinely mad, and Dr. Ratio’s fury-driven state is not something you should take lightly. Really, you’ve seen it multiple times, and though it has never been directed at you, you hope it never will be. Which is why you sit on his lap now, tensely anticipating his response, and for the answer as to what you did wrong. 

“I was meant to say it first,” he grumbles, losing the arrogance that fills his tone whenever he speaks, air filling with sincerity. 

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I was meant to be the one to say ‘I love you’ first.”

Your confusion is tangible at this point. Audible, if you will, because it rings like cicada sing. “Are you being serious?”

“Deadly.”

“You- why, then couldn’t you just have said it?” You sputter, slapping his defined deltoid, concern slowly melting into frustration. “Need I remind you that it was me who confessed to you first as well?”

“Yes, and it was positively the best day of my life.” He says that like it’s a simple fact. No sentiment, no heartfelt declaration, just another logical statement straight from a textbook of his life.

They say to be loved is to be changed, but no matter how much you love Veritas, all he knows is how to be an astronomical pain in your ass. Does he know how scared you were for his answer? You thought you did something unforgivable, or that he didn’t love you enough to respond in kind, or worst of all, that he wanted nothing to do with you anymore?

However, he's acting petty because he was not the first one to say those three words? You frankly don’t know why your heart beats for him as strongly as it does. In fact, you want to whack him over the head with his own codex.  

Placing your hands firmly on his shoulders, you shuffle out of your position from his lap, planting your feet onto the ground. “Oh, you are so infuriating! Pretend I never said anything, I’m going back to my office until you-”

Not even two steps away from him and a hand clasps around your wrist to drag you back to where you started: on Dr. Ratio’s lap. His arms come to wrap around you like chains, leaving no room to wrestle him out.

“I never said you could leave. Especially not after telling me you love me,” he grumbles lowly into your collarbone, breath tickling your skin.

“I’m starting to regret it.” 

“Can’t you at least say it again?”

“I don’t want to,” you grumble, arms snaking up to rest around his shoulders. “You don’t deserve it.” 

“Well, that’s a little harsh. Is this how you treat the ones you love?”

“You haven’t even said anything back,” you pinch his skin. “Talk about harsh.”

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asks with a fond chuckle, not missing the opportunity to leave kisses in a trail along your skin, making his way up your neck. Then, when his eyes meet yours, you almost crumble in embarrassment at the memory he’s injected into your mind. 

You push him away and raise a hand to shield your eyes from him, clearly reliving a haunting memory. “Please don’t remind me.” 

“Y’know, it’s not everyday someone gets to scold me and be right. If you weren’t so beautiful, I wouldn’t have let it slide, but it’s not everyday a gorgeous genius falls into my lap with guts to challenge me.”

“I was… agitated that day, so stop talking about it, please. In fact, for my sake, please just forget that moment. Completely.”

“Forget about it? Completely?” The scholar asks with genuine shock lacing his tone. “I fell in love with you in that very moment, how can you expect me to stop talking about it? You rendered me a fool in love and expect me to not think about the very moment it happened? Sweetheart, it was a pivotal moment of my life!” 

“Not pivotal enough if you can’t even say ‘I love you, too’.”

“On the contrary, I have loved you longer. I yearned for you in wakefulness and in my dreams. I wished for you to look my way, and when you did, I never wanted your eyes to stray from me. How heartbreaking it was when they did.” His hand has snuck under your shirt now to rub circles on your skin. If he detached from you, he fears you’d slip away from him, and the worst thing you can give him is space. “Do you know how it felt chasing after you because you were the only one out of my reach? For three years, the only thing I wanted was to be yours. You made me an idiot.”

Stunned by his confession and the weight of it, you let him continue, sharp tongue softening. The only motivation you offer is a hand coming to cup his cheek, tucking aside his bangs so you can see his expression in its entirety. 

His gold eyes shine when they look back up at you. For the first time, you feel like you’re seeing the parts of him that Veritas hides from everyone else. 

“I love you.” He continues with heart wrenching devotion. “I’ll continue loving you until the streams stop, the rivers freeze, and the oceans dry. With three hundred thousand, eighty-three thousand, five hundred and seventy-one discovered planets in the cosmos, that phenomenon will approximately take-”

You seal his lips with yours in a gentle kiss, cradling his jaw and swallowing his words. Like wax to fire, Veritas sinks into you, completely helpless against your affections. 

But, oh, you love him, and nothing else in the entire universe matters.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[esote-rika]

lose some, win some | Spencer Reid Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Hurt/Comfort, Smut 18+, MDNI Summary: COLLEGE AU! When your debate team loses the national championship, you and Spencer return to your shared room and find a productive way to take out your frustrations. Content: Waldorf!Reader is a sore loser, lots of dialogue in the beginning, Sassy!Spencer, some talk of misogyny, Spencer makes up for it by being a munch (so f receiving oral), virgin!Spencer but he’s also a little shit, they are both little shits but it’s cute I swear, handjob, raw p in v but reader mentions she is on the pill, creampies, multiple orgasms for both of them (they’re frustrated and horny give them a break) Word count: 4.8k (it's porn with a plot for once) A/N: Not really frenemies or rivals, they’re just really angry young adults. Idk what Spencer’s actual age was in college, but he studied several times so for this fic, he’s on his third degree and is 21. If the debate stuff is incorrect, I'm sorry. I did do some research but there's so many different rules and styles lmfao. My friend who competes says it’s fine and understandable so :) also massive thanks to @just-call-me-by-yn @mggslover and @notlongtolove for helping me brainstorm and @wheresmacoffee because she was there JK  ILY ANDY their banter during the filthy part is for you <3.

Spencer Reid doesn’t particularly care about the prestige that comes with winning. Most people crave it for the validation, or because it’s another impressive thing they can slap onto their resumes, but being a genius his entire life allows him not to worry about that. His academics speak for themselves. He doesn’t need to pad it with extracurriculars. Instead, he enjoys the skills that are honed from debate—learning to listen to arguments, finding the perfect way to rebut, memorization and reviewing with like minded individuals. The university team is a well oiled machine composed of four people— him on his third degree, two other male juniors, and you, the only woman.

Over the span of two semesters, he’s memorized the quirks of his teammates. It’s essential to building rapport, after all, and he’s eager to get something good out of this. Something less academic, and more social. Friends, perhaps. While he’s formed a bond with the other members, you have always been an enigma. Stoic and ambitious, you remind him of a statue. Cold and oh so beautiful. You’ve often kept to yourself. And after several rejected attempts at friendship, he’s learned to just observe from afar.

He knows from experience that observing allows you deep insight into people, and so he knows after two semesters that you’re perhaps the most competitive out of the entire team, the most hungry for a win. This drive, he suspects, comes from a deeply rooted desire to prove yourself, though he’s unsure why. What else do you have to prove? You have everything, as far as he’s concerned. Keenly intelligent, beautiful, with a circle of friends that adore you. You aren’t like him, who has to sink his claws deep into this debate team in order to get a dose of social interaction. No, you have a life, no matter how marblesque you may seem.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough for you.

He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous, and absolutely fascinating.

The weekend of nationals is taxing. You’ve been fighting for the opener role since the semis, but it would require too much adjustment, which no one is willing to risk so close to nationals. Not only does he not want to give up his spot, he also knows how ruthless you can be as a rebuttal speaker. He's meek, and you have a tendency to be aggressive, it's why the original roles go so well. 

Your adviser agreed, and there’s been tension ever since. 

To make matters worse, hotel arrangements somehow have placed both of you in the same room. The force of your resentment is palpable even to a normally clueless guy like him. Distracting. Pages being turned in your exaggerated annoyance. He’d complain of dramatics, but he doesn’t want to start anything. 

The fact that you’re rooming together also doesn’t help him. Sure, there are different beds, small twin mattresses on either side of the room, but still. Proximity to a woman his age has him anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to nationals. 

So when you lose the championship, his concern for your reaction behind doors overwhelms the regret of losing. 

No one is happy with the results. It is obvious from the set of his jaw, the tenseness of your shoulders. Spencer tries to calm down, accept defeat with a modicum of grace, at least in front of other people. He can tell the rest of the team is trying too, but quite unconvincingly. Onstage, accepting the medals for second place—mockingly silver, and no trophies—the team’s smiles are forced, plastic. 

Back to the hotel rooms are a different story. When you slam the hotel door shut, it echoes down the hall and makes even your debate adviser flinch. It would have made Spencer flinch too, if he hadn't already expected it. He's grown accustomed to how bad of a loser you can be. Like a tornado, your anger spares no one from its destruction. It is in these moments that your stoic resolve crumbles, no longer unfeeling, but rather fully human. Hurtful. Ruthless Unfortunately for him, he's directly in your line of fire.

He catches bits and pieces of your muttered diatribes. He’s used to those too. Normally, he would have ignored them. Losing sucks the energy out of a person, regardless of how uncompetitive he is. Besides, your ranting is mostly harmless, until one sentence snags his attention.

“— knew I should have been the opening speaker —”

He is clawing at his tie, trying desperately to get it off, but the words make him stop immediately. He whirls around, brows furrowed, “What?”

You pause as well, “What?”

“What did you say about being the opening speaker?” He watches you roll your eyes. It does nothing to calm the bitterness in the back of his throat. The normal song and dance goes like this: he’d say a string of words in an attempt to soothe the fire burning in your nerves, and you'd say something so vitriolic he'd refuse to speak to you for the rest of your time together. 

But today, having just lost the biggest championship after working so hard, he's a short fuse and your words are incendiary.

“I said I should have done it, like I asked—”

“Ah, as usual, you're mad that you didn't get what you wanted.” 

An offended scoff. He's almost proud he managed to pull that out of you. “You take too long—”

“Nationals isn't the time to suddenly alter the roles,” he tells you, shaking his head. He manages to loosen the tie, finally, tossing it on his bed with so much aggression it misses the mattress and lands limply on the floor, “I've always been the opening speaker.”

“Yes, and one would think that after going through so many debate competitions,  you would learn to be more succinct,” you snap, shoes making harsh clacks against the tiled floor, “The goal isn't to let us know you're the smartest person in the room, Spencer, it's to set up the tone and groundwork of—”

“I don't need you to lecture me about being the opening,” he interrupts, “I know what my role requires of me.”

“Do you?” Eyes flashing, you walk to him until you're almost chest to chest, “Because we still lost.”

“And you blaming me?” he hisses, leaning down. He hates doing this, stooping to your level of pettiness. Normally, he would choose to be the bigger person, refusing your verbal sparring; he likes to focus his energy on the actual debate, the opposing team, not his own teammates. But your words cut deeper than normal; it isn't the fault the team lost, that's just a flat out lie, “We advised you multiple times to memorize the statistics—”

“Something you're better at!” You look physically pained to admit his superiority, but the words spill anyway, “You'd be so much better to do the rebuttals since you have your stupid photographic memory, and I can set the tone better, but nobody on this little boys club ever listens to me!”

He's surprised at the choked tone your voice has taken. In his mind, you're a complete equal—you made it to the team through hard work and impeccable skills, like the rest of them did, after all. It didn't matter that you are a woman to him, so of course his instinct is to deny. “That’s not true.” but even his voice sounds weak. 

How would he know if it’s not true? He’s never been in your shoes before, never had to reckon with what comes with being the only woman in a team of men.

“Isn’t it?” he flinches at the venom in your voice, “You all act like I'm an afterthought—I get the shittiest positions even when I know I can be more effective in a different one, no one ever asks me for strategy, hell, you never invite me to your stupid chess games.”

His mouth opens and closes foolishly, latching on to the one thing he has a full response to, “I thought you hate chess.”

A sharp laugh, petulant and bitter, “I do, but it would have been nice to be included.”

He doesn’t know what to say. You’ve turned around, yanking off your pristine maroon blazer so roughly he’s afraid it might rip. The silence that grows makes him itch, hands balling into fists as he tries to think of what to do. Social dynamics have always been a thing of mystery to him. 

He wonders if he is part of this problem. He’s no stranger to feeling different and on the outs, and it pains him to think that he inadvertently caused someone else to feel that same, unpleasant exclusion.

But, no. Quickly, he recalls every single time he’s tried to include you—a museum trip that you’d declined because you had a party you wanted to attend. His extra tickets to the Nutcracker.

“That’s not true,” his voice is firm now, following you until he’s standing right behind. Lavender hits his nose and his brain registers the scent of your shampoo. Definitely too close if he can smell that, but he refuses to back away, intent on getting his point across, “That’s not true, I’ve tried to— you were always too busy.”

“What, I’m a liar now?” you spin around, pretty features twisted to somehow express both anger and hurt. He almost falters. Almost. 

But he’s too worked up, even though he knows he should back off, to not trivialize your experiences in order to defend himself. He should know better than this, but the sting of your accusation spurs him on. So he pushes, eyes narrowing, “Last year, September 14, 21, and 29, I invited you to come with us for several casual chess tournaments, you declined all invitations because you claimed you hated chess. October 29th, I told you about the new exhibit they were displaying—”

“It was Halloween weekend, I already had plans—”

“December 19th, I offered you Nutcracker tickets and you said you’d already seen it—”

“I have,” your voice has grown quiet now, and if he stops speaking for a single moment to look, your features have relaxed into something gentler. But he’s on a roll, and you have always been right about things; his inability to be succinct is one of them.

“Even this year, I invited you to study multiple times, but you’ve always had prior plans,” the words are spoken with neutrality. He isn’t even angry anymore, just eager to list everything down and let you know how hard he’s tried with you. Even after the numerous rejections, he’s made an effort, but of course, you have other friends, other plans outside your nerdy debate team. He’s never held that against you, but if you wanted to point fingers, he has the means to defend himself. And sure, he wants to prove you wrong on some level too, but that’s the lesser point. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re better than me, and just accepted, you wouldn’t be feeling so excluded.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you.”

“You just said you would have made a better opening speaker.”

You scoff, “Oh my god, you’re infuriating, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

Spencer bristles at that, “I’m giving you the facts, it’s not my fault you can’t handle them.” he says, leaning closer, trying to make her see his point, “You’re always so closed off and the other guys have just given up trying. Maybe if you—”

“What? If I smiled more? Acted less like a bitch?” you sneer, eyes narrowed dangerously, “I thought a genius like you would know better than to use misogynistic language like that.”

“Wha— no! Don’t put words in my mouth.” Spencer replies, shaking his head. The conversation is devolving into something dangerous, the air crackling with something electric. He assumes it’s anger. They will never get anywhere, so he sighs, softening slightly, “I never said that. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t blameless in this, you know?”

You’re silent. He watches you, takes in how the resentment in your eyes have been dulled by something more contemplative.

He continues, “Listen, I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you were on the outs. I’m sure we have to do so much reflection as a team and as individuals about how we treat each other, but it’s unfair to say that we never include you when I have actively been making efforts to—”

Your lips are upon him. 

That’s inaccurate. 

You are upon him, arms flung around his neck, body pressed flush against his. He feels the entire world tilt, and he’s unsure if it’s because you’re pulling him down or because your lips are so pillowy he’s instantly eager for more. Wants it like a man starved. Needs it, needs more, but his body betrays him. Whether it’s his inexperience or surprise or a combination of both. He freezes, blinking rapidly at the sight of you. Eyes shut, and face so close to him; so, so close he can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny freckle on your eyelid that gets hidden if your eyes are open.

And then you're gone. The freckle disappears as you look at him with wide eyed mortification. 

“Shit, Spencer, I—”

It’s his lips that cut you off this time, seeking out the velvety warmth of your mouth. Your lips part under his, and he registers a sound, soft and whining. It takes him a moment to realize it came from him, from the back of his throat and muffled by your lips and tongue and oh you’re both falling.

Literally. He must have leaned too far into you; you’re suddenly collapsing, forcing him down because your arms have him in a vice grip and he’s too busy chasing after your lips. The next thing he knows is he’s on top of you and you’re sprawled on the bed beneath him. Time stands still; he’s painfully aware of how cliche that is, but every sense of eloquence seems to have been expelled from his brain as he takes you in; lips swollen and wet from his kisses, pupils blown wide. Every breath you take pushes your chest up against his, and he can feel your heart thrumming against his body. 

“Well, that was one way of shutting you up,” you chuckle with a cockiness that makes his heart speed up, though it isn’t borne out of embarrassment. Every single physiological effect of your body is evidence that you’re enjoying this, telling him you’re just as worked up as he is. The breathiness in your voice, the quickness of your heartbeat. 

The fact that you’re pulling him down again, legs hooking around his hips. He surrenders to it, lips meeting yours once again, deeper and more desperate this time.

He closes his eyes, relishing this, kissing you, touching you, an act he had believed is reserved for attractive jocks and charismatic art nerds. Not him, quiet and lanky, shifting to avoid his angular bones from digging into you, and to place himself more comfortably on the bed. Inexperienced, ungainly, and yet here he is, his tongue pushing into your mouth in his first forays into something that his peers have experienced years ago.

Spencer Reid isn’t used to being the one behind, doing the catching up. Child prodigy, genius, the words aren’t meaningless. He’s been ahead academically—which, up until this point, has been his whole life. But feeling warm lips beneath his own has him reconsidering some of his life choices. 

The kiss is messy. Sloppy from his clumsy attempts to keep up with your eagerness. You’re tugging at something, and he realizes it’s to untuck the rest of the crisp shirt you’ve donned for the debate tournament out from your skirt. His hands settle on your waist, finding smooth, heated skin from where your shirt has ridden up. Careful fingers help push it up, burying under the fabric until his palms are mapping out the slopes of your body. 

Soft. So damn soft. 

Not cold marble after all. He theorizes you must be soft everywhere, and he decides to test it out with his lips, laving kisses along your jaw, down the sweet, musky skin of your neck where your perfume still lingers. Instincts take over and he allows himself a taste, tongue darting out. You shudder, so he does it again, greedy for your pretty moans and gasps. 

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, “Thought you were mad at me?” he mumbles, trailing his kisses down the column of your throat. 

You’re all mhms and ohhhs right now, so far from the usual image you present to the world, a preppy, manicured woman who wrestles for control over everything. You must hate this, he thinks, being beneath him physically, caged within his arms which are deceptively strong for how fragile he looks. 

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me.” His grin is dopey when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

Something brushes against his crotch, and now he’s the one gasping, jerking in surprise at the friction. You’ve slotted your thigh between his, and his traitorous body responds by grinding down on it shamelessly. The look on your face is smug, triumphant.

“Huh,” saccharine and mocking, you blink up at him innocently, “That was easier than I thought.”

His head drops to your neck again, but he isn’t kissing you anymore. Just open mouthed breathing as he rubs himself on your thigh, hands tightening on your sides, “Mhm.”

“Are you gonna come? Spencer, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sinks his teeth into your flesh to fight the needy whines because yes, he’s so embarrassingly close and you’re both still fully dressed. He hears a hiss, and he backs off immediately, murmuring apologies, “Didn’t mean to—”

“‘S okay,” you tilt your head back, give him more access to your neck, “Just don’t leave marks.”

Permission to bite. He gulps, heart beating wildly, before ducking back down. Chapped lips run over your neck, finding a soft spot to bite, forcing himself to soften the way his teeth sink into your skin. All the while rubbing himself on your thigh because it’s probably the closest thing to heaven a man such as him will ever experience. 

He hears your laughter, your mocking cooes of, “You’re so fucking needy” but he can’t bring himself to care.

You’re correct, he decides, as you usually are. He’s needy, desperately so, eagerly chasing the delicious pleasure of dry humping your thigh. 

“Hold on, Spencer.”

You push him back gently. A whine rips from his throat, “Mhm—why?”

He gets his answer soon enough. Your hands undo his belt and he swears this sets his whole body on fire. Nobody’s ever seen him like this. Never has another person touched him so intimately, seen him so out of control, so brainless. He’s babbling incoherently as your hand strokes up and down his length, his hips rutting into your hand. It’s out of sync. Two dancers on entirely different rhythms.

Your laughter rings in his ears, one hand tangled in his hair as the other does unspeakable, tantalizing things to his aching cock. 

“Mhm, can’t— I’m gonna—” and he’s spilling into your hand, hot, viscous liquid overflowing from your hand and staining your skirt, “Ah, shit.”

He collapses against you, head on the crook of your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “‘M sorry, I’ll– I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”

Your chest shakes as you laugh, “Would you? I think you owe me more than that.” The heat in your voice makes his breath catch in his throat.

Soft kisses press upon your neck as he gathers his thoughts, willing his brain to work again. Anatomy, female anatomy. Female pleasure. What does he know about this? A lot, surprisingly, though mostly from books. Mostly in theory, but that’s a start. He can put them to practice right now. His hands drag down your sides until they catch the waistband of your skirt. “May I?”

“Okay.”

He pulls gently, exposing the rest of your thighs and legs. Honey brown eyes devour the expanse of your skin, hands clutching at the softness. He marvels at the way your flesh accepts his own, bright red splotches imprinted from his fingertips.   

He thinks of poetry, the uncountable amount of words and phrases written to immortalize women and love and sex, and he finds himself wishing he has the skill to compose something as beautiful, something worthy of you right now, radiant and half naked and somehow all his. 

But he is no poet, so he touches his lips upon your body instead. Pretty words will escape him, but his lips can speak even without them, he’ll make sure of it. He kisses down your abdomen, making sure to pay attention to every hidden freckle and birthmark he comes across. Your reactions make him feel drunk, to the point of affecting him physically. Messier kisses. Hands tugging and nearly ripping the lace of your panties because he’s unaware of his own strength. 

“So pretty,” he mumbles, “So pretty.” It’s all he can repeat, but then his tongue lands on your slick heat and suddenly words are forgotten in favor of vague groaning. Because how can he accurately describe the sensation of this? Tasting you. God how has he gone so long without this? Your nails scraping his scalp, his fingers sinking into your thighs as he keeps you still. He’s halfway off the bed, legs dangling off the edge, your thighs squeezing his face. 

There’s nowhere else he would rather be. 

He laps at your folds like a mad man, tongue pressed flat and dragging up slowly to get as much of you in his mouth as possible. His feet find the floor, allowing himself more stability to once again rub his growing erection against a solid object. The poor mattress is going to be ruined once they’re done.

“Faster,” you gasp, jerking your hips into his face, “Spencer— oh, yeah like that!”

Spencer Reid is a quick study, and when he hears the positive reactions, he doubles down until he feels you convulse against his tongue. You jerk so violently he has to hold you down. He pushes his tongue past your entrance experimentally, and feels you tug roughly on his hair in response, gasping his name and God’s name in slurred phrases as you ride out your high.

It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.

 “Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and he has to repeat that ridiculous sentence again, because it’s true and he feels you deserve it.

“You’re so pretty.” He fears you might be some kind of magnet, because his lips keep getting drawn back to your skin. He lets his kisses travel up your hip bone, before grinning up at you, “Even when you’re being insufferable, you’re still so beautiful.”

“Gee thanks,” you huff, pulling at his arm, “How romantic, I’m swooning.”

“Might not be swooning, but you did just come on my face.” brilliant rows of teeth flash at you as he smiles smugly.

“Asshole.”

“Is that how you say thank you?” he drags his body up lazily, draping himself over you.

“I’m not— wait, are you hard again?”

“Uh…”

“Needy, needy boy.” you pull him down to you, and he almost protests, his chin and mouth still covered with your slick. But you don’t seem to care, so he follows your lead, God at this point he would follow you anywhere at all. You’re shifting beneath him, and the next thing he knows is your legs are wrapped around his waist again, your heat completely exposed and pressing against his cock.

“Mhm,” he pulls back, eyes wide, “I—”

“What?” you whisper, lifting your head to continue giving him kisses, teeth playfully nipping at his jaw, “It’s fine, I’m on birth control.”

“It’s not that,” he can’t deny you, his body relaxing back down over you. His lips catch yours for a moment, slow and achingly tender, “I’ve just never really done this before.”

He waits for the inevitable laughter. Here he is, at 21, and somehow still the same person he had been when he first entered college at 14. But you continue to look at him with heavy lids, breathless and flushed. 

“Okay,” your voice is kind, sweet, “Take it slow then.” your hand wraps around his length again, the movement slower this time, as you align him to your entrance. He hisses as the sensitive tip grazes against your folds, as he feels your entrance slowly give way to him and envelop his cock. 

“Oh,” he sighs. With your help, he sinks halfway into you, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing himself on his elbow. Eyes squeezed shut, he stills and manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

You don’t speak, and so he forces his eyes to focus and look at you. The sight has him twitching inside you. Mouth agape and eyes hazy, you’re nodding up at him wordlessly as your hips rock up into his. “More.”

It’s exhilarating. He’s known you for the past year, worked alongside you but respected your need for distance. And now, here you are, not merely close, but one. Spencer sighs, and thrusts shallowly, eyes zeroed in on you and your reactions. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he moves slowly, dragging out his cock until only the tip rests inside you, then sliding into the hilt.

It elicits the most mellifluous sounds from you, making him smile in relief. He lets his forehead rest against yours, thrusts growing more confident, but still in that slow, almost dreamy pace. He memorizes every detail of this moment, from the way your eyes flutter closed, to the quiver of your legs as they wrap tighter around his thighs. 

“So good,” he hears himself say, “God, you feel so good.”

“Mhm,” you nod, nails digging into his back, even through his clothes. In the heat of the moment, you’re both still half dressed, only getting rid of your bottom clothes in order to get what you need from each other, “More, Spencer, I need more.”

He nods, letting his thrusts grow faster, rougher. It’s an awkward angle, he’s afraid his knees will start cramping, but the feeling of being surrounded by your warmth, drowning in your moans has him reckless. “There?” he grunts, angling just so, and he can’t help the smirk on his face when he feels your walls clenching around him.

“There, there, yes!”

He’s not sure how he manages to last as long as he does. Maybe it’s the sheer desire to feel you fall apart, for his cock to be drenched in your slick that keeps his release at bay. Maybe he has too much pent up sexual energy that’s just been dying to come out. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it, because it means he’s spending more time inside you, hips moving with so much impact he’s pushing you forward with each thrust. 

“Yes, just like that.” you’re shuddering beneath him, and he moves his arm to the top of your head, creating a barrier between you and the headboard so you don’t hit it. He could stop, readjust your positions, but he doesn’t have it in him. 

No, he wants to stay inside you, forever if there’s an anatomically feasible way to do it. But unless he invents it, he’ll settle for right now, settle for the heat between your bodies, and how you’re practically melting into the mattress, arching so prettily against him.

“You close?” he murmurs, one hand finding your clit, drawing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“No fair,” you whine, bucking into him, “That’s cheat— Spencer!” 

You come undone in the most enthralling way, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten by your own lips. You squeeze and flutter around him, and he’s helpless to stop his own release, spilling deep inside you with a broken cry from his own mouth. Your name is whispered, over and over again, until he stills, his vision blurry as he collapses against you.

He curls around you, trying to get as close, “You—that was—wow.” 

You giggle, still breathless and glassy eyed, “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“Yes,” he gives you a series of kisses along your temple, “Yes, it was. You—wow.” he carefully pulls out of you, hissing quietly when the cool air conditioned air hits his sensitive flesh. “Was that enough of an apology for not including you to our chess nights?”

“You’re making jokes now?”

“No,” he smiles, leaning away to look at you, all starry eyed and boneless, “Not a joke. Because if it’s not enough, I can do it again.” a kiss to your cheek, “And again.” one on the tip of your nose, “And again.”

When you laugh in response, he cups your cheek, “I mean it.” he says with all the seriousness he can muster.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Does this mean you’ll accept my invitations now?” he lights up, a large smile splitting his face.

“Only if it’s a date.”

"Then it's a date."

[lanternlightss]

took a small break and immediately started rotating an oc around—