#three counties press

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

it (International Times), Knullar, II5, October 2I›November 7, 1971

[vague-humanoid]

A Sunflower County, Miss., woman could lose custody rights to her children nearly a year after an Indianola police officer shot her then-11-year-old son, Aderrien Murry, in the chest at the family’s home in May 2023. In court filings, Sunflower County Prosecuting Attorney Gwendolyn Jimison cited the shooting while accusing Nakala Murry of neglecting her three children.

“To have to even think of losing her kids at this point over something that is not her fault is just unbelievable. It’s outlandish,” Nakala Murry’s attorney Carlos Moore told the Mississippi Free Press on Thursday.

Jimison filed papers in the Sunflower County Youth Court against Nakala Murry that alleged an unnamed witness saw Murry’s ex-boyfriend, John Nolden, frequently assaulting her in front of the kids. The petition says the witness said the shooting of 11-year-old Aderrien Murry was a “result of the mother and boyfriend domestic violence that have been happening for years (sic).”

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 2) part 1

-

The solid hand at your back guides you through the dusty streets towards the courthouse in the middle of town. It’s not an easy walk. Your shoes catch on the skirt of your dress a handful of times in Price’s haste, each time almost causing you to tumble forward before you manage to catch yourself. 

It’s patently unfair. The strides of his long legs would easily have you losing him in a crowd were it not for the way he refuses to leave you behind; every time you so much as slow down a tad to catch your breath, the firm hand on your low back presses you forward again. You’d be snippier if you weren’t still addled from the events of just five minutes previous.

“I beg you, please—” you plead, heart skittering in your chest when you chance a glance up to find Price’s face set. Everything about him feels purposeful now, driven. “If you just—if you would just let me explain!”

“Nothing more to know, darling,” he says, not bothering to meet your desperate eyes. Clearly not in any mood to continue arguing with you on the status of your identity. 

He tugs you along when he takes a right turn down a road leading into the center of town. The belt of bullets around his waist rattles with every step. It’s a constant reminder of who you’re with and why you should not be with him. Every step feels like a step towards your own sentencing, like accompanying your jailer to your cell. It’s perhaps fool’s luck that the sheriff hasn’t inquired further into your identity or your reason for coming into town. Makes you think that perhaps there isn’t yet a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe that’s only to come. 

“Sure there’s more!” you insist. “There’s—there’s—” It’s like the words fly right out of your head, bucked off like a bronc rider. Too much has happened in too short a time. “There’s the matter of—oh, would you quit that, I am walking!” The last bit comes out snappish, peeved as Price pulls you towards the stone steps of a red-bricked building. 

The words County Court House are inscribed above the second-story door girdled by a wrought iron balcony. It’s a simple building, far from the colonnaded buildings from back home with their cupolas and hand-carved lintels. Even in size it hardly compares, a meager three stories with perhaps a basement. Still, it catches the eye in a town as small as this, by far the most imposing building for miles around.

It’s also the one he pulls you towards, hand moving from the small of your back to take firm hold of your waist. You flinch at the touch and the way his fingers dig in, almost proprietarily. It’s a physical shock to your system. While you’re not unaccustomed to the rougher ways of men, you’ve also been largely shielded from it yourself. By chance or fortune or luck. Men may take an attitude with you, as they’re wont to do, but none have yet manhandled you the way Price feels free to do. 

“Take a big step there now, darling,” he says, lifting the front of your dress for you a tad, to your shock. “No accidents before the wedding.” 

“The wedding?” you shriek, face heating at the heads that turn to look over at the two of you. 

The courthouse is bustling with townsfolk, still not as busy as in the bigger cities back east, but still clearly at the center of all business activities. The few people that pass you by on the way out of or into the courthouse are bold in their perusal, eyebrows lifting when they take notice of Price at your side—and how could they not, with the size of him and the badge pinned to the lapel of his vest that glimmers when it catches the light. 

“If you were expecting something grander, you should’ve turned up last month when I sent for you,” Price says, stern again. In the foyer of the courthouse, you can see the way the long hallway cuts through the building, leading into the adjacent rooms until finally culminating with the courtroom at the very back. You watch as a man slowly closes the door to the last door, shutting the occupants in. “Might’ve been more amenable to it then.”

“I’m not asking for a nicer ceremony—”

“Good, then you won’t be disappointed.”

“—but that’s because I’m not the woman that you intended to marry in the first place,” you finish, quieting to a hissed whisper, conscious of those still lingering close enough to eavesdrop. In all likelihood, the other people milling around probably already know that the sheriff has been waiting for his mail order bride to arrive. They wouldn’t be the first people to mistake you for her.

He pulls you into an alcove off the side of the foyer. When Price turns to face you, no longer just the heavy presence at your side, it takes a moment for you to gather your bearings. He seems larger somehow, with his arms crossed over his chest and feet rooted into the floor, drawn up to his full height. The hair on his forearms draws your eyes momentarily before he steps into your space, forcing you to meet his eyes again. 

He stares down at you with an intensity that makes you flinch. “Now, far be it for me to say that I know my wife-to-be by her demeanor alone, given that we’ve hardly corresponded beyond our initial agreement. But I find it mighty strange that a single, unaccompanied woman would show up in town with all of her earthly belongings as I’m expecting my own woman to show up any day. Hardly seems coincidental.”

“Don’t you think I would have sought you out if we were intended to wed?” you ask beseechingly. “Or that I would put up such a fuss now? What sort of bride would do that?”

“You want to know what I think, darling?” The timber of his voice deepens as he lowers his head slightly, wrapping the conversation in a layer of intimacy despite its public nature. There’s a darker note to his voice now, a thinly-veiled anger. “I think you’ve been keeping yourself housed and fed off the back of men like me and the money you’ve been sent to compensate for the rough journey. I think your guilty conscience brought you here because you know that the Lord doesn’t look too kindly on swindlers and thieves.”

“I’m not a thief,” you hiss in protest, affronted. Ironic that you’d be insulted by his words when the truth is far worse. 

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Price permits, a reluctant softness in his voice. “But your conscience did you right. Marriage will suit you far better than a life of crime ever could.”

If only he knew. “You’ve still got it all wrong—I’ve never once even glanced at the matrimonial pages or the personals. And I certainly didn’t come to town expecting to be wed.”

You did, however, arrive in town with a guilty conscience. Even you’re wise enough not to mention that, though.

“Then if you're not her, who are you?” he asks. 

It’s clear from his tone that Price doesn’t believe you, but the question itself makes you antsier than even the thought of marrying this man. He still stares down at you in challenge, an eyebrow cocked. If you wanted to, you could easily answer his question and even furnish proof—a letter from an aunt or uncle or a telegram from a previous employer. 

That last thought makes your throat squeeze tight. You could furnish proof, but at what cost? You’re still unclear on how much information has been disseminated or whether you're a wanted woman. Though only weeks have passed since the event that caused you to flee in a haste, there’s no telling whether a warrant has been put out for your arrest, no telling whether word has reached a town this far west. 

“Not that it matters, but I’m from New York,” you say, scrunching up your nose. 

The look he gives you is unimpressed. “I’m sure you lost the accent on the train ride.”

Embarrassment makes you dig your heels in deeper. “I didn’t grow up there, it’s just where I’ve lived for the past few years.”

“And what’s your name?”

“…Elizabeth Smith.” 

It’s the first name that occurs to you, but the moment the words come out of your mouth, you can’t help feeling like you’ve made a huge mistake. Price must sense it too because he draws back up to his full height, lips twitching into a small smirk. 

“You have family or a post back in New York, Miss Smith?” he asks in a patronizing tone. 

“Family.” 

“Alright, then it shouldn’t be too hard to get confirmation and settle this whole issue.” He points behind you to one of the unoccupied rooms. “Telegraph’s office just behind you. We’ll get in touch with the Census Bureau and ask them to confirm your identity. And, if you are who you say you are, Miss Smith, then we can put this issue to rights.” 

Your blood goes cold. “That’ll—that’ll take time though. I can’t marry you today if they only get back to you in a week’s time.”

Price nods, his expression dissatisfied but resolved. “Wouldn’t be proper for you to stay at the house either, but I’ll make sure the inn lets you stay free of charge until this is settled. You’ll be in good hands under the Pattersons’ watch.” 

He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear the implication in his words. You’d be essentially under house arrest, perhaps free to move about town, but certainly not free to take the next train out. 

Your pulse thumps nervously at the base of your throat. Even swallowing takes effort now. The weight of his stare takes root in you, a living coil in your belly. No getting out of it. There’s no getting out of this. You don’t know why you thought you could, how you tricked yourself into thinking for even a moment that a man as formidable as the one set in front of you would simply give in. Let you go. You’ve hardly even moved the needle. 

It’s there still in his eyes. Not even doubt—something quite far past that. Certainty. 

“‘Elizabeth Smith of New York’, was it? Come, we’ll have them start the message and you can give me your birthday as well so it’ll be an easy find—” Price says, attempting to slip around you to head to the telegraph’s office. 

“No.” 

It slips out of you inadvertently, high and panicked. He pauses at the word. More than just your words. When you look down, you notice your fingers clenched in the fabric of his sleeve, bringing him to a halt. It pulls taut against the muscle of his forearm. 

Softness bleeds back into him at your touch. You can see it smooth out the lines of his forehead and the jut of his brow. He ignores the onlookers still hovering by the double doors to twist back to you, now obscuring their view of you. The breadth of his shoulders nearly blocks the rest of the foyer from sight when he looms over you like this. Down the hall, you can hear a gavel pound down on wood and a litany of raised voices in unison from behind a shut door. 

“You don’t have to make up stories,” Price murmurs, drawing a hand up to cup your cheek, holding it like a precious thing. “I told you before—all’s forgiven.”

His words remind you of being trapped in his office, drawers stripped down your ankles and skirt pulled up to your waist. Your bottom still smarts from the palm of his hand, still hot and sore to the touch. It’s hardly been long since then and yet it feels like an age ago, like trying to find your way in a dust storm. 

You open and shut your mouth, lost for a way out. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Marriage or a jail cell. You swallow. Both sound like a sentencing. 

But there are the cold, metal bars of a cell, and then there’s John Price. The first man in an age to elicit more than a passing glance from you. Deep blue eyes crinkled with the folds of old laughter, wide shoulders, and barrel chest. In another time, you think you would’ve jumped at the chance to be courted by a man like him. Keeled over at the very thought of being chased the way he hunts you down now. 

“Alright,” you say instead, giving in. The hand fisting his sleeve shakes. “Alright.”

It’s not a pleasant giving in. Your permission is handed over with shot nerves. The coil bunched up in your core burns white hot, hissing and spitting like a rattlesnake. 

Still, when he drags a thumb over the slope of your cheek, you fight not to let your eyelids flutter shut. “Good girl. We’ll make it work, love. Won’t be easy, but it never is.”

You don’t anticipate that it will be, but your mouth stays shut. Price must think you mollified, soothed rather than resigned to your fate, because he passes his thumb once more over your cheekbone, this time so tenderly that you wait for his lips to descend upon yours again, sure from the heat in his eyes that he won’t be able to keep from stealing another kiss. You lick your lips out of habit—not just to see the way his eyes follow the motion. 

Then the door at the back of the building bursts open to a cacophony of shouts and hollering voices. The moment broken, Price drops his hand away from your cheek, only to take your hand in his this time, pulling you down the hall towards the register’s to await the circuit preacher. He makes you walk on the side closest to the wall, shielding you from the men that burst out of the courtroom, surging towards the doors. You think that someone must have been found guilty because the lot of them look joyous, clamoring over each other for attention. 

You think that you might be spared another minute or two, enough time for them to clean up and reset the courtroom, but you’re shocked to find the circuit preacher ready to conduct the ceremony in the cramped register’s office. He and Price shake hands enthusiastically, the preacher turning to you to grasp your hands in welcome before turning back to the sheriff. They have a camaraderie that speaks of old friendship. 

The cramped room where you’re married smells of patchouli and moth wings, like holes burrowed into sweaters at the back of a closet. The bookshelves along the walls are stacked with books old enough that you know they’d crinkle deliciously if opened. You try to listen as the preacher begins the introductory prayer. Behind you, another man slips into the room, a witness. He hardly bothers to introduce himself for such a brief affair. 

You haven’t been to many weddings, but you always imagined that yours—if you were privileged enough to have one—might have more fanfare. The wedding you actually get is a brusque affair, a brief recital of vows that ends only when the preacher enjoins Price to kiss his wife. 

His wife. 

Your eyes go wide when a hand flattens along your spine and pulls you into a hard chest, John dipping his head down to kiss your mouth again. His kiss is less chaste this time, not restricted by convention as earlier. This time, his tongue licks hot into your mouth, like no kiss you’ve ever had before, beard scratching your face. His mouth tastes like something you’ve never had before, like heatburst. Hot and wet. Soft and suckling. Any kiss you’ve had before pales in comparison—juvenile fumbling, all dry and half-humiliated, unsure of yourself. Nothing like being kissed by your husband.

Your husband. 

He only pulls away when the preacher finally clears his throat, a tad embarrassed. You’re too dazed to feel the same, fingers still sunk into the lapels of Price’s vest, clutched there. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up and your hands to unclench. You feel Price tug your hands away and slip something onto your finger.

The few documents needing to be signed hardly takes any longer. You finally notice the man that had slipped in behind the two of you, a masked man even larger than Price, who nods at him before glancing at you only long enough for you to notice that his eyes seem curiously blank. 

“Thanks, Simon,” Price says as the man—Simon—signs under your names, but he only grunts. The ink is still wet when he leaves. 

“How was it so fast?” you ask absently, staring at the papers as the ink sits drying and the preacher takes his own copy before handing John his. 

“Everything’s practical out here, darling.” His hand holds you by the waist again, relaxed this time. Not worried about whether you might run. “Even the weddings.”

“You don’t…you don’t even serve dinner? Invite guests over? No gifts?” The questions are irrelevant, but you ask them anyway because it’s a way to focus on anything other than the preacher handing you the final copy of the papers and Price leading you back down the hall and out the doors. 

There’s a ring on my finger, you think, looking down. It sparkles when you twist your hand from side to side. Topaz, instead of diamond. 

“Maybe if you’d showed up on time,” Price reminds you. He no longer sounds upset about it, but it still seems to come out as an admonishment. 

You don’t respond to that. Perhaps you’re still shell-shocked, looking at the world through new eyes. It feels unreal that in the span of less than a day, you’ve been plucked up and married off, to the sheriff no less. The one man you would’ve tried your hardest to avoid crossing paths with. 

No chance of that now. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, still in a daze. The sun makes you squint when you leave the courthouse, making you miss the hat back in your room at the inn. Maybe you can convince Price to let you go back to collect your things.

“I think we’re due for a honeymoon, don’t you, darling?”

You go doe-eyed at that. When you look up, your husband is already smiling down at you, crow’s feet wrinkling at the sides of his eyes. 

“Let’s go home.”

[cornerstoreclown]

So happy to see you’re back, we missed you!🫶

How about reader cleaning those nasty teeth for him? Given he’d allowed it-😉

Consider it done. Gender neutral reader x Art, trying to brush this man's teeth.

---------------------------

This is the third time he’s shoved you off his lap. For the past five minutes, you’ve been fighting the Miles County Clown with sheer determination, spite, and a toothbrush. Who was winning at this point, you weren’t sure. What started off as a simple ambush when he was sitting on the couch watching your TV became a failed plan within seconds the very instant he caught wind of what you were trying to accomplish. 

There were three truths that could coexist peacefully: 

The first one was that you loved this stupid clown. The second truth was that he was fucking disgusting and often smelled like he came out of the goddamn city sewers, and god have mercy on your soul if you caught a whiff of his breath after he finished eating something–or someone. And the third truth follows on the tails of the second one…

Which is that your standards are absolute dogshit. The bar is in hell! Literally in this case, considering WHO you’re dealing with.

Absolutely no way in hell that anyone else in the entire world would be able to get away with this. No one. They’d get a free lobotomy with how far that toothbrush would be jammed up their nose. You’re actually surprised that he’s not yet gotten up out of his seat, but you did catch him at a time where one of his favorite shows was on. That was all a part of your grand scheme. 

You’re back in his lap again, toothbrush with a little bit of toothpaste still somehow miraculously attached to the bristles.

He moves his head away from you again, like a defiant child, and he’s starting to wear down your patience and piss you off. 

“Art.” You firmly tell him, trying to get this brush near his face, and so far, the closest you’ve gotten is within a few inches of his mouth. You use your free hand to try and tilt his head back to keep him from moving, leaving him to respond in turn with a scowl, baring his teeth in the form of a threat. 

Which was fine for you. 

With enough dexterity, you manage to get a few brushes in on the top row of his teeth, feeling a bit of satisfaction until he elbows you in the face and then pushes your head away so you can’t see.

“Fucker!” You say through grit teeth. “Art, come ON! Let me HELP you!” 

You don’t feel the pain when he hits you in the face. Anger and frustration run deep in your veins now, guided by nothing but pure adrenaline as you’re both locked in battle with each other, pushing at the other. You both look like siblings at this point. That’s about how it fucking felt. 

You fight against him pushing your head away, and catch a glimpse of a horrid sight–

His gums are bleeding.

His teeth are coated in blood. 

You knew that his oral hygiene was bad, but you didn’t know how bad, and it becomes apparent to you that everything was way worse than you thought. 

Then he stuns you, zigging when you were expecting him to zag as he switches it up, grabbing your wrists and staring you right in the face, his snarl twisting into a smile. You don’t get a chance to react.

Well, you sort of did.

“Art–” 

You’re cut off as he presses his lips to yours, forcefully kissing you and sloppily giving you the nastiest fucking makeout ever. His tongue pushes past your mouth and goes in, shamelessly sharing whatever taste he had leftover from the mystery dinner he ate the night before, but not without the sharp taste of iron from his bleeding gums first. You gag, the pungent taste hitting your tongue, leaving you to immediately try to back up off of him, and he helps you further by once again shoving you off, this time flinging you to the floor at the foot of the couch.

The toothbrush, your so-called weapon of the day, has been dropped and rolled away from where you landed flat on your back. 

Art wasn’t having it. The show he had been hoping to watch tonight? Ruined, as he gets up off the couch and leaves you on the ground. He had half a mind to kick you in the side on the way out. 

You’ll just have to try again some other time. Maybe.

[arjwrites]

left my heart at home for you to hold- dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: leaving you is the hardest thing dean has ever had to do, but coming back home is the joy of his life.

warnings: none, fem!reader

word count: .9k

a/n: my first drabble for my 100 follower event! based on the song russell county line by 49 winchester (how fitting!) thanks for the request, i hope you enjoy!! <333

arj's 100 follower event

xxx

“I miss you, sweetheart.” Dean's words came out almost desperately. 

The giggling of your response through the phone speaker sent a pang of hurt through his body. He was so sick of being away from you. On hunts these days, Dean felt like he was just going through the motions. He used to enjoy hunting, at least to some extent. He felt a sense of satisfaction and purpose when he ganked the monster and saved the day. But ever since you came into his life, nothing satisfied him like you did.

“When will you be home?” Your sweet voice bounced around in his mind and he held tight to the shape of your words, imagining them in the shape of you. Sometimes, when his eyes darted up to check the rearview mirror, he would swear he could almost see you perched back there, nodding along to the music and throwing him a cheeky grin.

A few days was the answer to your question, though he didn’t like it very much. Hunts these days felt lonelier than ever, and a routine three-day hunt stretched into lifetimes apart from you. Of course, his brother was right there next to him, thumbing through newspapers and lore books. Sam would jump right into discussing this next case the second Dean snapped the phone shut. But he wouldn’t hang up just yet. He’d hang on to this little scrap of you for as long as he could.

The hunt would go on longer than expected, like they always did. Each snag in the road would enrage Dean. He was always desperate, needy, longing to return home to you. More often than not, Sam would catch him distracted. He’d be staring off into space while researching, or zoning out while interviewing a victim’s family member. He just wasn’t on his game. It was like he wasn’t fully there- a piece of him was always left behind, his heart all those miles away, tucked into your gentle hands for safekeeping until he returned.

Eventually, things would come to an end and the boys would emerge victorious- sweaty, tired, and often bloody, but nonetheless victorious. Before Dean had you, car rides after a successful hunt were full of classic rock sing-alongs and lazy diner stops. It used to be a common occurrence to stick around, hit the local dive bar, celebrate a little. These days, however, when the bodies hit the floor and the case was said and done, Dean put the pedal to the metal. The second their work was done, he was ready to hit the road. Sometimes, Sam would turn away to say goodbye and offer some comfort to a victim, and when he turned back around, like magic, their bags were all packed and Dean was already posted in the driver’s seat, revving the engine and honking the horn. “Let’s go, Sammy.” As they hit the open road, Dean would press his foot down, reveling in the growl of the Impala’s engine as they barrelled down the highway en route home to his girl. 

There was a familiar routine when Dean returned from a long hunt. You’d always have some sort of meal ready, no matter the time of day, knowing he would be returning tired and hungry. He’d stroll in dramatically, tossing his bag down and throwing some sassy remark like “Honey, I’m home.” When you’d run up to him all smiles, he would wrap you in a hug that radiated the genuine love you had been missing. He’d pepper your face with kisses, absentmindedly recounting stories of the hunt that seemed boring now. Once he had you again, back in front of his eyes and in his arms, nothing else mattered. 

In the days between hunts, when life was normal for as long as you each could manage, Dean wouldn’t leave your side. He’d follow you from room to room, lingering in your presence for as long as possible. His eyes were always locked on you, drinking you in. He couldn’t get enough. Most often, he was quiet. His love for you was strong, silent, reverent, yet ever-present. But there were always moments where the feelings inside him became too much. They bubbled up inside him and threatened to spill out uncontrollably. It was in moments like this where he attempted to turn his sentiments into words. 

“I love you so much, you know that?” Dean spoke from his spot next to you as the two of you washed the dishes from dinner. Your beauty made the mundane so fascinating. He could see your face reflected in the shine of the plate you were drying, capturing your form in a way that was so uniquely you, and yet, could never live up to the real thing. 

“I love you too, Dean,” you hummed in response, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you placed the final dish into the cabinet.

“No, seriously.” He wrung his hands, turning from the now-empty sink to face you. “You’re home now, kid. It’s always gonna be you. I hate leaving, but I’m always coming back to you.” 

You smiled, wiping your hands on your jeans before taking Dean’s. You lifted his arms up, wrapping them around your shoulders and allowing him to pull you close. There you stood in the kitchen, swaying gently to a song that wasn’t there, yet you both could hear it so clearly. It was as if you could feel your life together growing up around you, sprouting and blooming. This was home, where Dean would always return. And you’d always be waiting.

[mountttmase]

Change Of Heart

The Middle - Part Three

Note - chapter three wooooo. Thank you so much for all your feedback last week and I’m really sorry I didn’t reply to you guys. It was a weird few days and I’ve been sick so it slipped my mind but I really appreciate you guys so much. I hope you enjoy this one too and happy halfway mark 🩷

Pairing - Mason Mount x Reader

Word count - 6.3k

Warnings - series contains angst & fluff

Never in a million years did you think you���d be in the pickle you were in right now.

You’d never felt this awful about yourself before, fleeing the flat that you’d shared with Jack for just over three years since your second year of uni and returning to your childhood home for some much needed comfort. But the only person's comfort you wanted was still in training.

You thought everything was turning out perfectly, moving out of halls and into your first big girl flat with Jack was a massive step but you’d fallen into domestic life perfectly. The both of you still on the same course but taking a few different modules meaning you weren’t together 100% of the time and being able to study together and push each other forward helped you get the best results possible. Both ending up with firsts and it didn’t take you long to land a job so you could continue to live where you’d both made your new home but right now that all now seemed like a long lost dream.

As soon as you made it home to your parents house you rushed up to your old room. Ignoring your family entirely as you locked yourself away and as soon as you thought Mason might be finished with training you sent him a quick text.

Mason, he was always there when you needed him.

You were surprised at first at how quickly the pair of you had fallen back into the rhythm of being friends. Waking up that next morning after your dads birthday party to find him pressed up against your back with his head in your neck and an arm around your waist, but it was the fact he’d clearly gotten hot in the night and taken his jeans off that had made you chuckle. Knowing how much he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable by taking his clothes off but you enjoyed waking up next to him more than you let on.

He’d woken up shortly after you and after a quick squeeze you felt him move away, not wanting you to wake up with him pressed against you but you were quickly rolling over so you could press yourself up against him and hold him to you until you felt his chest rumble with laughter.

‘Morning Masey’

‘Morning, love. You sleep okay?’

‘Surprisingly well actually. What about you?’

‘Yeah not bad’ he whispered but you could tell he was a little shy still. Not able to look you in the eyes for more than a few seconds but it was just nice to have him back in any capacity.

Mason stuck to his word after that night, always keeping in contact as often as he could and when he went on loan to Derby County you made sure to go to as many games as you could manage. Jack always in tow as it became your little thing but as soon as he joined back up with Chelsea Jack had to stop. Telling you he didn’t feel right cheering for Chelsea as an Arsenal fan so you ended up going to games alone or with some of the Chelsea girlfriends as Mason introduced you to more people as he made friends.

You were so proud of him, watching him take the world by storm and as his second season was coming to an end you knew one of the biggest games of his life was coming up and he didn’t need any distractions.

You needed him though. Urgently.

You needed him more than you'd ever needed anyone in your life and as you sat and waited for him to show up you felt sicker and sicker. The gravity of the situation still not hitting you properly as you hadn’t managed to speak it out loud to him yet but you knew you needed to get a grip.

When Mason eventually got to your house, the door was opened by your mother who gave him a concerned look as she nodded him in and he wasn't sure what to to think at all.

‘She’s in her room but she won’t tell me what’s wrong’ she huffed, rolling her eyes slightly and it struck him as a bit weird because he knew you told your mum everything. The fact she was laughing it off though made him think it was that serious though and he felt his heart calm down slightly.

‘I’ll speak to her’ he reassured her. Touching her arm as if to comfort her slightly before he made his way up the stairs and straight to your room. Knocking gently as the door was shut but he really didn’t know what to expect.

‘You in there love?’ He called, knocking lightly again as he didn’t know if you were sleeping but you were far from it. Laid on your back as you looked up to the ceiling to try and control your breathing but his voice had you sat up straight in an instant.

‘Yeah’ you answered, hoping it was loud enough for him to hear but you knew your voice sounded strained and when the door finally opened and you could see his face you felt yours crumple. Hot tears running thick and fast down your face but Mason was quick to shut the door and rush to your side so he could pull you into his arms.

Even though he had no idea what was going on, the fact he’d dropped everything to come here and comfort you meant the world and as you sobbed into his chest you’d never felt more lucky to have a friend like him.

He let you take your time, rubbing you back soothingly to calm you down enough to speak and even though you were petrified, you knew Mason would be there for you and on your side no matter what you told him.

‘Hey, come on it’s okay’ he whispered, trying to pull back so he could look at you but you weren’t ready yet and he didn’t push you to talk until your tears had died down. ‘It’s alright, love. Take your time, yeah? I’m not going anywhere’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you come all this way’

‘No no don’t be silly, you know I would have come a lot further if you needed me to’ he whispered. Trying his best to settle you so that you’d come out and tell him what’s wrong and when you looked up at him with a pout, his heart broke for you. ‘What is it, love? Whats happened?’

‘Me and Jack… well there isn’t a me and Jack anymore. He’s left me’ you told him, your voice wobbling as you tried your best not to break down again but you could tell he was shocked as he pulled you back into his chest.

‘Oh y/n’ he sighed, wrapping his arms around you tighter and rubbing your back soothingly. ‘What happened?’

‘If I tell you, can you promise it stays between us’ you asked, not wanting anyone to know your secret just yet but you knew you were about to burst if you didn’t tell someone.

‘Well I don’t kn-‘

‘No Mason, you have to promise’ you begged, feeling yourself get hysterical as he wasn’t promising but when he cupped your jaw you looked straight into eyes and knew you had nothing to worry about.

‘Okay okay, I promise, yeah?’ he told you, grabbing your hand out of your lap so he could link your pinkies together and you smiled for the first time that day at the gesture. ‘I pinkie promise you it stays between us. Now spill’

You tried your hardest to tell him, the words stuck on the tip of your tongue and it took a few tries but he never tried to rush you. Giving you the time he needed you gather yourself and get the words right but it was like you’d forgotten how to speak.

‘I can’t Mase, I can’t say it’

‘Why not?’

‘Cause if I say it then it’s happening and-‘

‘Whatever it is, no matter how bad you think it might be, I’m here yeah?’ He told you. Stroking your cheek so you could look at each other properly. ‘I’ll always be here. You’re not on your own at all so just tell me and we can face it together’

‘I’m pregnant’

The words came out as a whisper and you weren’t even sure if Mason understood at first but when you watched his face contort into one of shock you knew he had. All the breath in his lungs being expelled at once as what you’d said hit him like a slap in the face, but now you’d said it out loud the words came pouring out of you like word vomit.

‘I found out a few days ago and I’m way further along than I was expecting and it’s all just such a mess. I didn’t want to add more pressure onto your plate with the final coming up but I didn’t know who else to tell I’m so so sorry Mase-‘

‘You do not need to apologise, okay? You have nothing to be sorry for’ he whispered and you could see he was trying his hardest to comfort you but he was also stunned by what you’d told him. ‘Sorry I feel like I’m being shit but I don't know what to say’

‘No it’s fine, I don’t know either’ you laughed and the fact you’d cracked a bit made him smile. Pulling you into his chest so you could cuddle into him and when his fingers began to massage over your scalp you felt yourself melt.

‘Are you okay? Like are you feeling okay?’ He whispered into the side of your head and you nodded softly.

‘I’m a bit sick but I’m fine I promise’ you told him looking back up into his big brown eyes and it was as clear as day how much he cared and how worried he was for you.

‘So Jack left when you told him?’ He asked carefully but all you could do was nod knowing your voice would fail you. ‘I’ll kill him. I swear to god I’ll kill him’

‘Please don’t, I just wanna forget he ever existed’ you sniffed before looking down into your lap so you could let your tears fall.

‘Look at me’ he whispered, taking your face in his hands again so he could kiss your forehead and you felt yourself relax in his hold. Looking up at him through your tears but you could see he was calming down. ‘He never deserved you. The both of you, okay?’ He mumbled. Your eyes spilling over as he referred to you as a pair and even though you were petrified you knew you’d be okay as long as you had your best friend. ‘I don’t care what you say, I’m here now and I’m taking care of you’

‘No mase, you can’t-‘

‘I don’t wanna hear it okay.’ He cut you off, tucking your hair behind your ears. ‘Call it payback or whatever for when I left for a year but you’re not on your own. I’ll do whatever you need me to’

‘Mase-‘

‘You need to do one thing for me though, okay’ he asked and you had no idea what it was but you were willing to do just about anything for him right now. ‘I need you to tell your mum’

You knew he was right, there was no way you could hide this from her and you’d need all the help you could get but the prospect of telling your family terrified you. You knew this wasn’t what they wanted for you and the thought of disappointing them hurt but you knew deep down he was right.

‘Will you come with me?’ You asked quietly and his face softened immediately.

‘Of course I will’

‘Okay, let me just go to the loo and sort myself out and we can do it’ you smiled. Leaving him alone in your room for a moment but you had no idea what he was about to do as he reached for his phone and called the one person he needed to talk to.

‘Hello?’

‘Don’t talk and don’t put the phone down’ he said lowly, his mind scrambled with what he wanted to say but in the end he blurted it all out. ‘I’m just calling to tell you you’re a piece of shit and if you dare thinking about coming near her again I’ll rip your fucking head off’

‘Oh give it a rest mate, you think I give a shit?’ Jack laughed and the sound made Mason want to punch something. ‘You should be thanking me anyway, I know you’ve wanted me out of the picture since I got there. Not that it makes much difference, she still picked me even when you were begging for her’

‘Shut the fuck up’ Mason spat but it made no difference. Jack was still laughing at him down the phone like he thought he was pathetic and it made Mason want to scream.

‘Don’t call me again and I won’t call you. And don’t worry, I don’t plan on being near her anytime soon’

‘How can you be like this? You’re gonna chuck it all away for no reason?’

‘I never wanted a kid, that was never in my plans. She can do what she wants but I’m out. Just like I’m out of this conversation. I would say good luck with everything but I don’t mean it’ he said before hanging up and Mason could only just contain his rage.

How could he say that about you? You’d stuck with him for so long and Mason knew how much you loved him so to hear him speak about you in this way infuriated him. Mason was never Jacks biggest fan but he’d always been respectful for your sake and now he wished he never had been.

‘Mase, you coming?’ You called, your head poking into your room to see him looking furious but as soon as his eyes fell on you his whole face changed.

‘I’m here love, sorry’ he smiled. Popping his phone back into his pocket and meeting you by the door so he could take your hand and lead you downstairs. It was safe to say you were terrified but as long as you had Mason you knew you could get through this.

Telling your mum you were about to become a single parent was one of the hardest things you ever had to do, but she could see how upset and scared you were and thankfully wasn’t hard on you. Begging you to stay home so she could look after you and you took her up on the offer so you could be closer to Mason and away from the home you used to share with Jack. Even staying with him some nights just for a break and you always felt your happiest when you were next to him.

He did everything for you. He cooked, he cleaned, he even did your washing and when the time came for his big game he called you as soon as he could after he’d won to let you know it was you and your little pickle that pushed him over the finish line and gave him the strength to win.

When he had a small break from football he took you away for a few days just the two of you and you knew what you must have looked like to other people but you never corrected them. You just held his hand and let him treat you even if you did feel awful about it but in the back of your mind you wanted people to think you were together. That you had your life in order and the father of your child was in the picture rather than off doing god knows what because you weren’t good enough for him.

Pregnancy was tough. You felt sick most of the way through it and even though you were trying your hardest to make out that you were fine, you were still mourning the loss of the man you thought you’d be spending the rest of your life with. You kept your sadness private though, waiting until you were in the safety of your bedroom of a night to let your tears flow.

It took a while but you knew it had to stop. Your life still had to move on without him and you had a whole new human to think about. If he didn’t want to be a part of your lives then that’s his choice but it was also your choice to give your baby the best life you could.

Mason couldn’t make it to your first scan but he made sure to take you to your second. You could tell he was unsure about if you wanted him to actually come in with you or not but you just nodded your head in the direction of the door and he followed you in with a huge smile.

‘I see your red lipstick is back’ he commented as he helped you up onto the bed but all you could do was send him a smile. It was rare you’d worn it over the last few years as Jack always complained when you did but now you were free of him, you were free to wear it again. Feeling more like yourself with each day that passed.

‘So todays the day’ the nurse smiled as she gelled your belly up. ‘What have you decided?’ She asked but Mason was looking at you confused. He had no idea what an important scan this was but you just smiled at him before turning to her.

‘I want to know’ you confirmed but Mason just looked at you like you were speaking another language.

‘Am I missing something here? Want to know what?’

‘What I’m having. I can find out if it’s a boy or a girl today’ you told him and his eyebrows almost got lost in his hairline he was that shocked.

‘Oh’ he smiled. ‘Wait you’re just gonna find out now? No big gender reveal or anything?’

‘Nah, I don’t fancy it’ you shrugged. ‘I’ve got the most important person here who needs to know so I don’t see why I should wait. What do you think?’

‘Let’s do it’ he smiled, his eyes sparkling as they filled with tears and you squeezed his hand to let him know it was okay as the nurse began the search for your little one. ‘What am I having then? A niece or a nephew’ he joked, squeezing your hand gently as she moved the probe around and she let out a little laugh before her eyes fell to you.

‘Y/n… you’re having a little girl’

You didn’t realise you were crying until you felt Mason's lips on your forehead. Warm trickles spilling down your cheeks at the gesture as you covered your face with your free hand.

You’d told yourself you would be happy with whatever your baby was but deep down you knew you wanted a girl. A little mini you who would be your absolute best friend and now you knew you were getting your wish you couldn’t hold your sobs in. The nurse leaving the pair of you alone so Mason could help you calm down and after a few more forehead kisses and reassuring words in your ear you were semi back to normal.

‘Sorry Mase, it’s just a lot’

‘I know, love. It’s okay though, you’re allowed to get upset’ he reassured you and before you knew it you were getting packed up to leave and go home with fresh pictures of you little girl in hand.

You made a quick stop in the loo before you left, something that was now becoming a regular occurrence and once you were out, Mason was nowhere to be seen. You wondered if he’d maybe been mobbed by fans and had to go and hide but as soon as you got your phone out to text him he appeared. A sly smile on his face as he hid his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie and you eyed him curiously until he let out a giggle.

‘Where did you go?’ You asked him, the smile on his face contagious as he tried to suppress it.

‘The gift shop’

‘Why? Isn’t it full of flowers and get well soon cards?’

‘There was a lot of that yes, but I wanted to get my niece her first teddy’ he smiled, reaching back into his front pocket and pulling out a little giraffe teddy with a pink bow tied round the bottom of its neck and you felt your eyes sting for the millionth time that day.

‘Oh Mase’ you whispered. ‘That must have cost you an arm and a leg in there’

‘Worth it’ he smiled and when he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, you let him lead you out to the car to go home.

As you neared the end of your pregnancy you were ready for it all to be over with. Your little pickle wasn't so little anymore and everything was hurting. The worst were the Braxton Hicks contractions and even though you’d been having them for a few weeks now, the ones today felt worse. You weren’t due to give birth for another two weeks though so you knew it was nothing serious however after a call to your midwife she advised you to come in and stay the night to be observed.

You called Mason that night once you were settled in, letting him know you were staying over as a precaution and even when he tried to protest you made him stay home. He had a big game the next day and you didn’t want him to worry and get himself in a tizz when you’d be chilling in bed all day and by the time you were both ready to sleep he was pleading with you to see you afterwards. Agreeing that he could come and visit you after his game and you went to sleep excited that you’d be able to see him tomorrow.

As far as games go, it was a good one for Mason. He stuck to his promise and scored you a goal, his first of the season, which was then followed by 2 more. His first Chelsea hat trick and you just wished you would have been able to watch it in a little more comfort.

As soon as Mason could get out of there he did. Discreetly letting the staff know what was happening so they let him go without another word and even though all his team mates wanted to celebrate, there was only one place he wanted to be.

He knew he had time but he also wanted to get to you as quickly as he could so he only made one stop to pick you up a few things and he made it to the hospital by 6pm. Thankfully your mum had told him where abouts in the hospital he had to go and once he made it to the maternity ward reception he didn’t have to look far to know what room you were in. Your mum walking out looking more emotional than he’d ever seen her and once she caught sight of him she ran over to give him a big hug.

‘Is she alright? I text her a few times but she didn’t reply so I presumed she was asleep’

‘Oh Mase’ she sobbed. ‘She’s here’

‘What?… what do you mean?’

‘She was born about half an hour ago, it all happened so fast’ your mum told him but he was stuck frozen.

‘Is everything alright? Are they both fine? I got here as quick as I could I had no idea-‘

‘They’re both fine Mase’ she reassured him. Holding him but his arms in hopes he would calm down. ‘Why don’t you go in and see them. I think she was about to have a nap but she’ll be over the moon to see you’

‘Okay’ he whispered. Eyes trained on the door your mum had just emerged from and with a gentle push he was making his way over.

Mason had never been so nervous before, not even before he took his penalty earlier did he feel like this but the excitement took over and before he knew it he was pushing the door open to reveal you sat up in bed and even though you looked frightened and exhausted, your eyes were full of love and he couldn’t wait to hold you.

‘Mase’ you breathed, your bottom lip wobbling as he rushed to your side, dropping all his bags in the process so he could hug you and as soon as his arms were around you you cried your heart out. All of your emotions and hormones spilling out of you as the comfort of your best friend engulfed you and he let you cry it out fully. Pulling back as your breathing started to regulate so he could kiss your cheeks and take a good look at you. ‘I’m so sorry, they told me it would be hours-‘

‘Do not say sorry, yeah’ he whispered. Pushing the hair out of your face so he could get a better look at you and the look of pride on his face made you dizzy. ‘Are you okay? Are you in pain?’

‘Yeah, it hurt like fuck’ you laughed, wiping your eyes before he took your hands in his. "They said it would take hours and then all of a sudden I was fully dilated so I couldn't even get the epidural’ you told him and his face softened. ‘I think she was just too excited to see you and congratulate you for your hat trick’ you laughed tearily and his face crumpled a little bit. ‘You played so well Mase I’m so proud of you’

‘Are you kidding me? You just pushed a whole human out. I’m proud of you’ he told you as his eyes flickered all over your face. ‘And you’re the only woman I’ve ever known give birth in red lipstick’

‘I wanted her to know what type of woman she’s got for a mum as soon as possible’ you told him with a laugh. ’Do you wanna meet her?’ You asked quietly, knowing he’s been waiting months to finally see her and the bright smile he sent your way to you all you needed to know.

‘Please’ he whispered shyly, so you nodded him over to sit in the chair next to your bed before leaning over the other side so you could pick her out from her crib. Luckily enough she was still awake and you kept your eyes on Mason's face as you handed her over.

It was like love at first sight, his eyes filling up with tears that he tried to blink away as his lip wobbled but he was a natural when he held her. Getting her comfortable in his arms as best he could before he stroked her little face and you could tell from his ragged breathing he was overwhelmed with everything.

‘Oh y/n she’s your double’ he whispered. Tracing her features gently and your heart was racing at how he was with her.

‘Yeah, you think?’

‘Of course, she’s perfect’ he whispered, softly trailing his finger dow her nose as she looked up at him in wonder but your moment was only short lived as your midwife came back in to check on you and her eyes caught Masons immediately.

‘Ooooh a boy, what’s your name handsome?’ She giggled and you laughed at his frightened face.

‘This is my best friend, Mason’ you explained and she gave you an over exaggerated wink before directing her attention back to him.

‘Well Mason, I’m not sure if you know this but babies really benefit from a little skin to skin when they’re born.’

‘What?’ He breathed. Looking at you for help but the shrug of your shoulder let him know you weren’t about to help him.

‘It’s true, releases good hormones apparently and will help her immune system’

‘I’ve only just got here and you already want me bloody undressed’ he muttered, passing you back your little bundle of joy before undressing his top half and you felt your heart flutter a little at the sight of him. You hadn't seen him in this state for a long time and you couldn't believe how much he’d bulked out but you pushed everything down as you began to unwrap your daughter to hand over to him. Feeling yourself melt even more as he settled her back against his chest and you wrapped a blanket around them to keep them warm.

‘Hey, y/n? Have we got a name yet? I want to introduce myself properly’ he told you seriously. You’d had a name for a while but you wanted to make sure it fit her face and you wanted to discuss it with him too just in case he thought it was a bad idea.

‘I think I do, yeah. Mase this is Ginevra, Gee for short’ you told him softly. ‘I wanted to name her after my Italian great grandmother, you know the one I only met once?’

‘I remember’ he smiled ‘Hey baby Gee, it’s so nice to finally see you’ he told her looking down into her eyes that were staring right back into his. ‘We’re gonna be best friends, me and you’ he told her. Listing off all the adventures he was planning for them and you knew in that moment that it didn’t matter about Jack or anyone else, she would always have Mason.

It was the start of a beautiful friendship between the pair of them and even though being a new mother was difficult and required a lot of adapting, Mason always made sure he gave a helping hand.

You felt awful, letting him give up his free time to help you raise a baby that wasn’t even his but you could see he was in his element. His caring nature coming out in full force whenever Gee was around and you loved the way this extended to you too. Not that he hadn't always been caring but it was like he was extra gentle now.

Whenever he had a few hours free he would make sure to visit, even if it wasn’t for long but it always brightened your day to see him and it definitely brightened Gee’s. Next to you, he was becoming her favourite person.

You loved being back at home but there was something missing. A deep need inside of you to stop relying on your family and to give your daughter the life she deserved on your own. You had always tried to be as independent as you could but living off your parents and Mason was starting to take its toll.

Gee was the most special little girl in the whole world. You couldn’t believe you’d created a human so kind and funny and silly and after dreaming about your baby for so long, it was unreal to finally have her in your arms.

You had three months left of maternity leave when work checked in on you. You figured it was just for a general update but after a long talk they were offering you something you couldn’t refuse. A way out of the life you were currently in and you didn’t even think twice before saying yes.

Mason could tell there was something on your mind from the first look at you. He’d come over for a few hours after training just like usual and aside from a quick hello, you mostly sat in silence. Never one to push you though he let you sit a stew for a while as he laid with Gee on the floor. Tapping the toys hanging from the frame attached to her play mat so they dangled above her and as she laughed excitedly he would tickle her tummy to make it even worse so her giggles filled the quiet room.

He was so good with her, which made what you were about to tell him all the more difficult. Not having the courage to do it right then and there but after a little while you couldn't hold it in. Asking him to come and sit next to you on the sofa and he carefully picked up Gee so he could cradle her in his arms as you spoke and you looked on with a big smile as she playfully held his finger.

‘So the company I work for, they’re having a bit of a shuffle around and things are gonna be different when I go back’ you started but his face turned to one of anger immediately.

‘You’re not loosing your job are you? They’re not allowed to do that’ he told you seriously but you just smiled and shook your head.

‘No Mase I’m not losing my job’ you laughed. ‘I’m getting a promotion actually’

‘Oh no way, that’s amazing’ he smiled. His whole face lighting up now he knew they weren’t trying to get rid of you but now you knew the hard part was coming where you needed to explain what was actually going on.

‘Yeah they’re opening a new office and they want me to run my own department there, like it’s all getting set up for when I’m back it’s really exciting’

‘I’m so proud of you’ he smiled but he noticed the way your face had fallen and that you looked slightly nervous. ‘What’s up? You don’t look too happy about it’

‘No I am I am, it’s just, well it’s a big change’ you explained but his kind smile hadn’t faltered and you knew you were about to crush his whole world.

‘I know it is, but you can do’

‘Mase?’ You gulped. Looking down into your lap as you held the heart of the necklace he’d gifted you all these years ago. Hoping it would give you the strength you needed like it always did.

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s in Manchester’

‘What?’ He asked. Looking up to say his face contorted in confusion and even though you knew you had to explain more, a weight felt like it had been lifted.

‘The job. It’s in Manchester’

‘Oh’ he breathed. Looking slightly bewildered by everything you were saying and as he carried on speaking you knew you’d have to break it down a bit more for him. ‘That’s a pretty long commute isn’t it? A couple of hours each way at least. Can you work from home?’

‘I can work from home Mason, yes. But I also need to be in the office’ you breathed. Ready to give him the final blow and as you looked into his sweet brown eyes, you knew this would hurt him more than anything. ‘That’s why I’m moving there’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m moving to Manchester, Mason’

You watched his face fall, eyes dropping down to Gee who was quietly laying in his arms and when he looked back up you could see his eyes were full of tears.

‘Please don’t take her away from me’ he whispered, his voice thick as his bottom lip wobbled and your heart broke for the boy sitting next to you.

‘No Masey, no I’m not taking her away from you I promise’ you told him, your own eyes burning as you tried to comfort him but you could tell he was distraught at the thought of not being close to her anymore.

‘I can’t lose you guys, I’ve lost you once and I can’t-‘

‘Mase no, come here’ you asked him. Holding your arms out for him to fall into and once he was settled comfortably you scratched over his scalp just how he liked it. ‘You won’t lose us I swear, we’ll be back all the time okay and you can come visit whenever you want. I just… I need to do this. For me’ you sighed. ‘I wanna give Gee the best life I can, okay?

‘I can do that, I’ll give you guys everything you need-‘

‘Mason, my minds made up’

‘But why’ he pouted. Knowing there was more to the story than you were giving him and the look in his eyes made you realise you had to be completely honest.

‘I can’t be here anymore Mase. Everywhere I look I see him and I just hate feeling like this. I need a fresh start’ you confessed and you watched his face drop instantly as a look of understanding washed over him.

‘Hey hey, it’s alright’ he whispered, sitting up and pulling you into his side. ‘If it's what you need to do then I’ll support you, okay? I’m not gonna sit here and act like I’m thrilled about the whole thing but whatever you need then I’m here for you’ he reassured you.

‘Thank you’

‘And you best believe I’m gonna be visiting every second I get a chance so you better get somewhere with a guest bedroom’

‘I will, I promise’ you laughed. Trying to hold back a sob but it was no use. Yes this was what you needed but it was tough on everyone and you hated upsetting Mason more than anything. ‘You knew you’re always gonna be my best friend Mason. Distance won’t change that’

‘I hope so’ he whispered tearily and you felt your heart break for the millionth time.

Tag list - @saltyheartnightmare @harvestmount @prideofpd @sid-vii @carlottawllms @footiehoemcfc @katharinanadiaa @whenelifallsinlove @neverinadream @cityzenchick @msnmnt @stikkibun @masonmtxo @chillymountsjess @yoursselo @maseymm @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @leclerc13

[pandapetals]

Always

You find a photo from your childhood that sends you spiraling and Logan comforts you.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - married couple, cute, fluff, banter, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

Ororo had casually mentioned wanting to borrow a pair of boots you’d worn years ago, which led to you rummaging around in your closet for over an hour. You could picture them perfectly in your mind—brown leather, worn but stylish—and you vividly remembered boxing them up and stacking them neatly with your other shoes. Or, at least, you thought you did.

Frustration began to creep in as you pulled down box after box, each one revealing everything except the boots you were looking for. A pair of strappy heels you didn’t even remember owning. A dusty pair of sneakers that should’ve been thrown out years ago. Another box filled with scarves instead of shoes.

When you reached the last box, tucked away in the farthest corner, you huffed and pulled it closer. This one felt oddly light, and when you opened it, your hands stilled. Inside wasn’t the pair of boots you’d been searching for but something you hadn’t seen in years—a collection of forgotten belongings.

There were old photos, their edges frayed and curling, buried under an assortment of trinkets: a childhood bracelet you thought you’d lost, a small drawing you’d scribbled as a kid, and a fraying ticket stub from a county fair. At the very top of the pile was a photo of you as a child, standing between your parents. The three of you were smiling like the picture-perfect family. Your dad had his arm around your mom, and she was beaming as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But you knew better.

Before you could stop yourself, you picked up the photo, your fingers trembling as the memories came rushing back. The forced smiles. The nights spent hiding under your blanket, praying your dad’s temper wouldn’t boil over. The mornings after, when your mom would quietly clean up the aftermath as if nothing had happened.

Tears blurred your vision, spilling down your cheeks before you could wipe them away. You clutched the photo to your chest, your heart twisting in a storm of conflicting emotions—grief, anger, and a longing you didn’t quite know how to name.

That’s how Logan found you—kneeling in the dim closet, surrounded by scattered shoes and open boxes, your shoulders shaking as you sobbed silently into the picture. His chest tightened at the sight, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking you in, his usual gruffness replaced by a quiet tenderness.

“Sweetheart,” Logan murmured softly, stepping into the closet and kneeling beside you. His hand was warm and steady as it settled on your back, rubbing gentle circles. “What’s goin’ on?”

You couldn’t speak at first, the lump in your throat making it impossible. You just held up the photo for him to see, your fingers curling tightly around its edges.

Logan took it, his eyes flickering over the image before settling back on you. He didn’t press, didn’t demand answers. He just waited, his quiet presence like a steady anchor in the storm.

After a moment, you managed to whisper, “It’s been years… since he died. And I still don’t know how to feel.” Your voice cracked, the weight of the confession spilling out like a flood. “He was an abusive alcoholic, Logan. He hurt me. He hurt my mom. And yet… I still miss him. How messed up is that?”

Logan’s brows furrowed, his gaze softening. He placed the photo carefully on the ground and took your trembling hands in his, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “It ain’t messed up,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “He was your dad, sweetheart. No matter what he did, part of you wanted him to be better—for you, for your mom. That hope doesn’t just go away.”

You let out a shaky breath, your tears falling harder now. “I wanted so badly to hate him. But after he died, I just couldn’t. I forgave him…and my mom…I keep wishing we could fix things, but every time I try, it just… it doesn’t work.”

Logan nodded, his expression unreadable but deeply attentive. “Your mom’s probably got her own guilt to carry,” he said after a pause. “And that’s a heavy thing to drag around. Maybe she doesn’t know how to meet you halfway. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong for wantin’ somethin’ better.”

His words, raw and simple, cut through the noise in your head, giving shape to feelings you’d struggled to name. “How do I even start?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to your hands in his. “I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted. “But you don’t have to figure it all out at once. Sometimes… you just gotta take it one day at a time. You can’t change what’s behind you, but you can decide what’s ahead.”

You looked up at him, your eyes searching his for something—guidance, reassurance, anything. “What about your parents?” you asked hesitantly. “Do you… remember them? I know you don’t like talking about them.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your knuckles. “Bits and pieces,” he said finally. “My dad…the man I knew as my dad…I remember him being kind. He used to take care of me when…I was sick. And my mom… she tried, but…” He trailed off, his expression distant for a moment before he looked back at you. “I don’t remember much, but I know one thing for sure. You don’t get to pick where you come from, but you can pick where you’re goin’.”

His words settled deep in your chest, like a quiet flame sparking in the dark, warming places you hadn’t realized were still cold. Without hesitation, you leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles—the same hands that had once brought destruction but now protected and comforted with an unmatched tenderness. You pulled back slightly, your fingers tracing along his skin.

“You’re a good man, James,” you whispered, your voice steady but full of emotion.

Logan didn’t respond right away, but his hazel eyes softened, the weight of your words sinking into him in ways he rarely allowed. His gaze held yours, brimming with something raw and unguarded, the kind of emotion he kept locked away from the world. Slowly, he reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek with a careful thumb, his touch as gentle as his expression was conflicted. It was the touch of someone who knew pain intimately but was still learning what it meant to heal.

“James,” he murmured, the name sounding foreign as it rolled off his tongue. He said it like he was testing its weight, trying to remember the man who used to wear it. “Haven’t been called that in a long time.”

“Sorry,” you said quickly, guilt creeping into your tone as you searched his face for a reaction. “I didn’t mean—”

Logan shook his head, cutting you off gently. “No,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “It’s okay. Just… feels strange. Like I don’t deserve it. That name… it feels tied to someone better than me. Someone I haven’t been in a long time.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and your hand instinctively moved to cradle his, holding it between your smaller palms. “Logan,” you began softly, your voice trembling but steadying as you went on. “You are good. You’ve proven it time and time again. You’ve protected people, cared for them—even when you didn’t think you were capable of it.”

His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to where your hands held his, as though he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “Doesn’t feel like enough sometimes,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “Every time I think I’m more than what I’ve done, more than what I’ve been… something pulls me back. Reminds me I’ve got blood on these hands.”

You shook your head, your grip on his hand tightening as your heart ached for him. “These hands—your hands—they’ve saved more lives than they’ve ever hurt. You’ve helped people find hope, find safety. You’ve helped me.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you blinked back the tears brimming in your eyes. “You’ve shown me what love can be, and I’ll remind you every day if I have to, that you’re more than enough.”

With a deep exhale, he met your gaze. “You’ve got a way of makin’ a man feel like he’s more than he is,” he murmured, a faint, almost self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. But the warmth in his gaze betrayed how much your words meant to him.

You smiled, leaning in closer, your fingers brushing over the rough, scarred surface of his knuckles, letting your touch linger. “Sometimes… I feel like I was made for this. To remind you of who you really are, even when you forget. You’re not the man you think you are. You’re so much more.”

Logan swallowed hard, his free hand lifting slowly to cup your cheek. His thumb grazed your skin in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache. “I think we were made for each other,” he said quietly, his voice a low, gravelly whisper like he was confessing a secret. “You’ve shown me I’m more than what I’ve done. More than what people see. And for that… I’m grateful, darlin’. More than I’ll ever be able to put into words.”

His words wrapped around you like a soft, warm blanket, their weight settling into your heart. Tears spilled freely down your cheeks, but your smile didn’t falter. Instead, you leaned into his touch, feeling the calloused strength of his hand cradling you like something precious.

For a long moment, you sat together, the stillness of the room filled with unspoken understanding. Logan’s thumb traced tender circles along your cheekbone, his hazel eyes holding yours with a mixture of awe and gratitude.

Eventually, the corners of his mouth tugged upward into a soft, almost hesitant smile. “Why don’t you tell me something about your dad?” he murmured, his tone gentle, without expectation.

You sighed, your breath shaky as you rested your head against his shoulder. His familiar scent—woodsy and warm—wrapped around you, grounding you in the moment. “Something good or bad?” you asked quietly.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice a soft rumble in your ear. “Doesn’t have to be good or bad. Just… tell me what comes to mind.”

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you stared down at your intertwined hands. His fingers dwarfed yours, but his grip was steady and reassuring as if to say he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Most people just want to hear the good stuff,” you said finally, your voice tinged with bitterness. “The kind of memories that paint him as something he wasn’t. They don’t want to know the truth… just the version of him that’s easier to love.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His voice was low, steady. “You don’t have to paint him in a good light for me,” he said. “I may not have known him, but I know you. Whatever you feel, whatever you remember—that’s what matters. You don’t have to sugarcoat it.”

His words unraveled something inside you, a knot you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding onto. You exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest easing as you let your head fall more fully against his shoulder.

“I remember the way he used to sing when he was drunk,” you said after a long pause. “He had this old, off-key voice that filled the whole house. It wasn’t… joyful or sweet, though. It was more like he was trying to drown something out. Maybe his regrets. I don’t know.”

Logan stayed silent, his hand resting against your back now, rubbing soothing circles as you spoke.

“And I remember how he’d come home after losing his temper somewhere else,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I’d hear the door slam, and I’d just… freeze. Waiting. Wondering if tonight was going to be a bad night or just a quiet one.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and though he said nothing, you could feel his silent rage at the man you were describing. But his grip on you stayed gentle, his touch never faltering.

“But,” you added, surprising yourself, “I also remember how he’d make breakfast when he wasn’t drinking. Omelettes from scratch. He’d put so much love and care into cooking. He had a real talent for it. I remember thinking those mornings were the closest we ever got to being… normal.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and Logan’s arm tightened around you, pulling you closer against his chest. “That’s okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair. “It’s okay to remember the good and the bad. They’re both part of it.”

“I hate that I miss him sometimes,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “I hate that I can still find those little pieces of him that I loved, even after everything he did.”

Logan rested his chin on the top of your head, his warmth radiating through you. “Missing someone doesn’t mean you forgive everything, or that you forget the bad,” he said softly. “It just means you’re human. And that’s not a bad thing, sweetheart.”

You looked up at him then, your eyes glassy. “How are you so good at this?” you asked, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You act like you’re all gruff and growly, but here you are, saying stuff like that.”

Logan chuckled, his voice deep and soothing. “Guess I’m full of surprises,” he said, tilting his head down to kiss your forehead softly. “But if I’ve got anything worth sayin’, it’s ‘cause of you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you tilted your face up to meet his gaze, letting yourself get lost in the tenderness you found there. “Thank you,” you whispered, the weight of your gratitude pressing against your chest. “For listening. For being here.”

He smiled faintly, his hand moving to cradle your cheek. “Always,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

[guess-my-next-obsession]

25 w joel!!

The Third Date

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

rating: E (18+ ONLY, minimal plot, cunnilingus bc obviously, unprotected piv, joel talks you through it, rough-ish sex, creamp!e, soft fluffy joel bc daddy, i love him)

wc: 2.6k

prompt: 25. “Does that feel good?”

joel masterlist

The summer breeze offered just a bit of respite from the Texas heat, even though the sun had long gone down. You had a stuffed animal tucked under your arm, something bright pink and unicorn-adjacent, though you couldn’t be sure. He won it for you at the county fair, the location of your third date that somehow managed to top the first two. You had no intention of keeping it for yourself, it was much too big and ostentatious for your taste, but you thought it would make a nice gift for Joel’s six-year old daughter.

Walking up the pathway to your apartment, Joel’s hand clasped with yours, you began to feel a thrilling rustle of excitement and anticipation in your stomach. He’d been a gentleman so far, keeping his kisses tame and not letting his hands wander too far, but this was the third date, after all. You couldn’t help but pray he’d finally accept your invitation to come inside your place tonight.

“So,” he started, a shy smile on his face as you faced each other in front of your door. “I had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too.” You smiled back just as smitten. “I know you mentioned wanting to wait, but…if you wanted, you could come inside.”

Joel seemed to study you for a moment, his smile growing wider as he admired the sparkle in your eye. He’d been wanting to follow you inside since your first date, but given that he wanted something serious to come from this, he figured the smartest thing to do would be to wait for the right moment. And right now seemed as right as ever, though he did feel a little embarrassed to only make it three dates before giving in to his need for you.

“I’d love to,” he replied, reaching to cup your jaw. You closed your eyes as he leaned in to press his lips against yours, soft and sweet, just like all the other times, but soon it grew hungrier. He moaned against your lips as your fingers curled over the leather of his belt, tugging him closer. “Maybe we should take this inside, darlin’.”

“Yeah,” you panted, nodding as you scrambled through your bag to find your keys. Unlocking your door and stepping inside, Joel plucked the stuffed animal from underneath your arm and set it down on the carpet before quickly finding your hips and walking you backwards into your living room. “Wait—“ you giggled as you fell back against the plush cushions. “Shut and lock the door.”

“Oh, right,” he chuckled and blushed at his eagerness, the front door still wide open. He walked over to it and shut it, locking the doorknob and closing the deadbolt for extra measure. When he turned back to you, he was still flushed. “Got ahead of myself there.”

“That’s okay,” you assured in a purr, curling your finger at him to beckon him close again. “I like it when you get ahead of yourself.”

“Oh yeah?” he grinned and strutted towards you until he was leaning over the couch, his lips ghosting over yours. “You look so goddamn beautiful sittin’ here, you know that?”

“Why don’t you show me just how beautiful you think I am…with these?” You laced your fingers with his and and squeezed.

“Do I have permission to use more than just my hands?” he purred as he pulled you up onto your feet, his hands leaving yours so that he could hold the small of your back while yours rested on his chest.

“Depends, I think I need a sample first,” you purred back with a smirk. Tipping your head towards the hallway, you whispered, “Bedroom’s that way.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Joel never let go of you as he walked you backwards down the hall, his lips slowly and carefully working yours until you were sure if you tried to speak, the only thing that would come out was a string of incoherent squeaks.

“This one?” Joel asked as you arrived at your closed bathroom door, and you were forced to test your theory.

“No,” you managed, pointing behind him at the other closed door. “That—it’s that one.”

“You nervous?” he asked, his face shifting from one of amusement to concern. You quickly shook your head and reached your hand to his face.

“No,” you found your vocal footing. “Well, I mean as nervous as anyone would be before they took a beautiful man like you to bed.” Joel blushed. “You just…make me dizzy, that’s all.”

“I make you dizzy?” he asked as though it was an unheard of thought. “Baby—“ He grabbed your hand and lowered it to his thumping heart. “You’re making me dizzy.”

“Joel,” you exhaled. “Open the door.”

Joel nodded, a look of stunned reverence on his face as he scrambled to reach behind him for the doorknob, fumbling with it until it turned and opened the door. You stumbled inside, your hands gripping onto his shirt while his lifted the skirt of your dress, your teeth clashing as he kissed you breathless, neither of you caring about how sloppy it was.

“Take your clothes off,” you ordered as you lifted your dress over your head. Joel was quick to obey your command, tugging his t-shirt over his head before peeling his jeans off. You crawled onto your bed and sat on your knees in the middle of it, a smile on your face as he took you in. Joel ticked his jaw and chuckled as he crawled onto the mattress to join you, his warm palms resting on your waist as he guided you back against the pillows.

“You’re fuckin’—“ He shook his head as he hovered above you, his eyes taking over your entire form. “Breathtakin’, baby.”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” you grinned.

“Oh, yeah right. You’re just sayin’ that.”

“No—“ You reached for his hand, lowering it until his fingertips rested on your clothed mound, allowing him to feel your dampness. “That’s what you do to me.”

“Fuck,” he exhaled and leaned down to kiss you again, deep and slow and hungry. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

You didn’t doubt his promise, the look in his eyes alone lighting you up in ways every other lover never seemed to master.

His lips traveled down the slopes and curves of your body, stopping at the cups of your bra to knead your breasts in his hands. His fingers slipped the straps down your shoulders before he reached beneath you to undo the clasp, the lace slowly unveiling your pert nipples to him for the first time. He sucked in sharply and looked up at you as though he was seeing god.

“Perfect.”

Your back arched as he swirled his tongue around the sensitive bud before sucking it into his mouth, his hand snaking down your belly and back to the damp spot on your lacy panties.

“God,” you moaned, your eyes screwing shut as he rubbed perfectly pressured circles against your clit, the lace adding a beautiful bit of friction that had you keening for more.

“Does that feel good?” he rasped as he kissed his way to your other breast. You nodded quickly and lowered your eyes to meet his, your breath hitching at the look of lust blowing out his already dark eyes. “Good. I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

“Fuck,” you whined, already nearly fucked-out and he’d hardly even touched you.

Joel’s lips moved lower, pressing sloppy, open mouthed kisses to your stomach and over your navel until he was kissing the waistband of your panties. Moving lower, he ran his nose up and down your clothes slit, an animalistic groan vibrating against your core.

“Smells so sweet, baby,” he praised in a rasp. “Can I taste you?”

“Please,” you urged, combing his dark hair back as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and tugged them off you. When he returned to his spot between your legs, he pressed kisses onto the sensitive skin of your thighs, urging them to fall open for him. When you finally worked up the courage to spread yourself wide for him, Joel took a look at your soaked pussy and nearly drooled, his eyes wild as they lifted from your heat to your eyes.

“I’m gonna stay down here forever, baby, so damn pretty.” You were about to respond to his praise but he cut you off with a broad lick from your dripping entrance up to your clit, punctuating it with a swirl of his tongue. Your back arched off the bed and your hands found the headboard, pressing on them to find purchase so you didn’t float off into heaven. “Tastes so fuckin’ good, too, baby. You’re just a fuckin’ dream, ain’t ya?”

“Joel,” you nearly cried, so consumed by him and the filth leaving his tongue that you didn’t even care how desperate you sounded. Joel didn’t seem to mind, either, his tongue returning to your folds to pull more pretty sounds from you. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good.”

He hummed against you and you could feel his smile as he lapped at you. You didn’t dare look down at him, knowing that if you did, you’d never be able to look at anything else ever again. The man between your legs was quickly earning his spot as your idol, beating out any god that would dare smite you for it.

“So fuckin’—“ he mumbled into your pussy, the last few words turning into nothing but hums against your clit as he sucked it into his mouth. You were already there, free-falling over the cliffs of bliss, but when he pressed two fingers deep into your cunt and curled up, you swore you died and went to heaven, but that couldn’t be—not for someone so gladly taking part in sin like this. “There you go,” he praised, pulling back enough to watch you writhe, your cunt pulsing around his fingers. “So good for me, baby.”

“Joel, please,” you mewled, grabbing at him to pull him back to you. You needed to ground yourself under the weight of his body, to feel his warmth and remember that you were here, and so was he. Joel obliged, climbing back up your body until he was resting on top of you, hugging you close. “Let me taste you.”

“Not tonight, baby,” he whispered in your ear. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

“You’re…perfect,” you sighed and he chuckled, pulling one out of you in turn. He propped himself up on his elbows and stroked your hair back, grinning down at you.

“I like you a lot,” he confessed, his eyes as tender as his voice.

“I like you a lot, too,” you smiled back. “But right now, I want you fuck me like you can’t stand me.”

“Oh yeah?” he chuckled before leaning in to kiss your pulse. “You want it rough, baby?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed in response and nodded.

“Turn over for me,” he ordered. “All fours.”

You wasted no time in obeying, your body scrambling into your knees as soon as he lifted himself off you. Pressing your face and chest down, you arched your ass up as high as you could, turning your head so that you could catch a glimpse of him from over your shoulder as he lined himself up behind you.

“I don’t have a condom,” he warned. “But I got tested a few weeks back and I’m clean.”

“Me too, and I’m on birth control.” He nodded and leaned down to press a kiss to the globe of your ass. Shaking it for him, he cooed in delight at the sight. “Hurry up back there, I’m getting needy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You could hear the grin on his face. “I like it when you boss me around.”

“Good, so do I.” You chuckled for a moment, but were cut off by the blunt head of his cock pressing into your entrance, sliding all the way in in one quick thrust. You gasped and gripped the pillows beneath you as he kept himself buried completely in your heat for a moment, his own breath ragged as he waited for you to acclimate to his girth. “So fucking big, Joel.”

“Baby, I ain’t gonna last long,” he warned, wrecked and trembling already. “Rub that pretty clit for me while I fuck you, can you do that?”

Nodding your head, you reached beneath you to start rubbing circles against your swollen and sensitive bud while he withdrew his cock all the way before shoving back in, the head of hit prodding against your g-spot.

“Fuck, baby,” you moaned, eyes squeezing shut as he set a brutal pace, his cock pistoning in and out of you just like you asked for. You knew you were going to be sore in the morning but none of that mattered now, not with the searing hot pleasure of ecstasy building again. When his hand came cracking down upon your ass, you gasped, but any worry you may have caused Joel was quickly dispelled by the twitching of your walls around him.

“You like that, don’t ya?” he teased in a purr, bringing his hand down to spank the other cheek, your pussy pulsing for him again. “God,” he choked on the word. “Such a dirty fuckin’ girl for me, ain’t ya?”

“Yes!” you cried, your fingers now working your clit fast, your toes curling as your orgasm threatened to wreck you for good. “Joel, I’m—“

“Go on, baby,” he urged. “Soak my cock.”

You fell flat onto the bed as your orgasm hit, but Joel followed you, his brutal thrusts never ceasing as you came for him with a cry of his name so loud you were concerned the neighbors would call the police.

“Fuck!” he moaned loud enough for them to hear, too. “I’m gonna cum, baby. Where do you want me?”

“My pussy,” you managed, still reeling from your high. “Cum inside my pussy.”

“Jesus,” Joel groaned, feral like a wild animal and pressed deep inside you, so deep that you could feel him in your stomach as his cock swelled and twitched with his release. His chest heaved against your back as he laid over your limp form, pressing kisses to your shoulders. “Fuck.”

“Talk about a good third date,” you sighed, content and sated. Joel laughed and nodded as he rested his head against your shoulder, carefully and slowly pulling out of you with a hiss before rolling over onto his back.

“I probably should’ve asked earlier, but…can I stay the night with you?” he asked, drawing hearts on the heated skin of your back. You turned your head to the other side to face him and grinned.

“What about Sarah?”

“She’s at my mom’s,” he assured.

“In that case, yes. I would love it if you stayed the night.” He grinned and beckoned you into his side and you nestled in there, resting your head on his chest and taking your turn drawing your name on his skin. “Besides, that gives me the chance to finally suck your dick like I’ve been dreaming about.”

“God, baby,” he groaned and rolled you onto your back, resting himself between your thighs as he pecked every inch of your face. “How am I gonna ever leave this bed?”

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

•

[reiding-writing]

Are u willing to do a fic about an unsub!reader with early seasons Spencer? Like, the BAU has to team up with the unsub to catch another criminal with a similar M.O. to them and hijinks ensue (could be angsty hijinks or could be general scooby doo type situations) Idk!! I really like ur works and I've been thinking about this thing for days but my ass sucks at writing lol ;;

copycat—s.reid [1]

Summary:

The replication of a disturbing 2004 serial murder case calls for the BAU to get involved with the assistance of none other than the original killer themself. And whilst Spencer didn’t work the original case, he was eager to learn every detail about it, including its offender.

WARNINGS: made up murder case, graphic depictions of violence, implied suicide (actually murder), mentions of spencer’s addiction, sociopathic reader

s3!spencer/gn!unsub!reader || mystery || 4.5k || masterlist!!

part one !! , part two !!

unsub!reader masterlist!!

a/n: sorry to the person who requested this because tumblr deleted the actual ask but i did have it copied so at least it wasn’t completely lost 😭😭😭

left it here because people tend not to want to read really long fics. if people want a part two i will gladly oblige but otherwise its a decent stand alone to see how spencer would interact with an unsub like this

“James Harden, 23, was found two days ago on the bench of a public park in Los Flores, Orange County,”

The BAU team, barr Hotch, all settled in their seats as JJ arrived in the room.

JJ pressed a button on the small remote in her hand, two photos, one of each wrist of the victim, appearing on the screen behind her. “Both wrists had been slit, and the cause of death was concluded to be blood loss,”

“So, why are we being called in exactly?” Morgan raised an eyebrow, taking a sip from his coffee. The team was *tired*. They’d only gotten off a case three days before, and they were all in need of a break.

“Well, if you’d allow me to finish,” JJ shoots Morgan a pointed look to which he promptly raised his hands in surrender.

JJ presses the remote again, images of the victim’s wrists being replaced with images of his face.

There was a mix of reactions from the group, all of which perturbed, but some with more intent than others.

His head was laid limp over the back of the bench, his face pale and his lips white from the lack of blood flow to his head. Nothing they hadn’t seen before.

His eyes however, were a different story, covered up by a pair of red roses that had seemingly had their stems forcibly pierced into the victims eyeballs, leaving a trail of oxidised blood down his cheeks.

Morgan and Garcia shared a concerned glance that they simultaneously turned towards JJ, who matched their expression with her own.

“They didn’t-”

JJ shakes her head at the beginning of Morgan’s question, and Emily and Spencer share a confused glance that they turn towards their three teammates who seem to be locked in a silent conversation that only they understood.

“I feel like i’m back in high school again,” Rossi pipes up at the three from his seat, inadvertently calling them out on their exclusion of Emily, Spencer, and Rossi from their conversation.

JJ sighs as she adverts her eyes towards Rossi, her shoulders sagging slightly. “We worked a case in 2004…” She hesitates to elaborate any further about the details, and Spencer takes the opportunity to voice is own curiosity.

“You didn’t solve it?” He tucks his hair behind his ear, eyes glistening slightly as his eyebrows furrowed in JJ’s direction.

It’d been three years since 2004, and the idea that an UnSub could go postal for that long with an FBI target on their back was- something, to say the least.

“No, we did-” Garcia nods her head determinedly, her eyes lingering on the screen as if she was more focused on the images than the conversation.

“So, a copycat then?” Emily adds her part to the conversation, clearly concerned for her friend’s wellbeing.

“Most likely,” JJ nods her head sharply, looking back at the screen once more. “There’s only been one recorded victim so far, but we want to stop whoever is responsible before anything else happens,”

“Are you alright Garcia?” Emily’s eyes remain fixated on Garcia’s face, her usually upbeat persona dwindling into something more solemn.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course my love bug, i’m alright,” Garcia shoots Emily a small smile as if to emphasise her point. “It was the first case I ever worked on is all, they just… stick with you ya know?”

Emily nods softly at her explanation. She knew what it felt like to have your first case stick in the back of your mind.

“Alright settle down everyone,” Hotch’s voice echoed through the conference room before he even stepped inside, and the team all diverted their attention towards him.

“I trust they’ve been briefed?” Hotch looks towards JJ, who gives him a nod before stepping aside so that he can take her place at the head of the table.

Hotch walks into the conference room with someone at his side. Someone who makes Morgan’s hand clench into fists and the small hint of optimism that Garcia had managed to keep fizzle from her eyes.

“You can’t be serious.” Morgan’s voice was stern and challenging as his eyes narrowed in Hotch’s direction. “Hotch-“

Hotch halts Morgan’s attempt at a rebuttal with his hand, raised in Morgan’s direction as he knits his eyebrows into a line. “They will be a valuable asset to the investigation.”

“You can’t bring a psychopath in here and expect us to just go along with it-” Morgan’s argument was interrupted by your voice from where you stood behind Hotch, hands clasped together behind your back.

“Sociopath.”

Morgan’s expression furrows further if that’s possible, eyes staring daggers at your face. “Close enough.”

“Actually, Psychopaths and Sociopaths are fundamentally different, with the only real similarity between the two being an extreme lack of human empathy,” Your eyes flicker towards Spencer as he corrects Morgan’s assessment, raising an eyebrow in his direction out of intrigue.

“Either way, you cannot expect me to be okay with working alongside a serial killer.” Morgan’s eyes don’t stray from Hotch’s as he speaks, not backing down from his standing.

“I don’t expect you to be. But that doesn’t change the fact that they will be joining us for this investigation.” Hotch’s tone marks the end of the debate, one that Morgan knew he’d lost before it even started.

Hotch gestures for you to take a seat at one of the empty chairs and you oblige, leaning the side of your left foot on top of your right thigh and relaxing back into the swivel chair as Morgan’s eyes bore holes into the back of your head.

The fact that you were even here was enough to spark the embers of rage in the back of his mind.

The fact that you were walking around freely with no restraints was even worse.

“For those of you who weren’t present, in 2004, the BAU team was called out to Malibu to investigate a series of murders that littered the city.” Hotch’s eyes flicker over to where Emily, Rossi, and Spencer were sitting.

“Eighteen people were killed over the span of ten days, crossing age, gender, and race boundaries typical of a normal M.O, with the only link being two roses in place of the victim’s eyes.”

Hotch’s eyes turn towards the images on the screen, yours following his own as you examine the photos with a small huff. “Are you sure that is person is copying me and that it’s not just a coincidence?”

“Putting roses in peoples’ eyes isn’t something we see in the field every day,” Hotch’s explanation is blunt and straight forward.

“My roses were white.” You tilt your head at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s a pretty stark difference to just ignore.”

“Maybe he’s trying to make a name for himself,” Spencer throws the idea out into the air at your observation, seemingly undeterred by your criminal history now that his head was submerged in the case.

“Then be original.” You face furrows with a roll of your eyes. “Don’t copy somebody else’s idea, it’s not that hard,”

“That’s enough,” Hotch’s voice cuts through the conversation, his arms crossed over his chest. “We’ll discuss the details on the plane.”

Hotch picks up one of the open files on the table and tucks it under his arm. “Wheels up in thirty, i’ll meet you all there,”

A gesture of his head for you to follow him later, and he’s exiting the conference room with you on his tail.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You walk right past Hotch’s seat as you board the jet, opting to take a seat directly opposite the genius doctor that had managed to capture your attention in the conference room.

He looks up awkwardly as you sit down, not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do. Should he start a conversation with you? Should he continue reading his file and pretend he can’t feel your eyes pouring over his features like you were sizing him up.

He doesn’t have to think for too long.

“What’s your name?” Your tone lacks any social grace, but he supposes he can’t blame you. It’s not like it’s your fault you don’t feel or express your emotions in the same way that the majority does.

“It’s- uh- Spe- Spencer,” His awkwardness really shines through his tone, left hand scratching at his right elbow as a self-soothing strategy.

Two seconds into a conversation and he already wants to dig himself a hole and hide in it for the rest of eternity.

“Spencer Reid- Doctor Spencer Reid,” He purses his lips into a line once he’s settled on his full title, but it doesn’t stop him from blurting out more in his effort to get all of his thoughts out of his head. “Spencer’s fine though…”

“Doctor? Of what?” You skirt past his awkward introduction in your pursuit to know more, and he’s grateful that his completely lack of social skills doesn’t scare you off like it would most people.

“Well- I have PhDs in Mathematics, Engineering, and Chemistry,” Spencer tucks his hair behind his ear, his file falling over the side of his lap into the gap between his leg and the arm of the chair. “But i also have bachelor’s degrees in Sociology and Psychology,”

He shuts himself off after his over-winded explanation with a purse of his lips in your direction.

“I have a bachelor’s degree in Psychology,” Spencer’s eyes practically light up at your words, completely forgetting that you’re a convicted serial killer and instead hyper-fixating on your academic interests.

“Really? Did you do a Bachelor of Arts or Science?” You can almost feel the enthusiasm radiating off of his body as he leans forward in his chair slightly.

“Science,” You tap the side of your head with your finger and Spencer thinks he understands. It’s the same reason he studied psychology himself.

Because he was different.

Because his brain worked in different ways than other people.

He couldn’t even imagine how much more severe it was for somebody like you.

“How do you know so much?” Your tone isn’t chastising. It’s not questioning his knowledge because he’s ’too young’ or ‘doesn’t look like someone who would be an expert’ in niche academic areas. You genuinely just wanted to know.

“Well- I have a 187 IQ and an eidetic memory,” You’re eyes followed his as he explained his intelligence to you, chasing them to ensure the two of you maintained eye contact. “And I have a reading speed of 20,000 words per minute,”

You hum at his answer, seemingly satisfied as you lean back in the jet seat.

The silence between you doesn’t have time to get awkward before Hotch is calling the team’s attention to go over the details of the case thus far.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Spencer spends most of his first night in Los Flores on a laptop.

Garcia almost has an aneurism when he asks her if he could borrow one of hers.

It takes him almost 30 minutes to figure out how to use it, face lit by the harsh white light of the screen and softened slightly by the warm yellow of the lamp on his hotel bed’s side table.

Once he manages to pull up the internet browser he spends the next multiple hours researching. Pouring over every news article and journalist report that he can about the 2004 Malibu case that had you in its centre.

The 2004 ‘Malibu Rose Killer’. One of the most prolific serial killers in California’s history.

Eighteen people dead in just ten days. An extremely rapid escalation that held no victim pattern of any kind.

A spree that only stopped when the police found both of your adoptive parents dead after a welfare check concerning your father not turning up to work. Your two first victims.

You’d told the courts that it was a manic breakdown. A symptom of your previously undiagnosed sociopathy. That you weren’t in your right mind when it happened.

It worked to a degree, swerving you of a death penalty, but the fact that your parents’ crime scene had shown signs of recognition for your actions halted your defence quite a bit.

Instead of slitting their radial artery and leaving them to bleed out, you’d severed their spines from the brain stem whilst they slept.

And instead of piercing their eyeballs with two roses, you’d instead chosen to lay one in between their two bodies instead.

That was enough for the prosecution to say you had at least some knowledge of the severity of your actions, and so instead of being carted off to a psychiatric prison you were left in a regular old high security prison to serve two consecutive life sentences for the murder of your parents with an annual mental assessment.

He assumes that’s why you agreed to be here. To gain a lenience on your sentence.

He didn’t know why he found your story so fascinating, but he knew that he’d only be able to refrain from asking you questions for so long.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Spit it out.” Your words snap Spencer out of his thought-filled dazed, blinking at you as he slowly regains his senses.

“Huh?”

“Spit it out. Whatever you have to say to me.” Your tone, as he’s come to expect over the last few days, is very flat and straight to the point, clearly agitated at his eyes lingering on you for what you’d deemed too long.

You walk around the small table at the Orange County’s Los Flores police station with your arms crossed, confined there for the majority of the case as to not possibly initiate any ‘aggressive urges’ that might spawn from seeing a replica of your past crimes.

Spencer’s left hand absentmindedly scratches at his right elbow at your glare, clearing his throat and averting eye contact with you, both out of embarrassment of his unintentional staring and self-preservation towards your proclivity to get angry without real aggravation. “I- It’s nothing really,”

Your head tilts at him, your eyes telling him enough that your patience was waining and that you would get whatever he was thinking about out of him.

“I uh- did some reading… about your case-” Your expression morphs into an emotion that he can’t quite place at his confession, and he feels an overwhelming pressure to keep explaining himself as well as to just sew his mouth shut so he can’t say anything.

“And?”

“And… um- there was a part about it that didn’t really make sense to me,” He’s thrown himself in the deep end now, any hope of changing the topic of conversation long gone as he watches your eyebrow quirk in curiosity.

“Your parents…” Spencer’s eyes scan your expression intently as he mutters out the words, gauging your reaction to his words before he dares to continue.

“What about them?” You remain indifferent if not mildly compelled by the line of thought running through his head, and he’s internally relieved that he hasn’t pressed any of the wrong buttons in your fragile emotional state.

“Why?” Spencer mirrors the short, straight to the point wording that you seemed to be so fond of, and he can see you blank expression waver slightly at the question, like you weren’t sure how to answer it.

He watches the wrinkle in your brow become more prominent, how your eyes seem to loose focus and flicker around the room, the way you subconsciously shift from one foot to the other.

He’s not entirely surprised by your reaction. Sociopaths were very capable of harbouring emotions like everyone else. Anger, happiness, sadness, love, and even fear. Even if the intensity of them and the way they were expressed was different.

Right now your expression read as confusion mixed with mild apprehension, like you were considering whether or not you wanted to answer his question.

You still didn’t seem angry, which he was grateful for. He might have been a qualified agent, but that was with the exception of him not having to pass a physical examination.

And he really didn’t want to risk having to physically defend himself against someone who managed to kill eighteen people in the span of ten days because he’d accidentally said the wrong thing.

“They didn’t deserve to live with the knowledge of what I was going to do,” You tone is a lot less apathetic as you come to your answer, stopping intravenously to collect your words.

Spencer’s eyebrows furrow at your answer, not quite sure what to make of it.

“My turn,” Your eyes scan Spencer’s facial features, watching how Spencer’s eyebrows raise as you don’t give him time to compute your answer. “Do your higher ups know you’re an addict?”

The question is blunt, clear, and lacks any subtlety whatsoever despite the two of you technically being in a public place, even if you were the only people in the room.

Spencer’s eyes snap towards yours, surprise written all over his face. “You- I- Uh-“ His mouth falls open and closed like a fish as he tries to string a coherent sentence together, blinking at you with wide eyes.

How did you know that?

He falls short of an answer to your question, his eyes questioning you silently.

“Does your team know?”

Spencer shakes his head slowly. “If they do no one’s ever mentioned it..” He doesn’t know why he’s exposing himself to you like this, but theirs something in the look your giving him that tells him that he can’t lie to you.

“What great friends.” Your voice is practically dripping in sarcasm, and Spencer can’t help but subconsciously agree with you.

He’d waited and waited for someone to recognise that something was off with him. That he wasn’t all there.

But instead of it being one of his coworkers, some of which he’d known for years, it was a sociopathic serial killer that he’d known for 37 hours and 16 minutes.

Lucky him.

“They have more important things to worry about,” His hand returns to scratching at his elbow through his shirt, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.

You raise your eyebrow at him, clearly intrigued by the misfortune riddling his life; Almost as if it was a private viewing of a feature film made solely for your entertainment.

“Stop doing that.”

Spencer raises his eyes towards yours once more at your words, wide and glossy and making him look like a pathetic little puppy who’d been told off for tearing up a couch cushion.

You wonder how deep that patheticness goes.

“Don’t scratch. It’s annoying to watch and it’ll make your withdrawals worse.” You depart from the room before he can give you an answer, shutting the door harshly behind you as you spot Hotch in the main foyer of the station.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’m bored.” You swing your legs over the edge of the table you were sat on. You’d spent the last four days confined either to the hotel room you were sharing with Hotch or the small meeting room the OCPD had reserved for the BAU during the case.

You wanted a change of scenery. Desperately. You could only deal with monotony for so long.

At least back in your cell you activities you could engage in.

Instead you were just stuck as a fact checker for the details of each victim.

Five people had died now. Following your victim pattern to a T.

The first a young white man. The second a middle aged white woman. The third a male black college student. The fourth and fifth a young gay couple.

It agitated you. What happened to originality? Get your own random victims.

“You can accompany Morgan and I to the coroner’s office,” Spencer offered you a pursed smile at his suggestion, partly because he knew you’d be able to see more differences between the originals and recreations in person than through photos and partly because he wanted to crack you open.

He wanted to know everything about you. He wanted to know what made you tick. How you rationalised your crimes. How your sociopathy developed.

He was in deep. And his brain wanted answers.

“Absolutely not.” Morgan shot down the idea immediately with a stern shake of his head. “There is no way in hell we are bringing them with us,”

“They might catch something that we won’t be able to,” Spencer’s rationalisation wasn’t exactly wrong. Even in copy cat murders the offender always left a piece of themself behind. Something of their own personality rather than the killer they were trying to replicate.

It could be so tiny that no one would recognise it. Apart from the original offender of course.

“They might catch the bright idea to try and attack somebody.”

“Oh please-“ You roll your eyes at Morgan. “If I was going to have another mental break at seeing a recreation of my past endeavours I would have had it already,”

Morgan narrows your eyes at you calling your murder spree your ‘past endeavours’. You hadn’t published a book or painted some mural. You’d killed eighteen people.

“Reid’s right,”

He doesn’t have time to get angry at you.

“Hotch-“ Morgan looks completely betrayed.

“There’s only so much they can do to help us from here. We want to stop this before anyone else gets hurt.” Hotch’s tone is stern, leaving no room for argument.

“And if they do spiral out of control,” Hotch’s eyes flicker between Morgan and yourself. “I trust you’ll be able to take care of it.”

Morgan mutters something under his breath about ‘stupid hierarchies’ and how much he hated your guts as he left the meeting room with a huff, although more composed than you thought he’d be.

“Are you ready to leave?” Spencer’s question snaps you out of your revelling over Morgan’s distaste for you, although your small smile of satisfaction doesn’t falter as your eyes meet Spencer’s.

“Let’s go Doctor. I’m ready to get out of this beige abomination.”

You push yourself off the table and leave out of the same door that Morgan had, Spencer following closely behind you.

He was oddly grateful about your decency to respect his title, and it only made him want to read you like a book even more.

- part two !!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Judd Legum at Popular Information:

A Texas county has mandated public libraries move a well-regarded children's book documenting the mistreatment of Native Americans in New England — Colonization and the Wampanoag Story — from the "non-fiction" section to "fiction." The decision was made after the government of Montgomery County, under pressure from right-wing activists, removed librarians from the process of reviewing children's books and replaced them with a "Citizens Review Committee." Colonization and the Wampanoag Story was "challenged" by an unknown person on September 10, 2024. The Committee responded by ordering that the book be moved to the fiction section of public libraries in Montgomery County by October 17, 2024, according to public records obtained by the Texas Freedom To Read Project shared with Popular Information.  The author of Colonization and the Wampanoag Story is Linda Coombs, a "historian from the Wampanoag Tribe." Coombs spent three decades working at the Wampanoag Indigenous Program, an initiative to preserve the history of the Wampanoag people. The book is published by Penguin Random House, which describes the book as "[t]he true story of the Indigenous Nations of the American Northeast, including the Wampanoag nation and others, and their history up to present day."

[...] The change to the book review process was driven by a local right-wing group, Two Moms and Some Books. The group is led by Michele Nuckolls, a local mother. Nuckolls believes "children’s books with alternate gender ideology to be moved to the adult section." The group also is demanding more "conservative and Christian’s [sic] books in the public library." The group is especially enthusiastic about titles from Brave Books, which publishes children's books from far-right authors like Congressman Dan Crenshaw (R-TX), Donald Trump's former press secretary Sean Spicer, and Trump’s former national security adviser Michael Flynn. In case there is any confusion about the objectives of the group, its slogan is "Make Libraries Great Again!" 

[...] Under the new policy, once a children's book is challenged, it must immediately be moved to the adult section, with only adults allowed to access it. The book is then considered by the Citizens Review Committee at a meeting that is "closed to the public except for the Resident who made a formal request for review." The decisions of the Citizen's Review Committee are final, and there is no appeals process.  From the outset, critics of the new policy warned that it could be abused. 

Another disturbing instance of the right-wing book-banning crusade against content featuring diverse voices has occurred, this time in Montgomery County, Texas, directly north of Houston. The book in question was Colonization and the Wampanoag Story, which was moved from “non-fiction” to “fiction”

[semperamans]

benny is back home n'he's missed you so much he may just have to fuck you over it!!!

warnings!!!!

benny is toxic! unprotected sex! benny is toxic! i didn't proof read it!!!! so there are probably so many mistakes!!!! n' this is LONG, so read at your own risk <3

despite its stillness, there is something deafening about the july air. there's nothing more to hear than night bird song as it falls over the slumbering city. gone are the rumbling engines on i-90 n'the chatter of women parading down the sidewalks. there are no babies gigglin', no ice cream trucks wailing, no sirens squwakin'. there's nothin' stirrin' in this humid night besides the rapid beat of your heart because, well, you shouldn't be here. you know that jus' as well as i do. you should be at home, sprawled beneath the ceiling fan, eyes closed, blissfully disconnected from the world, n'you're a good girl, so i'm sure that's what you would be doing had the shrill urgency of benny's call not woken you.

"hi baby," is what he breathed over the line, and despite the distance you could smell the jack daniels on his breath. "m'home." he had been home for a few days now. johnny had called you n'made you aware the second benny's wheels crossed the county line. and then you waited. and waited. and waited. and were your feelings hurt when benny didn't call? absolutely. by day three you were going insane. like mosquito-bitten legs, it was painfully hard to ignore the absence of his voice through the receiver. every purring engine had your head whipping 'round. every blonde head had your heart hammering, but it was never the right engine. never the right head. never benny. johnny'd tried to get you to come down to the clubhouse, but you didn't wanna look desperate (even though you were). it was just so hard to think about. all you could see in your mind's eye was benny splayed across a bar stool, lap empty, hand wrapped around a whiskey glass when it should've been around your throat.

"m'missin' you so much." you wouldn't have assumed he missed you much at all with how radio silent he'd been since leavin' over a month ago. your girls told you that if benny really cared he would make more of an effort - wouldn't run off whenever things other than his dick got hard - an' yeah, you knew this was likely true, but he was enigmatic and enticing and everything.

"wan' you to come see me."

you should've hung up the phone right then, but you didn't. and you definitely shouldn't've pulled a sleep shirt over your nightgown n'sneakers on your bare feet, but you did. now here you stand - peerin' up at benny's front door - tryin' to tell yourself it's all right. nothin' to be nervous over. but you were nervous, so you counted the steppin' stones - 14 - and then there he was.

he looked good, there was simply no denying it. when it was particularly hot, benny wore nothing beneath his colors n'tonight you could see his bare chest glistening with sweat from the glow of the porch light. moths and june bugs spun themselves dizzy 'round him, but he didn't flinch. his sights were set, smile wan and excited and focused on you.

"c'mere." benny's voice had a medicinal quality about it - you figured that out some time ago. his voice was a salve on sunburned skin. it was a cool mid-day rainstorm. it was enough to have your eyes flicking upward, your body moving forward, your mouth forming the shape of his name. "look at you," he practically purred. he seemed more coherent, which was great. you didn't like fuckin' benny when he was drunk - always fearin' it never meant the same as when he pressed himself into you sober. he held you at arms length, eyes traipsing the familiar paths his fingers and tongue had mapped repeatedly. "y'know, i could travel from here to fuckin' the ends of the universe n'never find a girl s'pretty as you."

"s'that what you're lookin' for when you leave?" the words escape your mouth before your brain can register the impact they will have, but benny doesn't seem all that deterred. he just shakes his head; half-hearted guilt tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lets ya go n'invites you inside. benny would never apologize for leavin'. that just wasn't his forte, but he'd make up for it. he always did.

the interior of benny's place is nicer than you'd expect n'it's all because johnny outright fuckin' refused to step foot in the place when benny'd first moved in. it was terrible, but now the trailer actually looks decent. s'not much: a small livin' space with a couch, a tiny kitchen, an even smaller bathroom, and a bedroom big enough for a few pieces of furniture, but it smells like benny: like motor oil and sandalwood and smoke and body wash and you wish they sold the scent in department stores because you'd buy up every bottle. it's the aroma you miss terribly when he runs. it's the scent you wish lasted just a bit longer on your bedsheets. it's now overwhelming as benny plods over, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. hands unoccupied, he has nothing better to do with them than wrap 'em 'round your waist, tuggin' you into his slick embrace. his chin fits so nicely atop your head n'he's always told you that you were meant to be. "fuck soulmates. i think god s'got a big ass puzzle n'he just, tears it up. throws the pieces here n'there. but me'n'you, baby? we're always gonna fit together. m'always gonna find you." he wouldn't need to find you if he didn't run but when you're pressed so snugly together like you are now - well - he could say anything and you'd agree.

"look at me, darlin'. wanna see those eyes again. missed 'em so much." n'when you do look at him, you wish you hadn't. he looks better (somehow) than the last time you saw him: skin so clear, eyes so bright, smile taken from a fuckin' toothpaste commercial. it's unfair how good god made such a bad boy look. "there's my girl." and damn if his voice doesn't sound even better.

a half-hearted hum rolls from the back of your throat. you want nothing more than to be his girl, but he'd never really allow that. never really allow you to get close enough and the hurt must register on your face because benny's takin' your cheeks between his palms, eyebrows furrowing.

"what's goin' on, baby?"

baby. the word sounds so good rolling off his tongue. you wanna be his baby more than anything, but you say "nothin'" cuz that's all this will ever be.

"doesn't seem like nothin'. tell me." you think about it. could you, rather, should you tell him? the words are there, right there. right on the tip of your tongue; i miss you. i've missed you. i so badly wanted to see you. i want to be more than the girl you call when you want to fuck. the words are so hot you want to spit them out, but you can't say those things n'likely will never be able to. the words are toxic. poison. those words would assassinate this arrangement n'as much as it hurts, you know deep down you'd rather have pieces of benny than none at all so instead of speaking you rise on your tip toes and press your lips against his.

kissing benny is something you could never tire of. it's the delicate bite of his perfect teeth on your pillowy lip that has you opening your mouth - inviting him in - begging him to take. it's the taste of mint and cigarettes and liquor that lingers on your tongue that makes you long for more. but benny pulls away first - always does - n'that's when you notice the wrinkle in his brow is gone because he is no longer concerned about what's racketing around your brain. no. he's had a sample, and now he wants the whole thing.

"c'mere." it's an impossible command. you're already so close - any closer and you would - benny dips slightly, circling your thighs with his arms, pushin' you atop the high-backed couch where you wobble and clutch onto him which makes him smile but then everything changes because "want another kiss. missed that mouth so much." and you collide in a spit-soaked show of affection sure to bruise the flesh now scraping so deliciously against his beard.

this is familiar to benny. he knows where to touch you. knows how to caress your skin as he peels the shirt from your flushed torso and pushes the thin straps of your nightgown down. you're soft. he's always loved that about you. your voice. your hair. your skin. so supple. and there are times benny's gotta stop himself. he's gotta repress that primal urge to take, to claim, to mark but it's hard so hard because you are so soft. his agile fingers float down your neck, relishing in the plume of perfume that billows out as your body contorts closer and closer and closer. you're so responsive: gasping in the right places, arching into his hands so perfectly. your dainty inhales fuel him. he wants to do more. wants to hear more.

"you're gonna let me fuck you right here, aren't ya?" benny asks, pulling back to gauge your reaction. "missed me so much you're gonna let me fuck you on this couch, eh?"

"you're the one who called me." you say, smile wide and knowing as you feel benny's cock twitch. his eyes turn molten lapis. he had called you. he had missed you. but he wouldn't say it. couldn't.

"awfully mouthy," he clucks, pressing his mouth into yours for another taste. "why don't y'use it for somethin' else?"

before you, benny'd never been a fan of oral sex. i mean, he'd come around to enjoyin' it thanks to johnny but, it wasn't high on his list 'til you started suckin' him off any and every chance you got. for a mouth belonging to such a precious gal, he never would have expected the sinful things you could make him feel. n'now, knelt before him, he can barely fight the urge to shove his dick in your mouth.

"s'pretty. always so pretty." you hum. you got him out of his jeans in record time and thank god because it's probably a million degrees in the goddamn trailer. now he's free; cock out, dripping precum and he can see the pride puffin' up your chest. no other girl could get 'em like this - could rile him up 'til his cock was thick and heavy and veiny and hot to the touch - no one but you n'at the first whisper of your fingers, his head rolls back. his precum is good lubrication, but you need more. could always use more, so up you come, crossing your cute little feet under your bum, and then - fuck - you lean forward and spit on his heated skin. yeah, benny thinks he may cum from that alone.

"touch me, doll. c'mon."

"shh," your fingers form a loose circle 'round the base of his cock. "i've got you."

"jesus christ," its the feel of your lips on his thighs and your fingers on his dick that makes him squeeze his eyes shut. he's got one fist balled at his side, the other tucks its way into your hair because he's gotta do something. anything.

"y've still got your christmas tree up, so, y'know, could be insensitive what with the holidays n'all. chirstimas in july." and despite the fact that you've got his pulsing length so wet and hard in your hand - benny fucking laughs.

"you're so -" but whatever adjective he had planned to use flies from his mind the moment your mouth covers him. all he can think about now is not cumming. you don't need to know that he hasn't fucked another woman since the last time he was balls deep in you. you don't need to know that he hasn't jerked off in god knows how long in preparation for this night. the only thing that you need to know is that he fuckin' loves this. he just lets you work. just relishes in the feeling of having you there. of having your mouth on him. it's so heavenly. cavernous yet tight. wet and warm and "fuck - oh fuck - stop."

and you do with no hesitation. you pull away so quickly that strands of saliva trickle down onto your tits. okay. maybe not jerking off wasn't the best idea, benny determines.

"did i do something wrong?" your voice is husky, eyes wide and slightly frightened and benny thinks he may love you.

"no." he shakes his head, grabs your arms, pulls you up. "no. fuck - i wanna fuck you." he brushes his palm across your cheek, wiping the spit and precum away. "want to fuck you right here. on the couch. c'mon," he maneuvers you around, makin' it to where his bare ass is on the couch and you're hoverin' above him, smiling so cutely at him he's sure he's gonna explode. you're so fucking cute that it nearly suffocates him.

"gimmie another kiss." he breathes, cupping your cheek once more. your lips meet in a cacophony of sighs. relief slackens your shoulders and now anticipation builds because you know what's coming.

"benny,"

"mm?"

"unless you have rubbers tucked in the cushions," you have to fight through his kisses. "you can't fuck me here."

the words marinate. the ceiling fan bats them around like a cat does to yarn and then benny finally responds.

"let me fuck you raw."

there are a hundred good reasons why it's a horrible idea, but you can't conjure a single fucking one as your head bobs in agreement.

"yeah?" perhaps christmas miracles are still valid in july because holy shit. "yeah?"

"please."

"come 'ere then."

you're obedient. benny loves that about you. seconds later you're spreading your legs, shimmering with sweat as you fight to maintain your balance n'you look so hungry - so eager to please - so pretty n'he can feel your wetness seeping onto his bare thigh as you pepper tender kisses along his chest. you want this. you want it just as badly as he does. he can tell. those preening noises comin' from the back of your throat and the bite of your nails into his shoulder are the only things grounding him to this moment. he feels so light - like he could fuckin' float if you weren't sat atop him - but there is work to do. a certain set of things that need to be done before he can spear you on his cock.

"gonna stretch you open first," he tells you, pushing your hip back but you don't budge. your head shakes, lower lip juts out. no.

"i wanna feel it." you say, voice almost a whine. you're tired of waiting. tired of playing this game so you propel yourself onto your feet, nearly toppling as the cushion gives under your weight, but you've got this. you sweet capable being. "wanna feel you now." your right hand circles his cock. "just want you to be in me benny. jus' you." it's a confession spoken like gospel. n'with your help, his gushing head probes your wetness and benny's thoughts spiral recklessly. "ready?"

it's cute. the way you ask him. the way your pretty little head cocks to the side. it's even cuter the way your pussy so greedily takes his cock once benny gives you an answer. yes. a singular nod. then everything is hot. he's too close to the sun, but the burn is delicious.

every bump. every vein. every groove on his cock awakens something within you. your eyes are closed so tightly - you may rupture a vessel - but you don't care. you're full. so full n'he's only halfway in. it's never felt like this before. you're in uncharted territory so the first roll of your hips is exploratory. the second is more confident. the third is a plunge and benny is drowning.

"god. fuck." words to form coherent sentences have long since vanished from benny's vocabulary. and you? usually so deft with language, you're somewhat embarrassed at the foolishness of your grunts, but benny loves it. he watches you move from squinted eyes. you're fascinating; body shifting with ease up and down up and down up and down. the muscles in your stomach tighten and wan as his cock disappears deep in your cunt only to reappear seconds later dripping and glistening with remnants of your wet. it's hypnotic n'benny thinks you're magic and sweet and good but dirty - oh so dirty. his balls and heart squeeze simultaneously n'it only gets worse when you toss your arms around his neck. benny can feel your cool breath on his throat - it adheres to the damp indications you lips left behind - and your tits, god your tits press against the material of his colors and rub and rub and rub. it's intimate. it's too much. too long like this and benny knows he'll be spillin' his secrets and his seed and that's not how he wants this to go, not yet anyway.

the change in position catches you by surprise, he can see it on your face. those puffy lips part in confusion, but he silences your questions with a shattering kiss. your teeth gnash and spit slips down your chin as he bites your inhibitions away. he's got you beneath him now. missionary. his favorite because he just likes lookin' at you. likes being close, so close. he's in his element; forehead pressed against yours, mouth open, grunting obscenities as he pushes harder and harder and harder into your sobbing pussy. you're slowly disintegrating. the way your ankles lock around his spine perfectly aligns your clit with his pelvic bone and my god nothing has ever felt quite so good.

"benny," your voice is a dark whisper that grows brighter brighter brighter as he thrusts into oblivion. you want more. want it harder. and benny is happy to oblige. the sound of his nuts slapping against your soaked center reminds him of a fuckin' metronome. your pitiful little moans could put pornstars to shame.

"you're so fuckin' tight." and it's true. he's said it to other girls before out of courtesy, but he means it with you. "when i cum you're gonna take every drop, mm?" benny's ability to say such delivish things so close to your face drives you insane. it's as though he's tellin' you what the weather is gonna be tomorrow, or sayin' his favorite color. "s'my favorite pussy to fuck. no one feels like you." he should stop, but he can't. it's too good. you're so good. "only girl i wanna fill. only girl i wanna give my cum to."

if pride were a flower you'd be a fuckin' garden. confidence flourishes like ivy as he keeps. going. it's in this moment you know it's worth it. the hours waiting for him. the lonely nights. it's all worth it. benny is worth it.

"are y'gonna cum in me?" at the sound of your voice, benny's forehead crashes down on yours. his eyelashes are so long they kiss the tops of his round cheeks.

"fuck - yeah."

"yeah?" you angle your pelvis, gasping at the new sensation. n'benny knows what to do. knows how to send you over. snaking a hand down, his index finger rubs circles around your clit, dipping down, pullin' your shared juices up. you're not gonna last much longer n'as much as he wishes he could keep you here forever his fucking nuts are so tight. he's so close.

"fuck - baby. shit."

"do it deep. wanna have you leakin' out of me for days. want somethin' to remember you by." you've never spoken like this before - his sweet darling - where did this mouth come from? one hand squeezes your jaw. something to remember him by? he'll give you something. he pushes your head to the side, latching his teeth into the side of your neck. the rough yet delicate suck and soothing stroke of his tongue add another element to the amalgamation of pleasure, and now you feel like you're drowning.

"m'gonna cum." benny’s choked voice rasps in your ear.

"cum in me."

"fuck im gonna cum in you."

he couldn't pull out even if he wanted to. there's no willpower strong enough to allow him to extract his cock from your pussy. he's sure of it.

"need you to cum with me." his index finger circles around and around and around. "gotta cum when i tell you. yeah? gonna be a good girl n'listen to daddy?" your toes fuckin' curl, digging into the cushion. "use your words." he doesn't know - doesn't care - that your words have magically turned into alphabet soup; there are letters and sounds but no coherence, but it's no excuse. benny, devilishly, begins to slow. "use. your. words." each syllable is punctuated with a sharp thrust n'the head of his cock is wedging so deliciously against your spongy center that you nearly cum, but you don't. you're good. so good.

"m'gonna listen." you wail. "gonna be good." your reward is a kiss and the continuation of benny's deliriously fast pace.

"knew you would." it becomes hard to speak with you squeezing round him like that. his pleasure is melting into an unidentifiable mass. he knows nothing of isolation. his body no longer belongs to him. he can't tell where you start and he ends but he knows where you will finish. "gonna need you to cum, pretty baby." he's unable to do much more than whisper. "ready?" you nod. "ready?"

"please."

"now."

you couldn't hold back even if you tried. the first spurt of benny's cum is so warm you make a surprised little gasp. he's so deep, pumping his load so deep that the lower part of your abdomen has stretched in accommodation. your bodies flounder together; fingers pressing, lips melting, legs tangling. benny thrusts once, twice, three times more before he's spent. his body begins to still - his weight slowly pressing upon you before collapsing. your thundering heart could lull him to sleep if he'd allow it, but he can't allow it because unlike with other women; the lustful haze refuses to dissipate. post-nut clarity doesn't exist when the woman you fucked looks and feels the way you do and it scares benny so much that he collects you in his arms n'moves you off of him.

"i'll bring you somethin' to wipe off with." he doesn't look at you as he rises. instead he chooses to focus on how his legs don't feel like his legs. how the hot water won't warm up n'he can't give you a cold rag. his disappointment grows when he returns to find you already shrugging back into your nightgown. the pair of you tend to yourselves. you wipe benny's cum off your thighs and toss the rag into the dirty clothes pile on the floor. you try not to linger. you know it only makes things harder, but benny's gazin' at you with those eyes. he's fixin' your necklace and opening the door for you.

"gimmie a hug?" his bravado is gone. his voice is quiet, his arms are welcoming. you fool yourself into thinking he's gonna miss you too. you've got his cum dripping down your leg and he's got your heart in his hands but nothing has changed. things would never change. n'you wanna stay here - wanna stay with him for eternity - but if history repeats itself you will only have another minute in his embrace. he who holds your pieces together is the one responsible for their fractured state n'maybe you're a masochist. maybe you're in love with the wrong person. maybe none of it is supposed to make sense anyway.

when you part, you want to cry. benny kisses you. it's soft, a delicate kiss you wanna bottle and keep forever next to his scent. you worry that one day you will unknowingly have a last kiss with benny, but for now you allow yourself this moment. he won't promise to call n'you won't say goodbye. you'll just slip out into the night - probably call johnny usin' the payphone down the street and spend the rest of the night sobbin' into his neck.

but it's worth it. somehow even after it all, benny cross is still worth it.

[alchemistc]

fascination with your presentation | bucktommy 1/1

read on ao3

Tommy likes to touch things. It's just a random quirk of his that Eddie's noticed - a hand sliding along the back of the couch as he follows Eddie into the kitchen to grab a beer, fingers balancing along the table as he leans, elbow pressing into the frame of the doorway like he's gauging the space between walls.

He's tactile - a smack to the space between his shoulders, fist bumps and high fives and teasing hair ruffles when he's got Eddie pinned in the middle of a spar and they both know Eddie isn't getting out of it.

It's nice. There aren't a lot of men, especially with their background, in their line of work, who are remotely comfortable expressing affection like that.

He's a fan.

Christopher is less so, when Tommy lays a big hand to the crown of his head and goes for a noogie. He huffs, rolls his eyes, rolls his head forward and away from the touch, makes some noise about a call he's supposed to make later that night and how he doesn't want his hair messed up for it, and Tommy holds his hands up in apology, fighting a grin as Chris smooths his hair back down.

Eddie's used to it already, so it takes him a second to really notice Tommy rounding the edge of the table to flick through papers and pictures and receipts tacked to the fridge as he digs through one of his drawers in search of the bottle opener he knows he has stashed in here somewhere. Eddie's more of a twist cap beer guy, but Tommy's oddly flavored fancy bottles always need an opener.

"Here," Tommy says, and Eddie turns just in time to catch the keys Tommy slings at him.

"I don't like your truck that much," Eddie tells him, which is a lie.

Tommy tips his head forward to indicate the keys. "Bottle opener, Diaz."

Which makes sense. He should get one for himself, actually. It's a little shocking neither one of them carries a utility knife on them. The preparedness rules maybe didn't stick after discharge as well as they could have

Tommy's gaze drifts, and Eddie watches his head tilt, ring and middle finger reaching up to tap at one of the pictures on the fridge. Chris and Buck, a few years back, some trip to the museum during either Buck or Chris' dinosaur phase. Buck's holding a giant stuffed pteranodon ("Pterodactyls were smaller and had cone-shaped teeth and backward-projecting crests, actually, and this isn't technically the most accurate depiction anyway, it's generally accepted they probably had feathers, now." -- So, definitely Buck's phase, now that he's remembering.) and Chris has a specific brand of smile across his face that Eddie has quietly dubbed his Buck-smile. Something around the edges of his eyes that's always just a little brighter for Buck.

"Cute picture," Tommy says, and Chris's eyes draw to it as Tommy taps his knuckles once-twice to it before dropping his hand to his side.

It's not the first time someone in this circle of three has brought up Buck.

The first night Tommy'd been here, camped out on the couch watching a game, Chris had had a million questions, and Buck had come up pretty naturally over the course of them comparing disasters they'd been a part of, or worked.

Chris had brought up the tsunami, which had led to a back and forth where they discovered Tommy had likely flown right over them at least once during that disaster of a day, and then it had evolved into Chris memorializing all of Buck's greatest (most traumatizing) hits - pinned under a fire engine, climbing a crane tower in the middle of a county wide panic about a shooter targeting firefighters (he doesn't bring up Eddie being shot, which - maybe they should revisit that at some point, make sure Chris isn't burying that), Buck getting struck by lightning, Buck taking charge in the bridge collapse.

And obviously, if Chris was gonna debate Star Wars, he was gonna bring up Buck's involved opinions on Machete order and OG vs Prequels vs the Somehow Palpatine Returned era, and be delighted that Tommy's opinion differed from Buck's, because that made Chris the victor in that ongoing battle.

Buck is a big part of Chris and Eddie's lives, so he's gonna be dropped into conversation. Nothing strange about that.

Tommy always calls him Evan, which is a big old dose of whiplash every time, and he can't think why he does that, because despite Buck introducing himself (weirdly) as Buh-Evan Buckley, they've seen each other since, and no one else Tommy talks to calls him Evan, so he doesn't know why Buck hasn't corrected him.

Chris' mouth does something strange as Tommy keeps looking at the picture, his expression going a little curious in a way Eddie can't quite parse, and then he's grinning. There's no reason to be suspicious, except for the way he actually puts down his phone to engage with Tommy as Eddie passes a beer off.

"Yeah, Buck always takes me to exhibits every time there's a new one. He's cool like that."

Tommy hums around his first sip, expression placid, posture relaxed. "Maybe I could take you to the next one."

Christopher's eyes narrow.

Eddie's lost.

"Uh, not without Buck. Carla took me once without him and he pretended to be fine about it for weeks until I asked him to take me again. He was not happy we went without him. But you could come with us."

Tommy tap-tap-taps his finger against the rim of his bottle, unfazed by the slightly territorial way Chris had phrased it. Eddie's fazed. Eddie is not sure there's not a second layer to this conversation he's missing. "I'll look it up. Jot it down in my day book."

Christopher is too young to have a clue what that means, but he doesn't seem to be quite done with whatever the hell it is he's got going on right now. "Good," he says. "Buck's single right now, so he's got a lot of extra time for stuff."

Tommy's gaze flits to Christopher's, and Eddie doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on, but it's a weighted look for half a second before Chris' gaze turns back to his phone.

"You have his number, right? Maybe you should call him and figure out a day we can all go."

Something happens around the corners of Tommy's mouth that he hides by tipping the bottle mouth against his lips again. "Yeah. I've got his number."

For a second Eddie wonders why, before he remembers catching Buck down at Harbor before the fight. When had Buck gotten his number?

"Cool," says Chris, eyes already glued back to his phone. "We usually get lunch first. Buck really likes pizza."

"Everyone likes pizza," Tommy says, eyes glimmering with mirth that Eddie absolutely does not know the source of.

"Yeah, but Buck's picky about it. He says there's a perfect pizza to crust ratio that most places don't get right. Also he likes it when they have a stone oven, and the little pizza risers."

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth. And - why is Eddie watching this interaction so carefully? It's not like he's worried Tommy's gonna say something weird to his kid, even if his kid is being weird.

"I'm gonna go throw the game on. You hungry?"

Tommy's eyes shift to meet his, and Eddie feels that same frisson of excitement he gets sometimes when Buck is paying close attention to him. "I could eat. Not pizza though. There's nowhere around here with a good stone oven."

"Dad likes pineapple on his pizza, his pizza opinions suck."

Eddie tosses his hands up. This is an old argument, one created entirely by Buck because Chris hadn't minded a good Canadian pizza before Buck declared war on them. "Pizza's just pizza. I was thinking Chinese, anyway."

"Can we get those spring rolls Buck always gets?"

Tommy's gaze slips to the fridge one more time, eyes drifting across the picture he'd pointed out earlier, before he unclips the menu for the Chinese place down the street from its spot half-covering the calendar to hand it off to Eddie. He spots the circle around their plans for Thursday and reaches out to touch the date.

"You invite anyone else for Thursday?"

Eddie rolls his top lip over his bottom one. "Buck hates basketball, turns me down every time I ask. I might ask Chim, though, he and his brother always liked to play."

Literally nothing in Tommy's expression changes, but Eddie feels like he's reacting to something in that sentence anyway. He's trying to figure out how to cut the weird tension in the room when Christopher starts listing off his order, and he's so distracted by trying to get a list prepared to call that he misses two thirds of Chris and Tommy's continued conversation, which is somehow, for some reason, still about Buck. Geez, is Chris pissed that Eddie's got a new friend? He should invite Buck next time he makes plans to hang out at home with Tommy.

----

"It was a date," Buck tells him, a week and a half later, while Eddie's staring at his phone like looking hard enough might make it, and his relationship with Marisol, maybe disappear. Just for a little while, while he squares things up with God.

Eddie tosses his phone, turns to look at Buck in the second before it computes, manages to pull back just enough so that it's not a full, ridiculous double take.

"When you and Marisol ran into me and Tommy, we were on a date."

"Really?" Buck usually tells him the second he's interested in someone, because for some reason he thinks Eddie has any idea how to have a loving, lasting relationship, even though Eddie's been lobbing live grenades straight at love since he was fourteen. He hadn't said a word to Eddie about -

Well.

Well actually --

Well shit.

Oh, he's definitely giving Tommy and Christopher both shit about this later.

"Wait, Tommy's gay?"

A whole host of things are suddenly lining up -- Buck at Harbor the afternoon before the fight, and Buck asking half a million questions after the fight, and Buck and Tommy both picking at the thread of Christopher's praises for the other, and -- Buck had been jealous. Buck had been jealous of Eddie spending time with Tommy. Buck had shoulder checked him to the court and sprained his ankle because he liked the guy enough to lose his head about it.

Oh, he's gonna hold this over all of their heads for sure.

Which for the moment is apparently not that great an idea because Tommy'd pressed pause after one date, which is fast even for Buck. He tells him so.

"When we ran into you guys I kinda made an idiot of myself and he said he doesn't think I'm ready." Buck looks -- sad. Disappointed. Nervous, hands rubbing at his thighs like he's soothing himself. It's a fair point, on Tommy's part, even if he doesn't know all the details.

(Something about hot chicks pings in the back of his mind, but he shelves it for later.)

Buck's never really hinted at romantic inclinations in that direction, although some of his comments about good looking guys are making a little more sense, in retrospect.

"What do you think?" Eddie's pretty sure he knows the answer to this question, but he asks anyway, because Buck likes to work these things out. He likes to talk about them. Eddie imagines not being able to articulate exactly what he was feeling without wondering if his friends would think it was weird probably (definitely) contributed to his wildly dramatic behavior the last few weeks.

Geez, Tia Pepa would be eating this telenovela shit up.

"I kinda can't stop thinking about him," Buck tells him, and it's a voice Eddie's not entirely sure he's ever heard from Buck before -- at least when he's talking about someone he's into. Buck's always got a checklist and a trillion rationalizations. Now he just sounds... smitten.

And Tommy is too, Eddie thinks. He is absolutely gonna call him out for pumping his kid for information. Maybe accuse him of only befriending him to get to Buck -- see if he can make the unflappable Tommy Kinard flap, a little.

"You should call him," Eddie tells him, already imagining double dates with a partner of Buck's he doesn't hope will spontaneously combust in the middle of dinner. Maybe between Tommy, Chris and Eddie they can finally convince Buck to go to one of the car shows he's always rolling his eyes at. Maybe Tommy and his terribly hidden romantic side can actually match Buck's crazy.

Eddie hugs Buck on his way out the door and feels the tension drain from his shoulders.

Maybe touched starved Buck will get to enjoy that little tactile quirk of Tommy's, too.

[estraeiea]

late night | 01

Quick Note: Incredibly short but sweet! Pairing: Noah Sebastian x Reader Summary: Noah makes a sudden confession.

"I think I love you," Noah says, and you immediately look up at him.

It's three a.m. and the childish glee from a night out at the county fair is beginning to fizzle out, you can feel your eyelids getting heavier and your limbs ache for some rest, but Noah's sudden confession has left you wide-eyed and shocked. He doesn't meet your eyes, but he looks to the side then shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and shrugs.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, it’s too loud and too clear for your liking, and when Noah's eyes meet yours by pure accident, you get to see his face clearly under the shitty light of your front door. He's quick to look down, but not before you note the blush spreading through his cheeks and adorning his ears. I think I love you, echoes in your head.

"You think?" you ask, and it comes off as a whisper.

Noah shrugs again, and you can see how badly he's trying to act cool and aloof, as if this isn't a monumental moment in your relationship. But you can tell his breathing is uneven and his shoulders look tense. Something is off with his posture, you notice, it appears as if he's trying to make himself smaller.

You have never seen him like this, so unsure, so shy, so fearful.

Good, you think.

"Well," you say, "I know I love you."

And you reach out for the collar of his jacket and forcefully pull him down to your height and press a kiss to his warm cheek. He doesn't fight back, he doesn't protest against you yanking him down, instead, Noah turns his head to you and presses his lips against yours.

"I love you," he admits, and you laugh.

[hayleythesugarbowl]

spencer agnew!

him and his partner are long distance and he surpises them and shows up

Birthday Wishes || Spencer Agnew x reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist • smosh masterlist  ⋆˚｡⋆୨୧⋆

summary: you and spencer have been long distance for some time now, and he decides he wants to do something special and surprise you for your birthday

word count: 3.2k

warnings: mild language

a/n: ahh i’m so sorry this took me so long to get to but i hope you enjoy it!! i love writing for spencer sm 🎀🫶 also it’s still the 19th where i live so happy bday courtney!! 🎉

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Do you think green is my color?”

     “Hello to you too, Spencer,” you spoke into the phone you balanced on your shoulder as you tied your hair up in a towel. 

     “Hey, small talk can wait. This is a fashion emergency,” Spencer’s voice filled your ear as you wrapped another towel around your body, fiddling with the edges to keep it in place.

     “Alright,” you said, “That’s enough Project Runway for you.”

     “It’s a good show!” 

     You giggled, shifting Spencer to your other ear.

     “So,” he continued, “What are you doing right now?”

     “Right now? Well, I just took a shower and now I’m talking to you,” you told him.

     “I don’t want to be one of those guys, but, damn without me?”

     “I’m hanging up,” you giggled. “And like you’d fly hundreds of miles just to shower with me.”

     “You’d be surprised,” his voice took on a teasing tone, “I do have those frequent flier miles just waiting to be used.”

     You and Spencer had been long distance for about two months now. You’d agreed to stay together even though you were going to be moving across the country. 

     You’d met your boyfriend at work about nine months ago. You’d both been working at Smosh when you began dating and it all took off from there.

     First dates, anniversaries, you getting a job opportunity in New York, and now this. Talking to Spencer on the phone no less than three times a day.

     It had killed you to leave him. But you’d agreed that this was the best option for both of you. Spencer was almost more invested in your career than you were and you really appreciated him for being so willing to make things work for you. 

     Now, you set your phone down on the counter and pressed speaker phone as you    began to moisturize.

     “Don’t you have something better to use those on than one shower?”

     “Hey, don’t think this is all about you,” Spencer said. “Your shower has jets. Who wouldn’t fly across the county to use that thing.”

     You laughed, rolling your eyes playfully even though Spencer couldn’t actually see you.

     “Plus,” he continued, his voice becoming more serious, “I’d get to kiss you.”

     And there it was. The one thing you couldn’t do while you and Spencer were miles and miles apart.

     No more forehead kisses after a long day at work. No more long embraces that smelled like him. No touching at all.

     God, you missed him so much. There was only so much that technology could do.   

     You sank down on to the counter, letting your elbows prop you up. 

     “(Y/n), you still there? You’re not watching Runway without me, are you?”

     You attempted a weak chuckle. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

     As if sensing your sudden deflation Spencer asked you, “Hey, are you ok?”

     “I’m fine, Spence,” you said, tracing the pattern of the countertop with your fingertip as you talked, “I just miss you.”

     “I know,” he sighed, “I miss you too. Really freaking bad.”

     There was silence between you before Spencer said, “But hey, your birthday is coming up soon. Any plans?”

     “Not yet.” You shrugged off his abrupt subject change. 

     You hadn’t really wanted to do anything for your birthday, not without Spencer. You  had tried to squander your roommates attempts at throwing you a party multiple times.

     You appreciated her efforts, but you kind of just felt like a quiet evening eating cake in your bathrobe.

     “(Y/n), it’s not every day you turn 68,” Spencer teased, “You gotta celebrate these.”

     “Very funny,” you deadpanned. “And you’re one to talk! On your last birthday you just came to work in your pajamas and made everyone obey that ‘Mountain Dew me’ button.”

     “And that was a party! Some people got seriously hammered.”

     “Sure,” you agreed, “If by people, you mean you. And by hammered, you mean sugar crashed.”

     “Ok, I don’t get shower pics and you’re gonna start correcting me? I’m so out.”

     “Wait,” you stopped him, “switch to FaceTime.”

      You waited for the image of him to show up on your screen, pulling on the towel wrapped around your drying hair. Spencer’s face appeared suddenly and your heart leapt as you took him in.

     He was laying in bed and had his head propped up on one arm, the other holding his phone in his hand as he smiled up at you.

     His hair was tousled and he had his glasses on and he looked so damn sexy that you almost forgot what you were intending to do.

     “Ok, if you want shower pics so badly…” You flipped your camera and began pretending to take rapid photos of the shower curtain behind you.

     “You are so stupid,” Spencer laughed, rubbing his hand over his face before laying it behind his head again.

     “And you’re gorgeous,” you said, flipping the camera back to front-facing.

     “And you are working that towel.”

     You rolled your eyes, walking out of the bathroom and carrying Spencer with you. 

     You plopped down on your bed, just opening your mouth to speak when you heard someone yell your name from the other side of the apartment.

     “(Y/n)! I’m home! And these groceries aren’t going to put away themselves!” Your roommate called.

     “That’s Layla,” you huffed, “I better go before she rearranges the whole fridge.”

     “I’m going to pretend I’m not hurt,” Spencer clutched his chest in mock injury. 

     “I’ll call you later tonight, I promise,” you blew him a kiss and stood up from your bed. “I was just about to get dressed anyway.” 

     And by dressed, you meant your pajamas. 

     “Dang, I can’t believe I have to miss that,” he said. “‘Sure you can’t just put me on the night stand?”

     “Pervert!” You stuck your tongue out at him.

     “Woah,” Spencer held his arm up, “I just wanted to see your choice of clothing. You always know how to perfectly match patterns and textures with the undertones of —”

     “No more fashion speak!” You giggled, “Goodbye, Spencer.”

     “Bye, baby,” Spencer said softly, and the regret in his tone made it hard to hang up. “Love you.”

      “Love you more,” you whispered before ending the call. You slumped down onto your bed, letting out a sigh. 

      “Thank god!”

     You whipped around to see your roommate, Layla, standing in the doorway.

     “I thought I was gonna have to end that.”

     You shook your head at her as she came to sit down next to you on the bed. 

      “You still need help?” You asked her.

      “Nah,” she waved it away, “You lovebirds took too long. If you weren’t so cute together, it’d be hella annoying.”

      You smiled. You loved your roommate, brutal honesty and all.

      “But now that we’re here, can we talk about your birthday?” 

     You opened your mouth to protest and she interrupted you.

     “I know you’re going to say you don’t want to do anything but please just consider it. Your birthday’s in less than two weeks and you still haven’t let me plan a party.”

     “I don’t know, Lay,” you said, for the hundredth time, “I’m just not in a party mood.”

     “(Y/n), you can’t spend the rest of your life missing Spencer and talking to Spencer and thinking about Spencer. I get that you love him but maybe a little party would take your mind off things. And your boyfriend would want you to have a good time. What do you say?”

      Your best friend had a point. You had been pretty preoccupied with Spencer when you weren’t working or sleeping.

     And maybe she was right, maybe a little celebration was what you needed. Spencer had wanted you to do something for your special day.

     Besides, your friend was trying to do something nice for you. And the more you thought about it, the more it sounded like it could be an enjoyable experience.

     “Alright,” you told her, “Plan away.”

     “That’s the spirit!” Layla beamed at you, grabbing your hand before bouncing out of the room, probably to go buy party supplies.

     You laid back on the bed, smiling at the ceiling. You were actually excited for the party. 

     Your phone buzzed suddenly, and you reached across the comforter to grab it.

You had two texts from Spencer.

[Spencer] : wait i was actually serious about the green thing though!! 

[Spencer] : i’m doing a merch shoot tomorrow and i need to know 🙏 

     You grinned at the screen, remembering the first part of your phone conversation.

[(Y/n)] : any color is your color babe 

[(Y/n)] : but actually go with yellow 

     You waited for his reply to come, smiling when you read his messages.

[Spencer] : what would i do without you? 

[Spencer] : k, i better go. i gotta hit the shower myself (jet-less)

[Spencer] : stay tuned for pics 😉 

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

     Four days. It had been exactly four days since Spencer had stopped answering your calls.

     He only responded to your messages with short, generic texts and whenever you asked if he could call he had somewhere he needed to be or something he needed to do.

     You tried to be rational—maybe he really had gotten pretty busy at work lately—but you couldn’t stop yourself from worrying.

     You looked at your reflection in the mirror,  surveying your party outfit and running a hand through your hair, as you though not-so-party-like thoughts.

     Today was your birthday and Spencer hadn’t called or even sent you a text. You tried not to let it get to you and instead look forward to the party that was probably already starting in the living room. 

     You took a deep breath and went to open your bedroom door, but it flew open before you reached the doorknob.

     “There you are!” Layla greeted you with a smile, “C’mon, let’s get this party started!”

     “Hey,” you put on a smile, trying to not think about Spencer. “I was just getting dressed.”

     “Well, you look hot so let’s go,” she grabbed your arm and pulled you down the hall.

     You were greeted by a decorated room with streamers and balloons and presents and partygoers milling about, talking and laughing.

     You knew about half of the people that Layla had invited and you gave her credit for that—you didn’t know that many people in New York yet. Most of your friends were back in LA.

     You got a sharp pain in your chest as you thought about your loved ones back home—especially Spencer.

     “I present, the birthday bitch!” Layla announced with a dramatic flourish. 

     You couldn’t help grinning at her as all of the guests turned to look at you and began clapping. 

     “Thank you all so much for coming,” you addressed the room. 

     “And thank you,” you turned to your roommate, “for planning all of this.”

     “It was nothing,” she said, “now go enjoy your party!”

     And that’s what you tried to do. You spent the whole evening mingling with people and being wished happy birthday and sampling the hors d’oeuvres.

     You were enjoying yourself—as much as you could, at least. 

     You sat down on a bright yellow chair in the corner that Layla had bought a few weeks ago—personally it wasn’t your taste, but she loved it.

     Kind of like large parties and giant social gatherings that required you to have nonstop conversations with people you hardly knew.

     You pulled your legs up into the chair, sitting criss-cross and hoping no one would notice you taking a quick break from the festivities. 

     “Told you you’d like this chair eventually.”

     You looked up to see Layla standing to your right. 

     “I guess it’s growing on me,” you said.

     She sat on the arm of the chair, pulling your head to rest in her shoulder.

     “You can say your miserable, (Y/n)” she said, “I won’t be offended.”

     “No,” you shook your head on her shoulder, “I’m not miserable, I promise. I’m just…tired.”

     “Spencer still hasn’t called I take it.”

     “Nope,” you blew out a breath, “I’ve given up.”

     “I don’t know,” she said, standing up. “He might surprise you. You never know what the night may hold.”

     “Why the narrator voice?” Your mouth quirked up on one side. 

     She shrugged, “It’s fun and i never get to use it.”

     “Now come on,” your friend began dragging your chair out of the corner and towards the center of the room, “Time to for cake!”

     You shrieked as she pulled you through people before abandoning the chair and going to grab a large cake sitting on the counter.

     Once candles had been lit and people had been gathered, Layla handed you your cake.

     “Alright, make a wish!” she yelled.

     That was easy. You knew what you wanted more than anything else. You didn’t even have to think about what you would wish for when you blew the flames out.

     Everyone began to sing me happy birthday and you let Layla snap picture after picture.

     You knew wishes were stupid and almost never meant anything, but you couldn’t help imagining what it would be like if your wish did come true.

     You squeezed your eyes shut and blew out your candles, only thinking of one thing.

     I wish Spencer was here. 

     All the guests erupted into applause and you smiled, hoping your longing didn’t show on your face.

     But god you wished Spencer was here.

     Everyone finished clapping. The room fell silent for a moment, before—

     “I hope you didn’t waste that on me.”

     You froze. The voice came from behind you. You almost thought you imagined it, until you turned around.

     Because there he was. 

     You blinked, trying to make sure he wasn’t a figment of your imagination. But this was real.

     Spencer was standing in your living room, his hands in his pockets, looking at you how you imagined you were looking at him. 

     “Now that,” he pointed at your chair, smiling, “is my color.”

     And that was all he got out before you were rushing towards him and into his arms.

     Spencer wrapped his arms around you, laughing, lifting you from the ground and spinning you in a circle before setting you back down. 

     The room burst into applause for the second time that night. You almost didn’t notice over the rush in your ears as Spencer embraced you. 

     He pulled back just enough so that he could cup your face in his hands. “God, I forgot how beautiful you are in person.”

     You had so many questions bouncing around in your mind, your thoughts racing. 

     You settled on the one that encompassed all of them, “How?”

     “Well, y’know, there’s some distortion with iPhone cameras so you can’t expect—”

     You interrupted him, “That’s not what I meant.”

     “Oh, you mean the whole me being in your living room thing?” He shrugged, pulling his hands away from you and back into his pockets, “I kinda flew here.”

      Spencer had flown—all the way from Los Angeles—to surprise you. You’d had no idea he was even planning this.

     As if reading your thoughts, Spencer said, “I wanted to tell you so bad, but I also wanted to surprise you for your birthday so I sorta ghosted you.”

     He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, c’mon, you know I would’ve spilled those beans.”

     And that explained the not calling or texting you. You couldn’t even feel relieved that he wasn’t mad or breaking up with you because you were so floored and excited that he was here.

     He had done this for you. 

     “Wow, I don’t know what to say Spencer,” you started, wrapping your arms around him again. “As far as gifts go, I’d say you win by a long shot.”

     “Hey, I helped!” Layla shouted, putting her hands in her hips, her grin almost as wide as yours. 

     “Couldn’t have done it without you!” Spencer shouted back before leaning back to kiss you on the forehead, whispering “She let me into the building.”

     You put your head on Spencer’s shoulder, letting him hold you. You tried to memorize everything about the way that he felt in your arms. You didn’t want this to ever end.

     “So,” Spencer said, his voice rough, “How about that kiss now?”

     “I guess since you came all this way…” you trailed off.

     “Good,” Spencer whispered, “Because I’ve been waiting to do this since I booked the flight. Turns out I did find a good use for those miles.”

     And then his lips where on yours and you forgot how to breathe.

     In all the times you had imagined finally kissing Spencer again, nothing was as good as this. This was passionate and starved and full of all of the words you hadn’t said.

     This was different than all of the kisses you’d shared before you’d been separated, you thought.

     And then Spencer mumbled your name against your lips and you were incapable of thinking at all.

     You weren’t sure how long you stayed like this until Layla’s voice interrupted you. 

     “Hey, I’m just as happy as anyone that you’re reunited,” she said, “but please, get a room!”

     You and Spencer pulled apart, grinning like idiots. The whole room chuckled.

     Spencer pulled you to the side as Layla began rounding people up and gathering decorations.

     You caught your best friends eye and mouthed ‘thank you.’

     She just smiled and shooed your attention back towards Spencer, pulling down a streamer.

     You turned to your boyfriend. 

     “Well,” he said, “Before we get that room, want to give me a tour of the place?”

     “You’ve seen most of my apartment on FaceTime,” you told him. “What’s there to see?”

     “Some things can’t be captured over the phone,” he said, his voice becoming more serious. “Some things need to be experienced in person.”

     “Spencer, if you’re talking about the shower—” You teased, nudging his shoulder.

     But you caught his meaning entirely. And you agreed wholeheartedly.

     “Hey that shower is a piece of art! And how little you think of me,” Spencer smiled, continuing, “I was going to wait until you showed me the bathroom before I made that joke.”

     “Spencer?” You got out, through your laughter as you led him down the hall.

     “Yeah?” 

     “I love you so much.”

     “Well, I should hope so,” he shot back, “Otherwise, I spent five hours on a plane—which didn’t serve Mountain Dew, by the way—getting kicked in the back for nothing.” 

     You shook your head at him lovingly.

     “And yeah,” he finished, “I love you too. More than Mountain Dew and Project Runway.”

     You kissed him on the cheek, continuing to pull him down the hallway.

     “I meant to ask,” Spencer broke the silence, “What did you wish for?”

     “You,” you said, pausing. “I wished for you. All I want is you.”

     “I don’t want to say ditto, but I couldn’t agree more,” Spencer teased. “All I’ve ever wanted is you….and maybe one shower.”

     “Spencer!”

     “Six jets! There are six jets in there, (Y/n)! Why does nobody get this?”  

      You just giggled and ran down the hall, leaving him chasing after you. You couldn’t stop smiling. This was the best birthday you could have ever wished for. 

     You rounded the corner, Spencer still calling after you, just a few feet behind you. Right behind you. Here. Yours.

      “Six jets and a heated seat!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ˋ°•*⁀➷ hope you enjoyed my loves!! stay tuned for more spencer fics coming soon 💋🎀

also bonus text convo 🤭 —>

[lokisgoodgirl]

A Gentlemen's Agreement [Reader x Loki/Steve/Bucky]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: It's time for you to make up your mind. And the boys have just the plan to help you do that. (w/c 3.2k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smutty. Teasing. Sexual tension. Not a foursome. A/N: Loki is my king. I just needed to get this out thanks to @sidepartskinnyjeans

The click of Steve’s dress shoes echoed as he ushered you away from the busy ballroom of Stark’s county house. Your nerves were fizzing, but your face didn’t betray the flutter of excitement growing in your belly. In the darkness of the mahogany lined corridor, firelight licked from a solitary open doorway. A nod from the captain urged you silently inside. Walking into the room, your breath hitched. Whatever you had expected from his clandestine invitation in the crowd, this wasn’t it.

Steve circled around you, taking his place in the menacingly sensual line-up. There they stood in quiet stoicism, dressed in fitted finery – the trio of beneficiaries to your relentless flirtations. Their arms were folded, their legs wide in triangular determination. For the briefest of moments, you wondered how all of them had managed to excuse themselves from the party at once. But seeing the way they were taking up space, stretching the air with their achingly large egos, that question was quickly forgotten. Each was more breathtakingly handsome than the last. Rogers. Barnes. Laufeyson. “What is this?” you giggled nervously, snapping to each set of blue eyes in turn. They began to smirk in unison. You shivered despite the heat from the fire. “S’come to our attention you’ve been pulling the same tricks on all of us,” the winter soldier drawled, his accent thick with playful taunt. You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t know what you-” “Oh, I think you do, Agent,” Laufeyson hummed, tilting his head. Long fingers drummed on his bicep as he rocked on his heels. Roaring firelight was haloed behind the ebony mane that cascaded around the shoulders of a midnight-blue suit sitting snug to his body. You pressed your lips together, stifling a whimper. “Look fellas, she’s blushing," Steve teased. The three of them chuckled. “I don’t blush,” you snipped, folding your arms to match them. “And I’d appreciate if you could tell me why the three of you are lined up like...like…” The words you searched for ebbed as you readjusted your feet. It was all you could do not to go over on your ankle in these stupid heels. Heat was building between your thighs, the unmistakeable thump of arousal beating as your addled thoughts raced beneath their penetrating stares.

You knew exactly what Bucky meant. And now it seemed, so did they. You knew bending over to pick up that pen in front of all three of them yesterday was a bad idea. Although, no one in the world would blame you – working with three of the finest specimens of masculinity ever created. Had you gone out your way to tease and flirt with each one of them over the past several months? Possibly. But hey, it was good for morale. And besides, there wasn’t a hope in hell any of them would return your affections. Not serial-bed hopper Barnes, he didn’t fuck where he ate. Not tightly wound Rogers, you seriously doubted he’d approve of subordinate relations. And as for the ice king – you weren’t even sure he knew your name.

The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. God, you wished it wasn’t so hot. Your eyes searched the floor, hearing Loki clear his throat. “As Barnes noted, you have been toying with each of us in a manner both indecent and egregious these past months.” He let the rhetorical judgement marinate in silence before continuing. “Do you deny it?” You raised your eyes to his, seeing the embers of mischief smouldering within. “No,” you said confidently, as all three men cast conspiratorial glances to one another. Rogers balanced his elbow on a tight fist, raising his fingers to his chin. He narrowed his eyes. “That dress though fellas," he growled with uncharacteristic lust. "Have you ever seen such a thing?” Barnes snorted. “Forget two birds with one stone, that outfit takes out three cocks with one hit.” His blue eyes were dark in the low light, heavy brows shadowing the contours as his chin dipped. “An assassin, even off the clock.” he grit. “And she knows how much I love that neck.” While he was speaking, you instinctively brushed a strand hanging from your up-do away from the boatline collar of the dress. He was right. You did know. You had known ever since the first of his ragged breaths, tangible desire pulsing in his veins and stretching his trousers as he massaged your shoulders. The first time you had asked, he had thought you were joking. But every time you felt the cool flatness of his metal limb against your spine, steadying you as his fingers found every pocket of tension in your upper body – both you and he knew it was no laughing matter. Had you exaggerated the moans of pleasure his touch released? No. There had been no need. It felt fucking phenomenal. Orgasmic, even. And you hadn’t held them back. Your neck had extended to the side as his fingertips pulsed into the most delicate areas, breathy pants filling the air that you hoped made him think of how you would sound as he fucked you into the headboard. “And she knows how much I love those legs,” Steve smouldered, curling a finger against his lips as his gaze ran from your hips to the floor and back again. The dress stopped midway up your thighs, perfectly tight before the sheer drop of your limbs to the heels. You had caught him staring open-mouthed as you pulled yourself dripping wet from the ocean on a mission in the Seychelles months ago. His face had flushed as you’d clocked him running up your femurs, a bite of his lip betraying the base need boiling beneath an all-business exterior.

On every mission, you now made a point of elevating your leg as you snapped on the holsters, lunging forward against the nearest bench. Wall. Anything to drive him mad. You wondered how often he thought of your legs wrapped around his hips while his tactical suit lay strewn around his ankles. Without fail, his teeth always found their way to his bottom lip; a clench of his ass and a forbidden husk of ‘goddam’ under his breath making you smirk as you turned away. “And I think not that I need to point out what aspect of the offending garment is for me,” Loki purred, releasing the cross of his arms to fall behind his back in a ceremonial clasp. “It’s green," Bucky stated, licking his lips. “Yes," Loki replied in baritone, cheekbones sharpening. “It is.”

Loki. Now that was a story. Yes, you had felt the linger of his keen eyes on your ass. But who hadn’t. And yes, his gravelled pleasantries that always dripped a little closer than necessary into your ear were tempting. But the god was a walking temptation. It was his nature. He was indiscernible, a mystery. Aside from briefings, the longest you had ever spent in his company had been when he would extend his hand wordlessly on nights just like this, leading you the dance-floor. All onlookers would see was the standard wrapping of his arms around your waist, and yours over his shoulders. They did not see the small circles grazed on the nape of his neck beneath his curls, the half-innocent moans released by his ear when he brought you in from a spin. They did not see the lingering play of your fingers on the delicate skin of his wrists, the bite of your lip as Loki’s hips pressed into your stomach. A solitary flame in a sea of cold indifference. You’d take any heat from him could you get. They didn’t see his brows twitch as he registered the green lingerie down the carefully calculated neckline of your dress. Just for him. Your breathing had becoming shallow. Were you actually about to have all three of them at once? Was that even physically possible? Two super-soldiers and a god? You didn’t know if you would survive – but something told you it might be worth it. Positions and logistics raced through your mind, making you dizzy. You shook your head.

“OK you got me, I fancy all of you. So what? It’s just a bit of fun,” you gasped, running sweaty palms casually down the front of your dress. “The fellas and I have an idea, if you’re agreeable of course,” Steve said slowly, following Loki in clasping his hands behind his back. You squinted, congratulating yourself for encouraging the captain’s foray into unbuttoning the top of his shirts. His pulse was racing, you could see it pumping beneath his jawline. Bucky still stood with his arms loosely crossed over a waistcoat, the cotton of his thick white shirt bulging against metal and flesh. A sliver of steel glinted in the firelight, sleeves folded up to the elbows. He nodded once, without a flicker of a smile. Fuck, they all looked so good. “A gentlemen’s agreement, if you will,” Loki uttered, a smile curling on his lips. He’d been waiting to deliver that line, you could tell. “You like us. We like you. But we don’t share," Bucky glowered matter-of-factly. You could feel the thin fabric of your panties sticking to your lips, tacky and unbearably wet from this erotic ambush. “You don’t?” you quipped. “What a shame.” “We don’t," Steve repeated. “At least not ye-” he cast a glance to Bucky, before clearing his throat. “We think it’s important you uh...focus your attentions. If that’s what you wanna do.” A sudden thrill raced through your blood. The idea that they had planned this, that they had spoken about you in hushed whispers behind closed doors made your pussy hum with forbidden pleasures.

You wandered to the antique sofa to the side, feeling the heated stares of each of the men follow you. “What’s this gentleman’s agreement, then?” you purred, crossing your legs. Steve swallowed as the tight emerald fabric rode up your thigh. The god of mischief laughed softly, a deep sound which seemed to shake the room like bass.

“Each of us will kiss you, and then you must decide,” he said matter-of-factly. “The unsuccessful will respect your choice of victor and no retaliation will be made.” “Decide?” “Which of us to get to know better," Steve explained, shrugging off his suit jacket. He threw it gently over his shoulder, making it land on the back of a chair behind him with magnetic finesse. Bucky rolled his eyes. “I think what the captain’s tryna say is that we all wanna get to know you, better. So it’s lady’s choice,” he winked. You raised an eyebrow towards Loki. You couldn’t imagine him ever agreeing to something like this. A solitary nod was his only response, eyelashes fluttering down in a moment of panty-wetting reverence. “I accept,” you said slowly, running your eyes across the line-up. Their competitive sincerity was catching. You wet your lips in anticipation, still in disbelief that this was actually happening. Perhaps your corpse was lying strewn on the dance-floor, paramedics hoisting you onto a trolley in a body-bag. Perhaps this was heaven. And maybe it was the low lighting, or maybe it was the dancing shadows licking their wide bodies stacked with endless muscle. But you could swear that each and every one of them was hard. “As discussed. Thirty seconds,” Loki murmured coolly to the men standing to attention on his right, flourishing a hand. Barnes stepped forward, smoothing long strands of chestnut hair behind his ears.

“Alright,” he growled confidently, swaggering the several steps and planting onto the sofa beside you. His thighs spread against the antique furniture, flexing beneath the tight suit trousers as he twisted his torso to face you. The scent of his cologne filled your nostrils, smoked wood and lingering sage like a wet autumn forest. His hand cupped your jawline, the steel arm resting on the back of the curved rest.

“Here goes nothin,” he whispered to himself, curled digits trailing longingly down the curve of your neck. They tugged at the neckline of your dress, slipping it over the curve. He leant forward, parted lips colliding with the crescent of your shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered closed, a staggered moan you didn’t realise was hiding released as he worked across your skin. His stubble tingled against the delicate surface, the flat of his nose slotting beneath your ear as his kisses became hungrier against your pulse point. Less delicate. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, darlin',” he rasped, before licking licentiously from the base of your throat to the angle of your jaw. In seconds, his mouth was pressed to yours; tongue eagerly flicking against your lips before you let him enter. Bucky’s moan was dynamite, fingers guiding your chin as he devoured you in targeted desire. He leant you backwards into the cushions while your arm instinctually slid between his shoulder-blades, pulling him closer. Barnes groaned as his hand slid covetously from your waist and up the curve of your breasts, before burrowing deep into your bun. He thrust gruffly against you on instinct, something thick and menacingly primal dragging against your thigh. The feeling of his fingers tugging at your scalp sent your heat into overdrive, clenching desperately around air. “Time,” Loki purred calmly. Stubble scratched a final time, your hand flying to rest on his metal arm as you breathlessly broke apart with a whimper. Barnes winked, the skin surrounding his mouth pink as he rose and re-joined the other two. You cast glances between them while your chest heaved.

“Do you need a moment?” Steve inquired politely, folding the sleeves of his shirt up further. You watched the veins in his muscled forearms tighten with the movement, the slight bend of his knees as he gave a deferential cough. As if he’s preparing for a fight, you thought as your head continued to spin from Bucky’s kiss. “No, I’m good,” you slurred, smiling as you straightened and patting the sofa beside you. “I prefer it standing, if that’s alright,” Steve said tentatively, brow twitching in mild alarm as he saw your eyes widen. But he didn’t retract it. Standing obediently, it suddenly occurred to you that a kiss on the hand would be very on brand for him, perhaps rethinking his part in this atypical charade. But Steve paced towards you, looking as determined as he did striding down the ramp of the quinjet. Your breath hitched as the captain’s hands cupped your face, walking you expertly back towards the walled bookcase. A shelf pressed against your spine while Rogers bore down, his gentle tongue nudging at your lips; and with a whimper, he breached. The warmth of the muscle caressing your own made your knees wobble. Hard, rippling abdominals pressed flush against your chest, pinning you softly beneath Keats and Wordsworth while his hands began to smooth over your shoulders, over your waist. You felt like the poets would approve. Steve moaned into your mouth as his palms slid possessively down your thighs, grunting as he whipped them forwards effortlessly around his waist. You yelped in surprise before his lips swallowed yours again, ankles crossing around taut hips. The heat from his skin warmed the scent of ginger wafting from the base of his collarbone, its spice firing in your nostrils. The kiss was hungry and desperate and wild. You could feel his solid cock rubbing against your stomach, tasting every inch of your passion as his fingertips dug into the soft flesh beneath your ass. He thrust softly with every wax and wane of his jaw, needy fingers running through his newly mussed golden hair. You pulled greedily before there was a soft clear of someone’s throat. It sounded like Loki. “Time,” Bucky barked, and reluctantly, Steve returned you to the ground. Still in a daze, and with palms spread against the bookcase, your eyes fell on the final figure. “Believe me…” Loki purred condescendingly, “you’ll wish to sit down for this.”

With shaking steps you teetered to the sofa, plonking down with a sharp intake of breath. Loki glided towards you, elegantly manoeuvring his long limbs aside your own. He brought a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back. “You are so beautiful.” he murmured, before pressing in to a firm, chaste kiss. One of your hands flew to his thigh, running your palm over the hard, forbidden mass concealed tight and thick beneath the cotton. You desperately keened into him, tongue searching against closed lips. Loki withdrew with a chuckle, sweeping the hair from one side of his head. “If you wish me to stop, tell me,” he whispered hot in your ear, a wave of amber and spices and decadence filling your senses before he slipped from the sofa to his knees. Your eyes widened as he gently spread your legs. “The rules did not specify where I could kiss you.” he explained softly, pre-empting the questioning thrill lighting your eyes. Disgruntled huffs from Bucky and Rogers barely registered as you felt a cool tingle of the god’s magic dissolve your favourite underwear.

Loki’s smouldering gaze latched to yours, lust-drunk and determined, before it fell to the glistening mess at his eye level. “Do you consent to my audition?” he hummed, tentatively pushing the sides of your dress to the tops of your thighs. Your stare flickered to Steve and Bucky, suspiciously observing Loki on his knees with pure jealousy. "Yes," you heard yourself murmur under your breath. Fresh arousal was seeping from your centre, spreading down your heated skin. You had never wanted anything more. "Louder, please," Loki smirked, the curve of his fingers fastened to your knees. “Yes, Loki...g-god-” you gasped, brow furrowing as you urged him on with a tilt.

Immediately, his tongue licked a wide, earth-shattering stripe up your slit from base to tip. Your head fell back with a rattling moan, one hand combing through his hair as the other gripped the armrest. Loki quickly moved your legs over his shoulders, sliding you further back. The god’s open mouth latched to your swollen clit, sucking and lapping lower with sinful precision. All you could see was his dark curls and proud brow, the sight of the god buried between your open thighs making reality blur. Every caress made your hips thrust further into his mouth, shaking breaths shuddering your body as he moaned against your wet heat. The noises he made were utter devastation, muffled pants and enthusiastic slurps sounding between your splayed legs as he ate you out like a starving man. Behind your eyelids, you could feel the covetous gazes of the two soldiers rolling over your body as Laufeyson’s fingertips dug into your calves like a hunter. “T-time,” Steve choked. “No!” you gasped, pawing at Loki’s cheek in despair. The god smiled, chin glistening while closing your trembling knees in a move that could only be described as gentlemanly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unfurling and retreating backwards to the line-up with his arms spread in a show of feigned innocence. You panted, gathering your thoughts as your gaze landed on each of them in turn. “Lady’s choice,” Bucky re-iterated gruffly, widening his legs. Beside him, the captain’s fingers rested wide on his hips, biting his lip while his eyes lingered on the fresh sheen of sweat clinging to your legs. Loki raised a finger absent-mindedly to the corner of his mouth, brushing the edge before sucking it clean to the second knuckle. His eyes smouldered, fixed on you, the flicker of firelight casting deep shadows in hollowed cheekbones. You took a deep breath, the only name it was ever going to be dancing on the tip of your tongue.

🤷‍♂️ For those who want a bit...more - A Gentlemen's Bond is the follow up to this.

Tags @meowmeow-motherfucker @muddyorbsblr @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @coldnique @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @sidepartskinnyjeans @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @psychospore @littlespaceyelf

[odinsblog]

One of the most durable myths in recent history is that the religious right, the coalition of conservative evangelicals and fundamentalists, emerged as a political movement in response to the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1973 Roe v. Wade ruling legalizing abortion. The tale goes something like this: Evangelicals, who had been politically quiescent for decades, were so morally outraged by Roe that they resolved to organize in order to overturn it.

This myth of origins is oft repeated by the movement’s leaders. In his 2005 book, Jerry Falwell, the firebrand fundamentalist preacher, recounts his distress upon reading about the ruling in the Jan. 23, 1973, edition of the Lynchburg News: “I sat there staring at the Roe v. Wade story,” Falwell writes, “growing more and more fearful of the consequences of the Supreme Court’s act and wondering why so few voices had been raised against it.” Evangelicals, he decided, needed to organize.

Some of these anti- Roe crusaders even went so far as to call themselves “new abolitionists,” invoking their antebellum predecessors who had fought to eradicate slavery.

But the abortion myth quickly collapses under historical scrutiny. In fact, it wasn’t until 1979—a full six years after Roe—that evangelical leaders, at the behest of conservative activist Paul Weyrich, seized on abortion not for moral reasons, but as a rallying-cry to deny President Jimmy Carter a second term. Why? Because the anti-abortion crusade was more palatable than the religious right’s real motive: protecting segregated schools. So much for the new abolitionism.

Today, evangelicals make up the backbone of the pro-life movement, but it hasn’t always been so. Both before and for several years after Roe, evangelicals were overwhelmingly indifferent to the subject, which they considered a “Catholic issue.” In 1968, for instance, a symposium sponsored by the Christian Medical Society and Christianity Today, the flagship magazine of evangelicalism, refused to characterize abortion as sinful, citing “individual health, family welfare, and social responsibility” as justifications for ending a pregnancy. In 1971, delegates to the Southern Baptist Convention in St. Louis, Missouri, passed a resolution encouraging “Southern Baptists to work for legislation that will allow the possibility of abortion under such conditions as rape, incest, clear evidence of severe fetal deformity, and carefully ascertained evidence of the likelihood of damage to the emotional, mental, and physical health of the mother.” The convention, hardly a redoubt of liberal values, reaffirmed that position in 1974, one year after Roe, and again in 1976.

When the Roe decision was handed down, W. A. Criswell, the Southern Baptist Convention’s former president and pastor of First Baptist Church in Dallas, Texas—also one of the most famous fundamentalists of the 20th century—was pleased: “I have always felt that it was only after a child was born and had a life separate from its mother that it became an individual person,” he said, “and it has always, therefore, seemed to me that what is best for the mother and for the future should be allowed.”

Although a few evangelical voices, including Christianity Today magazine, mildly criticized the ruling, the overwhelming response was silence, even approval. Baptists, in particular, applauded the decision as an appropriate articulation of the division between church and state, between personal morality and state regulation of individual behavior. “Religious liberty, human equality and justice are advanced by the Supreme Court abortion decision,” wrote W. Barry Garrett of Baptist Press.

So what then were the real origins of the religious right? It turns out that the movement can trace its political roots back to a court ruling, but not Roe v. Wade.

In May 1969, a group of African-American parents in Holmes County, Mississippi, sued the Treasury Department to prevent three new whites-only K-12 private academies from securing full tax-exempt status, arguing that their discriminatory policies prevented them from being considered “charitable” institutions. The schools had been founded in the mid-1960s in response to the desegregation of public schools set in motion by the Brown v. Board of Education decision of 1954. In 1969, the first year of desegregation, the number of white students enrolled in public schools in Holmes County dropped from 771 to 28; the following year, that number fell to zero.

In Green v. Kennedy (David Kennedy was secretary of the treasury at the time), decided in January 1970, the plaintiffs won a preliminary injunction, which denied the “segregation academies” tax-exempt status until further review. In the meantime, the government was solidifying its position on such schools. Later that year, President Richard Nixon ordered the Internal Revenue Service to enact a new policy denying tax exemptions to all segregated schools in the United States. Under the provisions of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, which forbade racial segregation and discrimination, discriminatory schools were not—by definition—“charitable” educational organizations, and therefore they had no claims to tax-exempt status; similarly, donations to such organizations would no longer qualify as tax-deductible contributions.

On June 30, 1971, the United States District Court for the District of Columbia issued its ruling in the case, now Green v. Connally (John Connally had replaced David Kennedy as secretary of the Treasury). The decision upheld the new IRS policy: “Under the Internal Revenue Code, properly construed, racially discriminatory private schools are not entitled to the Federal tax exemption provided for charitable, educational institutions, and persons making gifts to such schools are not entitled to the deductions provided in case of gifts to charitable, educational institutions.”

Paul Weyrich, the late religious conservative political activist and co-founder of the Heritage Foundation, saw his opening.

In the decades following World War II, evangelicals, especially white evangelicals in the North, had drifted toward the Republican Party—inclined in that direction by general Cold War anxieties, vestigial suspicions of Catholicism and well-known evangelist Billy Graham’s very public friendship with Dwight Eisenhower and Richard Nixon. Despite these predilections, though, evangelicals had largely stayed out of the political arena, at least in any organized way. If he could change that, Weyrich reasoned, their large numbers would constitute a formidable voting bloc—one that he could easily marshal behind conservative causes.

“The new political philosophy must be defined by us [conservatives] in moral terms, packaged in non-religious language, and propagated throughout the country by our new coalition,” Weyrich wrote in the mid-1970s. “When political power is achieved, the moral majority will have the opportunity to re-create this great nation.” Weyrich believed that the political possibilities of such a coalition were unlimited. “The leadership, moral philosophy, and workable vehicle are at hand just waiting to be blended and activated,” he wrote. “If the moral majority acts, results could well exceed our wildest dreams.”

But this hypothetical “moral majority” needed a catalyst—a standard around which to rally. For nearly two decades, Weyrich, by his own account, had been trying out different issues, hoping one might pique evangelical interest: pornography, prayer in schools, the proposed Equal Rights Amendment to the Constitution, even abortion. “I was trying to get these people interested in those issues and I utterly failed,” Weyrich recalled at a conference in 1990.

The Green v. Connally ruling provided a necessary first step: It captured the attention of evangelical leaders , especially as the IRS began sending questionnaires to church-related “segregation academies,” including Falwell’s own Lynchburg Christian School, inquiring about their racial policies. Falwell was furious. “In some states,” he famously complained, “It’s easier to open a massage parlor than a Christian school.”

One such school, Bob Jones University—a fundamentalist college in Greenville, South Carolina—was especially obdurate. The IRS had sent its first letter to Bob Jones University in November 1970 to ascertain whether or not it discriminated on the basis of race. The school responded defiantly: It did not admit African Americans.

Although Bob Jones Jr., the school’s founder, argued that racial segregation was mandated by the Bible, Falwell and Weyrich quickly sought to shift the grounds of the debate, framing their opposition in terms of religious freedom rather than in defense of racial segregation. For decades, evangelical leaders had boasted that because their educational institutions accepted no federal money (except for, of course, not having to pay taxes) the government could not tell them how to run their shops—whom to hire or not, whom to admit or reject.

The Civil Rights Act, however, changed that calculus.

(continue reading)