#uh. w. what else do I tag

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

"Those webs show up everywhere near the church. Its almost like they're growing from underneath the floorboards or from the walls themselves."

[pup-pee]

im still not over that issue

NOT THAT I DREW THEM FROM THAT ISSUE BUT LIKE LIKE >???????????????

[jacksprostate]

Treatise on why No, the doctor just giving the narrator of Fight Club (full name) his requested sleep medication or sending him to therapy would not have Fixed Him

Firstly, saying giving him the insomnia meds would’ve fixed him ignores the reason he has insomnia in the first place. He is so deeply upset by his place in society that he literally cannot sleep. Drugging him to sleep would not change that. That, of course, is the easy, quick response.

But with regard to therapy? The biggest flaw is that it ignores a central tenet of the book. Part of what tortures the narrator and drives him to invent Tyler is that his feelings about this collective, systemic issue are constantly reduced to a Just Him thing. His seatmates ask what his company is. He’s the only one upset at the office. He gets weird looks if he says the truth of what he does. People will do anything in their power to pretend he is the issue, as an individual, because it is far scarier to consider the full implications of the systemic issues implied by what he is saying. Everyone treats it as if the issue is him, so he goes insane. He does anything to get someone to say, holy shit, that’s fucked up, what you’re a part of is wrong. In an attempt to feel any sort of vague sympathy and catharsis, he goes to support groups to pretend to be dying, because then at least people don’t habitually blame him for his anguish. 

Saying therapy would fix him ignores that his problems are not individual. They are collective. It’s the reason the entire story resonates with people! Something deeply, unignorably wrong with society, where people would rather blame you for bringing it up than try and address it, because it feels impossible. I don’t blame people for this, really, because it IS scary. It’s terrifying to sit and feel like you’ve realized there’s something deeply, deeply wrong, but if you say something, people will get mad at you since it’s so baked into everything around you. Or, even if they agree, it’s easier to deal with the dissonance by pretending it’s individual.

And it’s not like that’s not the purpose therapy and medications largely serve, anyway. Getting into dangerous territory for this website, but ultimately, the reason the narrator was seeking medication was because it’s a bandaid. A very numbing bandaid. For these very large, dissonance causing problems, therapy does very little. Medications do what they always have, and distract you with numbness or side effects. It’s a false solution. He is seeking an individualized false solution because he has been browbeaten with the idea that this is an issue with him alone, when it's plainly clear it's not. 

Don't get me wrong. Obviously he has something wrong with him. But it's a product of his situation. It is a fictional exaggeration of a very real occurrence of mental illness provoked by deep unconscionable dissonance and anguish.  There is a clear correlation between what happens and his mental state and his job and how isolated he is. 

The thing is, even if he were chemically numbed, I do think he would’ve lost it regardless. Many people on meds find they don’t fix things. For reasons I’ll get into, but in this case because even if numbed or distracted, once you’ve learned about deep, far reaching corruption in society, it’s very hard to forget. Especially if, in his case, you literally serve as the acting hand of this particular variety. He’s crawling up the walls. 

So why do people say this?  Well, it's funny I guess. Maybe the first time or whatever. But also, often, they believe it, to a degree. Maybe they've just been told how effective therapy and meds are for mental illness, they believe wholeheartedly in The Disease Model of Mental Illness, maybe they themselves have engaged with either and have considered it successful. Maybe they or someone they know has been 'saved' by such treatments. 

But in all honesty.... What therapy can help with is mentality, it's how you approach problems. For issues on a smaller scale, not meaning they are easier to deal with my any degree, but ones that are not raw and direct from deep awareness of corruption; these are things that can be worked through if you get lucky and get an actually good therapist who helps build up your resiliency. But when your issue is concrete, something large and inescapable? It's useless. At best it can help you develop coping mechanisms, but there is a limit for that. There is a point where that fails. To develop the ability to handle something like this requires intense development of a comfort with ambiguity and dissonance and being isolated and a firm positioning of your purpose and values and and belief in wonder and all the other shit I ramble about. The things that the narrator lacks, which lead him to taking an ineffectual death knell anarchist self-destruction path. Therapy, where the narrator is, full of the knowledge of braces melted to seats and all the people that have to allow this to happen? It fails. 

And meds — meds are a fucking scam. We know the working mechanism of basically none of them, the serotonin receptor model was made up and paid its way into prominence. We have very little evidence they're any better than placebo, and they come with genuinely horrific side effects. Maybe you got lucky. I did, on some meds. On others? I don't remember 2018. The pharmaceutical industry is also known for rampant medical ghostwriting, and for creating 'off-label' uses for drugs that have gained too many protests in their original use, then creating a cult of use to then have 'grassroots' campaigns for it to be made a label use (ie, legitimize their ghostwritten articles with guided anecdotes). 

The DSM itself is basically a marketing segregation plot. It's an attempt to legitimize the disease model by isolating subgroups of symptoms to propose individualized treatments for subgroups that are not necessarily all that separate. But if the groups exist, you can prescribe more and different medications, no? Not to mention, if you use the disease model, you can propose that these diseases are permanent, or permanent until treated, considered more and more severe to offset and justify the horrific side effects of the medications. Do you know why male birth control doesn't really exist? Same reason. They can justify all the horrible side effects for women, because the other option is pregnancy. For men, it's nothing. 

And they're not bothering to invent new drugs without side effects. When they invent new drugs it's just because the last one got too bad of a name, or they can enter a new market. Modern drugs don't work any better than gen1 drugs. They still have horrific side effects. At best, the industry will shit out studies saying the old one was flawed (truth) so they can say this new gen will be better (lie). They're doing it with ssris right now. 

Fundamentally, the single proposed benefit of any of these drugs is that they numb you. To whatever is torturing you. It's harder to be depressed if you can't feel it, or if you just can't muster the same outrage. Of course, there is people who find that numbness to be helpful, or worth it. But often, it's stasis. For the people who have problems that can be worked on, it serves as a stopgap to not actually work on said problems. The natural outcome of the disease model is stagnation for those whose need is to develop skills and resiliency. It keeps them medicalized and dependent on the idea that they're diseased and incapable. Profitable. Stuck in the womb. 

I’ve been there. It’s easier, to wallow, and resist growth because it’s difficult and painful and unfair and cruel and you can think of five billion reasons to justify your languishing. But don’t listen to anyone who tells you you’re just permanently damaged, no matter how nicely they word it, no identity or novel pathologization, no matter how many benefits they promise, especially if they swear up and down some lovely expensive medications with little solid backing and plentiful off-label usage and side effects that’ll kill you. Some days it feels like they want us all stuck in pods, agoraphobic and addicted to the ads they feed us to isolate the markets for the drugs they’ve trained us to beg them to pump us with. Polarization making it as easy as flashing blue light for go, red like for stop, or vice versa. I worry about the kids, for fucks sake. That’s a bit dark and intense, and I apologize. But I want you (generic) to understand, there is a profit motive. Behind everything. And they do not mean well. They do not care about your mental health or your rights or your personhood or your growth. They care about how they can profit off of you.

For those struggling with immovable, society problems, like the narrator grappling with how his job fits into and is accepted by society while his rejection and horror in the face of it does not, it can work about as well as any other drug addiction. Your mileage may vary. From what I've seen, recovering from being on prozac for a long time can be worse than alcohol. They put kids on this shit. They keep campaigning for more. Off label, again. A pharmaceutical company’s favorite thing to do has to be to spread rumors of someone who knows someone who said an off label use of this drug helps with this little understood condition. Or, in the case of mental illness, questionably defined condition. And like, damn, I know I'm posting on the 'medicalization is my identity' website so no one will like all this and has probably stopped reading by now, but yall should be exposed to at least one person who doubts this stuff. Doesn't just trust it. Because I mean, that's the thing right?

It's so big. What would it mean, for this all to be true? Yeah, everyone says pharmaceutical companies are evil and predatory and ghostwriting, but to think about what that really entails. Coming back to the book, everyone knows the car lobby is huge and puts dangerous vehicles through that kill people. What does it mean if the car companies all hire people to calculate the cost of a recall and the cost of lawsuits? No one wants to think about the scale that means for people allowing it or the systems that have to be geared towards money, not safety like they say. Hell, even Chuck misses the beat and has the narrator threaten his boss with the Department of Transportation. And shit, man, if every company is doing this, you think Transportation doesn't know? That they give a fuck? You're better off mailing all the evidence to the news outlets and hoping they only character assassinate you a little bit as they release the news in a way that says it's all the fault of little workers like you, not the whole system. Something something, David McBride, any whistleblower you feel like, etc. 

So I don't blame you, if your reaction is "but but but, that can't be right, people wouldn't do it, they wouldn't allow it" or just an overwhelming feeling of dread that pushes you to deny all of this and avoid thinking about it. Just know, that's in the book. That's all the seatmates on the flights. That's all his fellow officemates. It's easier to pretend, I know.

But think about, how the response fits in with the themes of the book. The story, as a movie too. What drives the narrator’s mental breakdown? How would you handle being in his position? How would you handle being his seatmate? It’s easy to say you’d listen. But have you? Have you had any soul wrenching betrayals of how you thought society worked? How about a betrayal by the thing that promised to be the fix of the first? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t follow that gut instinct, saying follow what everyone says, that person must just be crazy, evil, rude, cruel, whatever it is that means you can set what they said aside?

For a lot of people, they can do that, I guess. Set it aside. Reaching that aforementioned state of managing to cope with the dissonance and ambiguity and despair is very hard. The narrator made the Big Realization, but he couldn’t cope. He self-destructed. Even when people don’t make the big realization consciously, they’re already self-destructing. It’s hard to escape it when it feels easier than continuing anyway. When it feels like the only option,

Would therapy fix the narrator of Fight Club? Would meds fix the narrator of Fight Club? No. He knows too much. All meds will do, by the time he’s in the psych ward, is spiritually neuter him. A silly phrase, but really. Take the wind out of his sails. 

Is he fixed if he doesn’t try to blow up town? If he just shuts up and settles in and stops costing money? If he still can’t cope with the things he’s unearthed? Do you see how this is a commentary in a commentary in a commentary?

Fight Club is an absolutely fascinating story because of this. The fact that it addresses the fallout of knowing. The isolation. The hopelessness. The spiral that results from a lack of hope. This is, I think, what resonates most with people, even if not consciously. Going insane because you’ve discovered something you wish you could unknow. It’s a classic horror story. Should our society be lovecraftian evil? I don’t think so. 

Do I think changing it will be easy? No. Lord knows a lot exists to push people who make these sorts of Realizations towards feelings of individuality and individualized solutions and denial and other distractions and coping methods. And to prevent people who make One realization from expanding on it and considering further ramifications. Fight Club itself gets into this; the isolation of men being a strict part of the role society shapes for their sex leaves them very vulnerable to death fetishes, in a sense, and generally towards self destructive violence. It helps funnel them away from substantial change and towards ineffectual change. Many things, misogyny, racism, serve to keep people isolated from one another, individualized, angry, and impossible to work with. Market segregation; god knows even appealing on those fronts has become such a classic ploy that companies do it now, the US military frames its plundering that way, etc. 

I’ve wandered a bit but ultimately, my point is this: Fight Club is a love letter to the horrors of critical thinking, and the importance of not falling into the trap of self destruction and hopelessness in the face of it. The latter is why Tyler was an anarchoterrorist instead of anything useful. The latter is why it was a death cult. It’s important to work through the horrors of critical thinking so you can do it, and stand on the other side ready to believe in each other. It’s worth it.

[aerophyn]

uh .hello school bus graveyard tumblr .i dont know how to use this app!!! but hi! i made this !!!! if you like seeing aiden clark miserable then this will be perfect for you!

[deus-ex-mona]

such is the tale of a ✨chronically online hypocrite✨

[doubleedgemode]

I wanted to go on a drawing spree yesterday, but I could only muster these two before dozing off.

First one, even if I'm not that sure about how I drew her face shape in this angle (and most importantly I forgot her neck and torso bandages OOPS) I do really like how most of the drawing came out. And at least it isn't a bland bust this time, though I'm pretty sure I've already drawn a pose like this before. (Oh no the next drawing is a 3/4 bust again..)

Second, yesterday I saw an artist draw some of the coolest redesigns ever for a different media piece, and thought about the many awesome gg redesigns I often see so I wanted to give A.B.A a spin... Except I was out of ideas so most of this drawing is her regular design haha. I got too tired to even try to attempt to draw the rest of the body and half-assed the key but I like the vibes and pose (even if I.. think I made her neck a bit too long? Old habits die hard... Necks are my enemies when drawing!)

I like the idea of her having a key take on the classic frankenstein bolts (though wait, her head key is referred to as a screw. Would this also be a screw or key shaped bolts??-)

[bunnyboy-juice]

mkay its been a few days and i dont have the most perfect words to express this but uh. please remember just bc i reblog certain kinks on this blog and am publicly horny in general doesn't mean that you can try to engage in that kink with me without asking first, especially if we are not mutuals.

[coriander-candlesticks]

Introductions ✨✨

Hey! I'm Coriander. It's not what I go by in my other blogs on here but I want to keep things a bit more separate, at least at first. This is gonna be a long one (sorry) so I'm adding a cut.

I'm exploring Hellenic polytheism, and have only recently started, but it's something I've been considering, in a way, for over a year. I don't have a big, intense story that marks the beginning for me; I didn't necessarily feel a personal, spiritual connection to any of the deities from the time I was a young child in the way others describe, and I haven't had an intense experience that marked the beginning of my path.

I've always felt drawn to Greek mythology, though. I have a distinct memory of laying on my stomach on the floor of the school library in 3rd or 4th grade, reading a picture book about Hades and Persephone. It kept my attention the way others - even Egyptian mythology, another major interest - didn't. I, of course, had the classic queer kid experience of being super into the Percy Jackson series for a while, but my interest in it predated that. The specific deities I've been drawn to have changed somewhat as I've grown up, and they definitely shaped some of my interests. But delving into them again has helped me see connections that weren't explicitly connected to Greek mythology. I felt drawn to Athena growing up, for example, and my love of owls was definitely shaped by that. Even though that has settled into the background somewhat, that connection has persisted in things like my knitting and desires to dye yarn and learn how to weave (side note: I associate crochet more with Apollo, actually, despite it also being a fiber art). I felt connected to Artemis and Persephone as a kid, but that waned as I got older, discovered I was trans, and began my transition. I've felt connected to Hestia and her quiet hearth-keeping since I learned about her: I've always strived to make myself & my space safe and welcoming for others, and being told I succeeded in that is one of the best compliments I've received. But my interests in the morbid (ex Pompeii & the Paris catacombs), psychopomps, rocks & minerals, and keys weren't explicitly related to Hades. Some of the connections didn't click until I started to look into him more seriously about a year ago. I was an artist and had interests in writing, poetry, singing, and playing instruments long before it actually clicked that all of those fell into Apollo's domain, as I associated Athena far more with visual arts as a kid. I also didn't realize that he & Artemis cover diseases (another long-running interest) until very recently. The concept of xenia, too, was something I grew up with to some extent, even though no one called it that. My father modelled it to my siblings and I; I even learned about it within the context of ancient Greece at some point growing up and it stuck with me, despite not knowing the name.

I grew up Mormon, and was incredibly devout until college, when the pandemic forcibly separated me from that environment and I not only discovered that I was queer in several ways, but realized that the Church 1) wasn't safe to stay in and 2) wasn't actually true (which came later, when I started to get over my fear of reading "anti-Mormon literature"). During that period between those two realizations I got into tarot and using plants and crystals for their correspondences (two other interests growing up), as well as using rocks to ground myself. At that time, I considered myself a "liminal Mormon", and was reaching out to Heavenly Mother specifically via tarot. But as it set in that Mormonism specifically, and Christianity generally, wasn't for me, I got more and more interested in modern witchcraft separated from the belief system I was raised in.

It never quite felt right, though. The constant need for protections and doing something "the right way" lest things backfire and you invite the wrong thing into your home, or hurt yourself, or others, or or or, made my anxious & scrupulous brain go into overdrive. I wasn't even sure I believed in it spiritually, or if I was just interested in it from a mindfulness standpoint, and staring down the barrel of comically high piles of research without knowing where to start was exhausting. The concept of dual deities, the Divine Masculine and Divine Feminine, put a bad taste in my mouth (which bled over into Persephone for a while because she and Hades are often used to symbolize those archetypes- sorry Persephone). But, not wanting to listen too much to my discomfort (since part of it may have been, and probably was, prior conditioning), I pushed ahead and actually completed one ritual that had all of the steps - cleansing, representations of the four elements and directions, etc. - and was very carefully designed to leave room for growth and change. It represented the start of my path. I still have the jar I made during the ritual, though I'm still trying to figure out what to do with it.

Around that time, I was considering whether or not to work with deities- specifically Hades, as that was who I felt the most drawn to at the time. The idea interested me, but I wasn't sure if it was from an academic or spiritual angle. I'd really only seen deity work from a modern witchcraft/neo-pagan perspective which, again, didn't sit right with me. On top of that, I wasn't quite ready to let go of Christianity even though I already functionally had, and was terrified of doing something "wrong" and getting, for lack of a better term, sent to (figurative) hell. I decided to do a simple "yes/no" tarot pull and got about the clearest "no" you can get: a reversed Ace of Swords. So I decided to let it rest and that, if I ever felt drawn to it again, I could re-approach the topic.

So, for over a year, I didn't touch it. Continuing with witchcraft after the ritual didn't feel right, either, so my altar collected dust while I tried to sort out my spirituality (or lack thereof). I settled on "I don't know and that's okay" and left it at that, trusting that when the time came, and I had more energy and mental space, that I would be able to start looking into things again.

I never truly stopped thinking about the idea of deity work/worship, though. It was always in the back of my mind. I figured it was because of the way I was raised and tried to sever my idea of spirituality from how I was conditioned while I worked through my religious trauma, got on anxiety medication, and learned more about myself and how I interacted with the world (including that I have both ADHD and autism, something that surprised no one).

Recently I talked with a witchy friend about my thoughts on divinity and what is or isn't out there (neither of us were sure but we both felt like there was something), and that conversation gave me the button I needed to start looking into paganism again. I realized at work a week or two later that I could just look up the different paths of paganism (a term I'd recently heard that hadn't clicked before then) and see if there was one that did fit. The first site I found not only had a clear, concise explanation for belief systems I hadn't knowingly come across before, but it touched on Hellenic polytheism and gave a recommendation for someone to watch to learn more about it. And unlike the sharp knot in my chest that warned me away from attending BYU, and going on a mission, and delving further into modern witchcraft as I'd been introduced to it, learning about Hellenic polytheism felt right. It was heavy and grounding and like home. Many of the issues I'd had with other neo-pagan systems - the constant vigilance & protections & concerns over trickster spirits, for example - simply didn't exist there, or were approached very differently. I still had a mental block about it, though, and realized it was because of that tarot pull a year prior. So I did another one, and got a clear "Yes, jump right in. We're waiting for you". And that's where I've been since which, granted, hasn't been for very long. I've felt especially connected to Apollo and Aphrodite recently, who I believe reached out in a different tarot pull recently - using the same card, actually - which is interesting because while I've appreciated different ways Aphrodite has been depicted, I haven't felt very connected to her in a way I realized was her until recently. It makes sense, though- I got into my first relationship around the same time I did that ritual, and not only are we still together a year later, but a trinket I used to ground myself during those first few months is also pretty directly associated with her. I'm planning on adding it to her altar/shrine area as soon as I find it (it's also still amongst the moving wreckage).

But anyway, hi! If you read this far thank you for taking the time out of your day to do so. If anyone has recommendations for books or other educational resources, or discord servers/other online forum-esque communities, please feel free to share. I've been enjoying looking through the tags and getting a feel for the community here, too; hopefully I'm here to stay.

[fagoutboy]

the more ive sat and thought about it the more dissatisfied i am with that doctor who finale

[acaciapines]

staring at the nimona daemon au breaking 40k when i still have the entire ending of the movie left: oh my god. this one might be 50k after all

[i-am-a-fucking-nerd]

have a horrible headache and usually headaches are a combo of things (esp not eating/sleeping enough) which could be the reason i have one today but. also i smoked thu which was 2 days ago and usually i get a headache 2 days after smoking. and im just. i already wrote a diary entry talking abt it and how i feel guilty and bad for like a million different reasons but now i'm also just incredibly frustrated w myself bc why do i do this!!!!!!!!!!!! i can go weeks and months w/o smoking i don't NEED to do this!!!!!

[mimiri22-6]

*gets exactly one post about Dream drama* Oh god now what has he done. *can't find the origins on twitter because I want my revived account to be as bare bones as possable so I'm following like no one involved* Finds the #supportdream or whatever tag. it's filled with 70 hate/30 that's my streamer. I have got little no info, only the victims story falling apart and apparently dreams a+ handling of these kinds of situations has gotten no better.

on one hand, some things don't add up. sometimes dream does know she was under 18 sometimes she lied about her age. on her twitter at least, im assuming she could have done the same in dms.

Plus, a little thing w me; I have this fucking uncanny 6th sense for shitty yters through their voices, doesn't work when their singing, I figured it out after Ry*n of Achievement Hunter did something simular to these allegations dream is getting. I have never felt uncomfortable or worried about the people around dream whenever I've heard his voice. Well, that's a lie. I can't figure out what it means, but in certain situations, his talking did put a poker in my back. It wasn't immediate or noticable most of the time, but sometimes I could feel it. It might have been because his manhunt series is very edited down and he's not actually the one to talk in them the most, and on the other side of the coin could be because I want to punt his dsmp character into the sun, not because I think/thought his character was anything like him, nah, because his friends say he's the nicest man alive. No matter what it is or how small it is, it is good to take note of every little thing just in case. I've clocked many yters like this years before any shitty actions came to light, I'd say it started all the way back w Cr*ytic. I still watched them because I didn't know my instincts were like this, but I do take note nowadays whenever I get that little shiver up my spine to RUN.

...what the fuck was I writing about? how did I get here? it's been 90 minutes.

on the other hand, uh, he doesn't seem like the type???? was that what I was going to say?? ok, maybe he isn't groomer level, but maybe it's the racism my brain is clocking. idk why but I just can not let him off the hook for the Indigenous memorial graffiti incident. for some reason it feels like it was just swept under the rug and I could have sworn I saw dream respond to it in his very braindead way he handles those sorts of things "my fans can do no harm🥰did you know I'm .8% native🤗it's so goofy and fun, I hope they vandalize another memorial for me😍" y'know, that type. or I could have just mistook his response for the spongbob yelling as a response to the memorial. either way, he is not good at the defending words thing. Like, one of the worst I've seen honestly. Just hold your fans acountable and tell them what you're uncool with upfront. Like maybe not vandalizing memorials for marginalized groups you have an ounce of blood w.

idk how this turned into my essay on dream, ig this was a long time coming for me because I just have a lot to say about this man that I just can't hold any longer. I was happy for him and his friends Finally getting that fucking visa and plane ticket less than a month ago, but I think that was more my being pissed off at the system then being super invested in these people anymore. hold tight, I'm not done overanalizing this man yet. there will be a slightly longer than avg tldr at the end tho

Dream's relationship with his fans is weird and rubs me the wrong way. He isn't strict w them, not straightforward. The only other cc I know w simular nsfw fancontent to him is Badboyhalo, and he clearly stated he's fine w seeing sfw art of him and skeppy(I keep forgetting to aquant myself with whatever drama skeppy got into to make people hate him now, I think I remember it being stupid, but I could be wrong) being buddies and pals platonic soulmates if you will, and he acknowledged that there was going to be nsfw content of him regardless, BUT it was clear he didn't want to see it, he didn't wanna stubble apon it. With recent stuff going on, not the most recent allegations, but the face reveal and the twichcon t-shirt incident, I think Dream is actually in a simular boat, but he's just so fucking bad at this saying your clearest intentions and thoughts on the matter that he's in the middleground of nearly anything other than I love my fans, please don't harrass anyone, but then not saying anything when it goes down. the only time i've seen him say anything alnong the lines more solid on these things was in the twitter space interview w i forget who and i can't find it anymore. not even in my watch history. fucking weird. anyway, I just spent a half an hou looking for it and I don't know what I was talking about anymore...oh right, his relationship w his fans needs to change if he doesn't want this shit happen to him. wether this real or not, because there is a universe where the most recent alligations are fake, the fact of the matter is that since he has such a huge following there will be people that fake something like this just to pull his career down.

on the one hand, he's ramping up in activity because of his face reveal and people looking to kick him while he's on the rise is bound to happen, on the other hand, victims speak out at those times because they don't want the abusers to do the same to someone else while in the thraw of fame and massive power.

I've lost so much of my train of thought since i started writing this so

TLDR; Her story is falling apart at places, he's not handling the sich well, like usual, he gives me the heeby geebies sometimes and, yes, that needs to be noted, this is bound to happen again and again if he doesn't set real solid boundaries with his fans On His Main Account and if he Doesn't Give His Fans A Phone Number To Freely Call And Text Him On REALLY WHY DO YOU THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA-Also the indigenous disrepect is Loud and is the reason why I don't follow him on anything anymore(as far as I know, I may have missed a profile somewhere, but idk. I don't think I have, but the possability is there)

As more time goes on I get more and more uncomfortable w him, but w the other yters that turned out to suck, the reaction was instant and I had to learn to ignore it, but w him I'm learning the opposite.

anyway, im tired and im gonna do something i actually like now. fuck you bye love you be safe, uhhhhhhh, i hope he learns to not be a fucking dipshit for his friends sakes, but if he doesn't i hope his friends and dsmp members knows this is icky and dips when it gets too much. i do not care about the stans, but the fans that dream has helped through dark times in the past few years, i hope you can find it again in someone else or youre ok, uhhhh, my brain is tired and im melting, wait that's backwards oh well, uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 5

in which spencer reid and fem!reader are reunited, but the worst kind of sparks are flying. you meet a man named randall. derek morgan buys you a drink (sort of). it seems that some things can't be unsaid.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: r goes to a bar but doesn't drink alcohol, gets hit on by weird men, dramatic, angst, sorry in advance a/n: surprise! i'll see myself out. love you! lmk your thoughts on this bad boy! i KNOW you'll have some! i'm locking all my doors and the cops are on speed dial after posting this. stay tuned for part six tho

You don’t call Spencer for four days. 

Spencer doesn’t call you for four days. 

It’s scary. 

There’s some texting—mostly him giving you updates on how things are going and when he expects to be back. Mostly you giving the messages a thumbs up and saying nothing else. 

Finally, on Thursday afternoon, his ringtone (the Bill Nye theme) makes you jump as you’re sitting on your bed staring into space. 

His caller ID photo—which is simply his passport photo, because you’d thought it was adorable—stares at you. You stare back. Contemplate not picking up. 

But you’re not quite there yet. 

And you cannot keep listening to Bill Nye the Science Guy. 

The answer button is cold under your thumb, but not as cold as your greeting. 

“Hi.”

You barely recognize your own voice. 

It seems to send Spencer for a loop as well, because his reply is halting. 

“Hey! Hi, um—how are you? I feel like we’ve barely talked this week.”

That would be because you told me my feelings for you are stronger than your feelings for me and I don’t know how to stop making every single word I say secretly mean I love you. We can’t have a conversation without me loving you. It will always be in the room or on the phone with us. To ignore the presence of it is impossible, and I don’t know if I can ignore the absence of yours, either. 

“Uh… yeah. I’m fine. What’s up?”

There’s a pause. 

“We wrapped up this morning. We’re getting on the jet here in a few minutes, and, um—I know it’s not ideal, but we missed Derek’s birthday and Penelope is insisting we all go to his favorite bar tonight. And he told me that for his birthday he wants to meet you. So… would you be up for that?”

“You want… to take me to a bar?”

“No. I mean—I know it’s not really your thing, but we missed Derek’s birthday three years in a row, and—and I understand if you don’t want to meet him tonight, but we wouldn’t have to stay very long and I really, really shouldn’t skip it. Derek has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“You could go without me.”

More silence. Every second hurts, but you don’t understand why he wants you to come meet his best friend if he thinks the two of you are in different places emotionally. 

But maybe he’s not going to break up with you just yet. Maybe he’s going to keep inviting you to bars and foreign film festivals and bookshops. Maybe he’s going to treat you exactly the same as he always has but with this new added layer of knowledge that the way he treats you isn’t actually love, and it never was, and you’re not sure if it has the potential to ever become love. Because if it did—wouldn’t it have already? What more do you have to offer than what you’ve already given him?

Breakup or no breakup, you feel sick. 

When he speaks his tone is similarly chilly. It’s welcome. You want him mad. If he can’t reciprocate your adoration, then the very least he can do is have the decency to reciprocate your reproach. 

“I could. Is that what you want?”

No. I don’t want any of this. I need you to know me well enough to know that. And if you can’t love me then at least get angry. At least show me you feel something other than passive contentment. 

“Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.”

A pause stretches so long your heart pounds. You watch the elapsed time of the call tick by, second by second, and you wait for the anticipation to crack under the weight of silence, to give way to some terrible jump scare or to give way at all. 

But the words that end the conversation (if you can even call it that) aren’t any great relief. They’re just sad, and chalk full of defeat. 

“Alright. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

You feel like you’ve swallowed an ice cube. All the words you’d like to say are frozen in your stinging throat. 

“Okay. Um… I’ll let you board now.”

“The jet’s not…” but he trails off. When he speaks again he sounds just as hurt as you’d wanted—and it doesn’t make you feel better at all. “Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead, and your face is burning as tears fill your eyes for the hundredth time this week. That call was terrible and poisonous and you don’t feel like yourself. 

Things have gone so wrong so quickly, and all you know how to do is ice him out so he can’t do it to you first. But it’s not going to make this better. No matter how mean you are to him, at the root of it all you feel unloved and scared and alone and Spencer knows things about love and relationships that you don’t. He’s confusing you with all this talk of feeling differently about each other and I’ll be home tomorrow I miss you and things get complicated when one person likes the other more and let’s talk in person and will you come meet my best friend tonight. All of it leaves you motion sick and ugly crying in the fetal position. 

All you have to get through this is who you’ve always been, a little of the person you’ve become, and the love you harbor for Spencer which rattles around in your chest like a nail in an empty toolbox. At the moment it hardly seems helpful. It mocks you, pointing out the pathetic hilarity of your paradox. The only person who can comfort you, the person you want more than anything, is the reason you’re so upset in the first place. But you can’t help being drawn to him. 

Maybe the love you have for Spencer is more like a magnet in a compass. 

Even if he doesn’t feel it for you, you do love Spencer. And that goes beyond just loving the parts of him that like you. To hide from that love would be a gross disservice to yourself and all the work you’ve done to get here. It’s not as if you suddenly know exactly what the answer is—but you’re sure that hiding is the most childish, cowardly thing you could do and the furthest you could get from a resolution. Even if you can’t make him love you back, you refuse to allow yourself to fizzle quietly out of his life. This relationship deserves something more than that. 

So maybe you don’t have a plan when you wipe your eyes and pick up your phone. Maybe there’s no strategy behind your actions as you text Garcia for the bar location. But if you keep running from everything you’ll never get anywhere. All you can do is show up. It seems like the next best step. 

------

The pub isn’t too crowded—but for a Thursday night, you suppose it’s a bit busy. 

Boot heels hooked onto the metal foot-beam of the stool you’re sitting on, elbows resting on the polished mahogany surface of the bar, you’re staring into an untouched mixed drink. Then you glance down the bar to your right, at the man who’d bought it for you. 

Maybe your ensemble gave him the wrong idea. 

Coming to this gathering had required bravery, and you came armored. Your ensemble projects significantly more confidence than you’re currently feeling. It was intentional, a form of self-protection—but now you’re wondering if it’s projecting a little too much confidence. 

All done up, clearly still a little rough around the edges, and sitting alone at a bar was bound to draw the wrong pairs of eyes. 

“Hey, darlin’,” the gruff man says, approaching when you inadvertently catch his gaze. “Are you gonna drink that, or should I? Otherwise I’m lookin’ at eleven dollars right down the drain.”

You avert your eyes, scanning the groups dotted here and there. 

“I’m waiting for friends.”

“Does that make a free drink less appealing?”

He takes the stool next to you, off-gassing the scent of cigarettes and leather. 

“I’m not drinking.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a girl who looks as sad as you do come sit at the bar to stay sober.”

You frown, looking back up at the man next to you. He seems like the Hell’s Angels type—tattooed knuckles, leather jacket, grey beard, and a weathered face that’s clearly spent decades with the sun. Fifties, maybe younger and just looks more rugged. What does it say about how I look tonight that this is the kind of man I’m attracting, you wonder. Maybe you look desperate and just as lonely as you feel. As he claims you do. 

“I’m not sad.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. But a happier girl wouldn’t be all alone.”

“I’m waiting for friends,” you repeat, letting the words drip like venom from your tongue. 

“I’m Randall. See? Now we're friends.”

“I don’t need more friends. I like the ones I have.”

Something catches Randall’s attention long enough to catch yours. He raises his bottle vaguely, gesturing beyond your shoulder. 

“Are those angry lookin’ guys in the suits marching right over here the friends you’re talking about?”

You turn your head, brows furrowed, and immediately see the gentlemen to whom your new pal is pointing out. 

Spencer is storming across the bar looking close to furious (which for him, means an expression so placid it gives you chills) followed by Derek Morgan—a man who you’ve only seen pictures of and is even more impressive in person. 

You hate how your breath catches, how your heart is already beating a little faster than usual at the sight of him even though you’re not exactly pleased with each other right now. 

Suddenly the bubbles in your cocktail are once again fascinating.

“Those are the ones.”

“And why are they dressed for church?”

Church?

“They’re FBI.”

“Ah. My lucky fuckin’ day.”

You almost snort. 

“Hey,” Spencer says sternly, hand settling on your back as he partially fills the small space between you and the strange man. “Who’s this?”

You shrug, sit up a little straighter, and take a shallow breath—not because you’re scared of this man but because Spencer is suddenly so close to you and you can feel his warmth and the air bending around him and the scent of him is genuinely dizzying to you. 

“Randall,” you exhale unenthusiastically. But the odd thing is that you’re rather grateful for Randall’s presence. Because now Spencer is here and you have no idea what you’re going to say to him. 

“Oh,” Randall says, sipping his beer unhurriedly before using it to gesture to Spencer. “You’re the boyfriend. You know, that’s funny, because she didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t mention anything. We weren’t having a real conversation.”

Randy holds his hands up defensively, fingers still wrapped around the neck of a sweating bottle. 

“I’m just saying it’s in-ter-esting. Not trying to start anything.” He stands, pauses for another sip—Spencer obviously isn’t sure what to make of this man because he says nothing. “But listen, man to man—you better buy her some flowers or a real pretty fuckin’ necklace or somethin’ because a happy girl in a happy relationship does not come pout at the bar all by herself.”

“Get out of here, man,” Derek finally speaks up. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sets his empty bottle down and fishes in his pocket for a cigarette, sticking it between his lips. “But—just for the record—I have a wife. I wasn’t gonna do anything weird. Sometimes when you’re my age you just gotta live a little. Buy a pretty girl a drink. Piss off some Mormons, or whatever the fuck you are.”

This guy sounds like a bad Bruce Springsteen song. But part of you would almost rather hang out with Randall than be forced into a conversation you’re not prepared for with Spencer. 

And whose fault is that, you remind yourself. You decided to come be mature. Suck it up. 

“Goodnight,” Derek emphasizes. 

Spencer doesn’t say a word. You can feel his eyes boring smoking holes into the side of your face, and you look anywhere else.  

“I’ll be here next week after physical therapy like clockwork,” the stranger waves as he ambles away—but not before pointing at you. “You enjoy that drink, friend. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

What a weird man. 

There’s silence for a moment—in which Spencer refuses to stop watching you and you refuse to acknowledge that. 

“And here I was thinking Spencer made you up.” Derek has a beautiful smile and a warm, charming cadence as he holds out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Derek.”

You take the proffered hand and shake, offering him a shy smile and introducing yourself in kind. 

“Happy birthday, by the way. Sorry for crashing your party.”

Really, he’s stunning. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. And you’re not crashing anything. I told pretty boy here I wanted to meet you the second he started talking about a friend. But nah, he just wanted to talk and talk and talk about you—” 

“Alright,” Spencer mumbles, blushing, eyes finally torn from your profile. You smile slightly, brows knitting as Derek magically melts some of the terrible tension.

“Pretty boy?”

Before either of them can explain, someone shrieks in your general direction. You startle backward in your seat, and Spencer steps closer, hand sliding up your back as Penelope, JJ, and Emily join your little huddle. For only a second you allow yourself to shrink into him—before you’re straightening your posture like your spine is a metal rod and his touch burns. It’s a knee-jerk defensive reaction for which you have no explanation. You can’t see him, but you don’t feel his hand on you again. 

“Oh my god! Look at this beautiful person who I love!” Penelope exclaims, pushing past Derek to grab your face and kiss both of your cheeks. “Oh my god,” she says again, wiping sticky lipgloss away with her thumbs, “I totally meant to ask before I did that. But your face is just so kissable. I’m so glad you decided to come!”

“Hi, Penelope,” you smile half-heartedly, incapable of reciprocating her cheery mood. Fortunately, she’s cheery enough for a standard commercial flight’s worth of people, and probably thinks of Derek’s birthday as a national holiday—so she doesn’t pick up on this. 

Emily and JJ offer you tamer although perfectly kind greetings. 

“Ooh, what are you drinking?” Emily asks, leaning closer to examine the forgotten beverage in front of you. 

“Not that,” Spencer mutters, grabbing the glass and sliding it away from you. You give him an affronted look—and immediately wish you hadn’t, since you’re meeting his eyes for the first time since he left. His words stall for just a moment as his eyes dart between yours before he’s saying, “you shouldn’t accept a drink if you didn’t watch someone make it.”

The audacity of him to be acting protective makes you scoff. 

“That guy didn’t spike my drink. He was harmless.”

“People thought Ted Bundy was harmless, too.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that you don’t even have a response—your eyes simply narrow and you shake your head. A claustrophobic silence falls over the small group. 

“Okay…” JJ murmurs. “Um, do you guys want to go check out the jukebox with me? We have to play all of the birthday boy’s favorites.”

Several enthusiastic yeses go around, but you’re too busy having a stand off with your boyfriend to take much notice. 

Soon, it’s just the two of you. 

“Controlling isn’t a good look for you,” you finally say, spinning to rest your elbows on the bar once more and studying the bottles of liquor on the shelves beyond. 

“Evasive and avoidant isn’t particularly flattering, either. I was under the impression that you had no intention of coming after that phone call earlier.” 

You scoff again as your blood heats. Already the conversation is going worse than you’d expected—and your expectations were not high. 

“Do you think the cab driver was a serial killer, too? Or maybe the bartender?”

He’s still behind you and slightly to the side—but he leans down, resting his own fists on the bar right next to you and speaking lowly, directly over your shoulder. 

“Why don’t you try speaking to me like we’re adults instead of starting meaningless arguments in order to get under my skin?”

From him, that hurts. 

It’s a branch on the tree of your greatest insecurity—the fear that you’re too inexperienced with relationships and that makes you too immature and he’s been lying every time he says it’s not an issue. Because of course it’s an issue. It’s why you fell in love with him, it’s why you don’t know how to fix it, and it’s why you’re incapable of actually expressing any of your feelings to him.

“Why do you think I’m here right now?” you whisper—as sharp and stinging as a poison dart. “I’m trying to be a fucking adult. I don’t want to be here.”

Silence. 

“Then why did you come?”

His voice is so calm it burns like dry ice. 

“Because! Because you asked me to, because—”

You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud. 

Because I’m obviously still in love with you and I can’t just turn that off. I tried to do the right thing. 

Instead you bury your face in your hands and let it hang in the air, unspoken. You know he knows. You just don’t know why he’s acting like you’re so unreasonable for being upset. 

“Let me make this very clear to you,” Spencer murmurs, brushing your hair away from your ear so tenderly, speaking so softly you could convince yourself that he’ll say something kind. It’s the closest he’s been in days and now that he’s here you feel how much you missed him in your bones. And even though you sense a trap, you can’t help but sit up straighter. You’ll be complicit in your own undoing if it means you can have him close. His breath shakes slightly as he inhales and you brace as best you can. “Nobody is forcing you to be here. You told me you weren’t coming and then you decided to show up. I was ready to give you the space that you were too scared to ask me for. But I can only take responsibility for so much of what is ultimately your bad behavior and your adolescent volatility. You can only blame so much of your bad behavior on inexperience before I run out of patience because I don’t find thoughtlessness and emotional immaturity compelling. I told you that if there is a disparity in the way we feel for each other, that was fine, and I meant it. But if you can’t cope with how I feel about you then don’t let me hold you back. I am not holding you hostage. You can leave whenever you want. So don’t waste your time punishing me because you don’t want to be here. And if you do want to be here, good. I want that too. But act like an adult and make a decision. My leniency has limits, even for you. I am asking that you do not push it any further than you already have.”

You don’t know how long it’s been since your last breath by the time he finishes his address.

Long enough that you’re dizzy when you push away from the bar and shoulder through the throng of patrons as quickly as you reasonably can without outright running. 

Long enough that when you burst out the door into the biting-cold night air, and finally take a deep, gasping breath, it burns and stings and aches and so does your head and your eyes as they well with hot, furious, heartbroken tears. 

You speed-walk to the end of the block, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries and all the curse words you’d love to scream. 

Part of you knows you walked away from the bar in case he decided to try and follow you—but when you look over your shoulder the sidewalk is empty. You should’ve known better than to think he’d follow you after that. But at least it means you can have your breakdown by the relative safety of the bar, leaning your back against the dirty brick facade next to the entrance alcove and sliding down until your butt hits the cold concrete and you don’t even care. 

Who the fuck was that man in the bar who looked like Spencer and sounded like Spencer but spoke to you like this is all your fault, like it’s your fault you love him and he doesn’t love you back, like it’s ridiculous that you’d be upset, like you’re cruel and petty for having feelings about it, about him—for having any fucking feelings at all? And to think that was the man who you let know you more intimately than anyone ever has. Every insecurity you’d ever admitted to him was hurled back in your face like it was nothing. Hell—he even handed you the ones you’d never mentioned. He proved every terrible thought you’ve been having about yourself right. 

How could he be so unabashedly mean to you?

Spencer doesn’t have to love you. It seems clearer now than ever that he doesn’t. But part of you wonders if he suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury because that’s the only explanation for why he could go from treating you how he did before to treating you like he doesn’t even like you. 

You feel like you might throw up. 

“Called it,” a rasping, grumbling voice says from a few feet away. 

You look up, and spot fucking Randall standing under a street light ten feet away, still smoking. 

You go back to studying the tar spots on the sidewalk through bleary eyes. Pebbles sting as they press into your palms. Another one of the universe’s terrible jokes, you suppose. Just earlier you’d thought that you’d rather talk to Randall than Spencer and now here you are and here he is. 

“That kid as much of a dipshit punk as I thought he was?”

Hearing Spencer described as a kid and a dipshit punk is so jarring you almost stop crying. 

“He’s not a dipshit,” you sniff, voice thick with tears as you find yourself explaining Spencer Reid to this stranger for no reason at all. “He has an IQ of 187. He’s a genius.”

“Ah,” he scoffs dismissively, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Dipshit-ism don’t discriminate. Anyone can be one. Even your genius punk boyfriend. As a recovering dipshit myself I know what the work of a fellow dipshit looks like. And this has dipshit written all over it.”

You sob harder. 

Randall speaks calmly around his cigarette. 

“You know, I’m sorry for whatever you got goin’ on. But I’ve never not been the asshole when I got a hysterical woman in front of me. It’s nice that I can confidently say this time it is not my fault.”

The bar door opens, letting a warm burst of jovial music and chatter into the otherwise still night. Steps that are too heavy to be Spencer’s hit the concrete next to you—you look to your left and see Derek Morgan before he looks down and sees you. 

“Hey—you okay out here?”

“Why don’t you go ask your Jehovah’s Witness buddy? He did this.”

Derek makes a face, locating the source of this interjection. 

“Sir, I asked you to leave her alone once and I don’t appreciate being made to repeat myself. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, whatever. Fuck me for making friendly conversation, I guess. Gonna have to call my wife and tell her to pick me up down the street. I don’t want her on the damn phone while she’s driving.”

Randall wanders away again, still muttering to himself and smoking. Derek watches him go, staring daggers into his back until he turns his gaze to you. 

Goodbye, Randall, you think. Great. Now I have neither of them. 

“Hey,” he softens, crouching down to your level. “You okay?”

You sniff, wiping your cheeks and attempting not to smudge your makeup. It’s impossible not to feel awkward—you just met this guy and now he’s here trying to do emotional labor for you on his birthday. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything for you? Do you want some food? A drink?”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know, I know. But look—Reid is always talking about you. You’re important to him, and he’s important to me. I’ve never seen him this happy and I’ve known that kid a long time. It is in my best interest that someone maintain you, and if it’s not him, it’ll be me. Call it a favor to him, if that makes you feel better.” Derek is sporting a slightly more modest Cheshire grin again by the end of his sentence. Listening to him speak that way about Spencer speaking about you, it’s impossible not to feel a teeny bit lighter. Even if you’re not entirely sure where you stand on all things Spencer related at the moment. “So I’ll ask you again. Is there anything I can do for you?”

You sniff again. 

“Sure. A ginger ale or something might be good.”

“Got it. I’ll be back. And come inside if Randall tries to run up on you again, okay?”

Despite yourself you manage a laugh at the way he says the name. His warm smile flickers warmer at this.  

“Will do.”

When Derek returns a few minutes later, the plastic cup he’s holding looks decidedly not like ginger ale. 

“Penelope insisted that this is what you would want. I don’t even know.”

You smile slightly as you take the cup, full to the brim with bubbles and thick red syrup. A cherry bobs underneath the layer of cubed ice. 

“Shirley temple,” you chuckle. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, flashing that brilliant smile again, and you look into your cup as you drink. Maybe your face warms just a bit. You’re still shy around men, you realize. Especially attractive ones. And Derek Morgan definitely qualifies as attractive. 

“So,” he begins, and to your surprise, crouches down in front of you. “I have to be honest—I came out here in the first place because Reid sent me to check on you. But now I’m wondering what the hell he did.”

Spencer sent him. A considerate action that would theoretically signal his care for your feelings. You take another sip, staring into space and trying to digest this information, but it only jumbles with the rest to confuse you more. 

Of course, you don’t know how to convey this to Derek in a way that’s not overly-familiar for just having met the man, so you go with an old standby. 

“I’m probably just overreacting.”

“Uh-huh. I have sisters. I know what an overreaction looks like and if you were overreacting you wouldn’t be out here hiding. What’d he do?”

You can only keep up the facade of emotional stability for so long. Your chin wobbles in a horribly embarrassing way and you look down again. 

“I’m not sure—I’m not sure if he really did anything or if I’m just being dramatic and I don’t want to make him seem—”

“Why don’t you stop defending him and just tell me what he did?” Derek urges. “Trust me—I love that kid to death. But I also know he can be a dick sometimes. You don’t need to worry about making him look bad in front of me.”

Part of you is glad Spencer has such a good friend on his side. And Derek is right—Spencer is an adult. You don’t need to worry about besmirching his reputation. So you take a shuddering sigh, staring into the red of your drink. 

“He just doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Which isn’t his fault, like I said, but—he’s being such an asshole about it.”

Derek pulls a face, strong eyebrows making an impression as they knit.  

“Did he tell you that?”

“Over the phone,” you nod emphatically. “And just now he gave me this whole fucking speech about how immature and horrible I am for not being 100% happy about it. And maybe he’s partially right, I mean—I know people feel things differently and maybe he just was asking for more time. I worry I fucked it up so bad because I couldn’t handle that—but at the same time he didn’t say he wanted more time. He was really fucking unclear and vague about what he wanted, and he asked me to come to this bar like it was nothing when I’ve been worried he was going to break up with me all week. So yeah, I guess he’s right and I have been a bitch about it because I was upset that he didn’t… like me as much. And I wanted him to feel bad because I was so embarrassed, and I also didn’t want to act like everything was normal if he was just going to dump me, I…” you realize you’ve been hardcore rambling and your face heats. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, and you worry you’ve done exactly the thing you didn’t want to, which was overshare to this man who seems like he’s significantly more normal and well-adjusted than you. You drink deeply, swallowing sugar and the rest of your words. 

“That’s… bizarre. I don’t mean to invalidate your feelings, but… that just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, projecting annoyance so you won’t start crying again. “I was confused too. I thought he really liked me.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m saying—that doesn’t make sense because he does really like you. Really, really likes you, more than I’ve ever seen him like someone before. I mean, last week I finally finished that Tesla biography he’s been on my ass about for months and when I told him, all he wanted to do was talk about your thoughts on it. And then it wasn’t even about the book anymore. I have never, ever seen Reid pass up an opportunity to talk about Nikola Tesla. I’m talking never in my life. He finds a way to make every conversation about you. I can’t even follow the connections sometimes but he always finds a way.”

Your nose wrinkles. 

“Sorry you’ve had to hear so much about me,” you mumble. Though you’re not really sorry. It feels good. A twinge of joy in all the murk. 

“I’m not. Like I said, I’ve known Spencer for a long time and I’ve never seen him this happy. I’m not about to let him fuck it up.”

“If I make him so happy then why did he tell me we don’t feel the same?” you whisper, reaching into the puddle of syrup and ice at the bottom of your now empty cup. 

“Is that exactly what he said?” Derek asks, after a long pause. You bite the maraschino cherry off the stem and nod morosely, grinding a long-gone stranger’s cigarette butt with your boot just to crush something. There’s another beat of silence. “Alright. You know what I think?”

You raise your head to meet his gaze, your own wide-eyed and expectant. 

“I think you two need to have an honest conversation. You’re both confused and hurting—I promise Spencer is feeling it too. If you talk to him he won’t be unkind to you.”

“He already was,” you admit. 

“I apologize if I’m out of line here, but you just told me you’ve been icing him out all week because you want him to feel bad. I’m willing to bet you don’t realize how sharp these claws are.” Derek grabs your hand as he says it and you marvel at how much he is the opposite of you. Everything he does and says seems so natural and reasonable and charming even if it would piss you off from anyone else—and you just met the guy. You can see why Spencer and Penelope speak so highly of him. “I think you’ve probably both had your moments these past few days. But that doesn’t mean neither of you deserve any more chances.”

He puts your hand back on your knee and pats it. 

“Besides, Spencer‘s not good at mean. I bet he’s inside worrying himself sick over whatever dumb shit he said to you. He’s probably hyperventilating as we speak.”

“It was really out of character for him,” you concede. 

“Yeah. He’ll be apologizing for a long while. It will get annoying. But he sure as hell won’t be doing it again, I can tell you that much. If he does, let me know. Emily and I will whoop his ass and call it a fitness evaluation.”

“I think that’ll be unnecessary,” you laugh thickly, pulling your sleeve over your hand and wiping away the few tears that haven’t quite dried. “But thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, it’s my birthday, and as a grown man I should not be getting involved in someone else’s relationship drama. I was supposed to be on the dance floor a while ago.” His tone is so warm and sugary by the time he finishes it could rot his perfect grin. It’s futile to hide the way your mouth twists into a reluctant smile as you look down and fix your hair—praying he can’t tell how fazed you are by his kindness. “You’re going to talk to him, right?”

“I’ll—yeah. Right,” you say quietly. But the sinking feeling in your stomach knows it’s a thing easier said than done. 

“Good,” Derek grunts, taking your empty cup before pushing himself back up to his feet and offering you a hand. “Do you want me to send him out here or do you want to come find him inside?”

You balk.

“Like—right now? I have to talk to him now?”

Before he can give you an answer you think you’d rather not have, the bar door is opening. From your spot you can’t see who it is right away, but Derek turns over his shoulder and does a double take before looking back at you. 

Spencer steps out onto the sidewalk, eyes scanning for until he realizes you’re a few feet shorter than usual. Sitting on a filthy public walkway is probably his worst nightmare, you realize, as you scramble to your feet and dust the crumbs of concrete from your palms against the back of your cold jeans. He begins to say your name, and it sounds like relief and regret, but you stop him. 

“I have to go wash my hands.”

It’s monotonous and mumbled and comes out too quickly but you don’t have time to worry about that as you brush past both of the men on your way back into the bar, making an immediate beeline for the bathroom. 

Your face burns with anxiety as you shut the door behind you, immediately drowning in the yellowish lighting which is so harsh but seems to illuminate almost nothing. Who paints a bathroom red? It’s suffocating. You feel like you’re inside an aorta. 

Water runs cool over your hands as you sniffle, rinsing the bits of dirt from red indents made by pebbles and things, and the soap is too floral and powdery but you wash twice anyway. Maybe you’ll just stay in here and wash your hands forever. 

There’s a light knock on the shiny wooden door and it makes you jump. Your name is muffled from the other side. 

“You in there?” 

Quickly you wipe under your reddened eyes in the mirror, trying to fix the slightly smudged makeup. 

The door opens when you don’t respond, and there’s Spencer, looking weary and tense all at once. Is that your fault?

“Hey,” you sniff, trying to effect casualness, but it comes out too quickly and your posture is too stiff. Under his all-seeing gaze you cross and uncross your arms, look at him and look away. Your hands end up in your pockets. He’d say crossed arms are a sign of self-soothing. 

“Hey.” His is more measured, and of course makes you feel embarrassed in comparison. The door swings shut behind him as he enters the small room and makes it feel that much smaller. “Are you… hiding from me in here?”

Yes. 

The graffitied toilet stalls to your left suddenly look fascinating. 

“Nope. Just washing my hands.”

This is not what Derek told you to do, you scold yourself internally. Stop being so scared. Be honest with him. 

Silence rings. All the brutally honest things you’d like to say choke you until your throat hurts and your eyes get hot. Yet again you feel like a stupid little girl who’s too emotional to communicate. 

You cross your arms. It’s an indulgence you feel you’re owed. 

Spencer says your name again and it’s too much. He never says it this often. When he does it feels good but now it’s too formal, makes you too aware of your own inadequacy, and how he must be seeing you—a wraith of a girl in a dingy bar bathroom with clammy hands and smudged eyeliner, practically shaking with fear under an unforgiving light. Someone who is too scared and much too sensitive. 

Spencer attempts to speak again. 

“What I said before, it was—”

“Can you just take me home?” 

It comes out on one exhalation and seems to stall him with all the effectiveness of a slap to the face. 

You don’t know where it comes from, either. 

Easier said than done, you’d thought a few moments ago. All the bravery Derek had tried to instill in you is gone, swallowed down the drain like soap scum. And now you’re choosing to let your fear win—because at least that’s a known quantity. The fear will never reject you. It will always be waiting with open arms. 

Too scared. 

The end feels imminent. You try to press yourself back together, fingernails biting into palms, trying to make something feel more tangible than the terrible knowingness that you’re careening toward an end which was supposed to be a beginning. It’s stifling and you wonder if Spencer is breathing it too. 

You can’t look at his face, but you watch him pocket his hands in his pants and there is so much impossible space between you in such a tiny room. 

“Yeah. I can.”

Something breaks. It’s small, and without fanfare. But it feels final. 

It’s just a ride home. Just a ride home. 

That’s all you have left, and you don’t know how you know it but you do. 

Something so important is being left in this stupid, dingy bathroom. Something that was at one point beautiful and shiny and so arrogant in its newness that it seemed it would never become ugly. And now you’re abandoning it without dignity on the chipped tile floor and in the cobwebs on the walls. It was bigger than you, it was you—and now it’s going to be nothing. 

A vehicle honks on the street. A boisterous group laugh explodes somewhere beyond the door. Water drips from a faucet. 

“I’ll… I’ll bring my car around.”

“Okay.”

But he just stands there for another moment. Like he can’t get himself to move. 

If only time would freeze before he could walk away. 

But it doesn’t. 

He sucks in a decisive breath. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. 

It’s that fucking phone call all over again. 

Then he spins on his heels and leaves you there.

Your time is up. 

-

part 5.5

[stars-for-circe]

Tongue Tied

Support Palestine

Tags / cw: EXTREMELY suggestive, oral fixation, fingers in mouth, tongue piercing, piercer!Ellie, choking, finger sucking, Ellie is kinda pervy?? WE USE CELSIUS GUYS. 19 CELSIUS!!!

The leather seat felt clammy below you, despite the gentle faux breeze coming from the air conditioning. Beside you, the small tray of sterile equipment, reminding you of why you were here in the first place.

You shivered. Fuck, who sets the AC at 19 degrees? Wrapping your arms around yourself, you began to regret the choice of wearing a tank top despite the weather outside. Outside, where you’d much rather be - where there wasn’t a room colder than the arctic, or a bunch of needles about to be stuck in you, or a stupid fucking leather seat digging right in-

“Cold? I can turn it up, if you want.”

Ellie Williams. The most popular piercer in the area. Either from her looks or her talent, you couldn’t tell - but it was probably both. Arms crossed as she leaned against the door, and a small, amused smirk on her face as she watched your antics.

“Um, no, it’s fine.” You said shakily - or shyly, rather - smiling through your chattering teeth after you found where the voice came from. You spontaneity was probably enough of an inconvenience, booking an appointment late at night where it was the only time Ellie could fit you in - so it would have been rude to make her wait any longer than necessary to get the piercing done and lock up.

“I’m Ellie, by the way.” She called out, before making a beeline from the doorway to the small station at the end of the room, keeping her head down the entire time. You hummed in response, just barely suppressing the ‘I know’ on the tip of your tongue, as she rubbed some of the sanitiser in and put the gloves on. Then, Ellie paused her movements, back still turned away from you as she raised her head.

“Although….” You held your breath. You could feel the smirk on her faced despite not being able to see it.

“…I’m guessing you knew that already, Jesse told me some pretty girl wanted me ‘specifically’, to pierce her today…”

“What?” You stuttered out, mentally blaming it on the chill, and not your lack thereof. This time, Ellie snickered, shaking her head softly as she turned around heading towards you.

“So, you gonna stick your tongue out for me?” Grin still on her face, she watched as you sputtered out a reply while she haphazardly grabbed the forceps off the equipment tray.

“W-what?”

“You’re here for a tongue piercing, aren’t you?”

…That sly little shit

You could only nod, too taken aback to do much else. The most you expected here was to get a damn good piercing from a really hot girl, what Ellie was doing to you was not planned in your little outing.

“Yeah? So open up, hon. Gotta mark where you want it.”

Now Ellie knew that she didn’t need to mark anything - she was so used to doing this that she could just eyeball it and still be accurate. But, she thought, being able to cup your face, while you oh so obediently stuck your tongue out for her, as she just slipped her thumb ever so slightly into your mouth under the guise of keeping you still, would make up for the extra labour.

Your mouth was warm. Even through the black latex she wore. Ellie could almost imagine how soft it would feel sucking her dick, how delicate you’d be while kissing along the silicone. Fuck, she’d moan out loud if she wasn’t careful - all from the pad of her thumb resting on your tongue. And the way it twitched and made a swallowing motion as the bitter taste of the marker hit your throat really didn’t help.

“Hah…” You made a small noise at the prolonged moment. Surely the marker didn’t need this long to deposit a tiny dot pigment?

Ellie quickly snapped out of it, ripping her gaze from your mouth to your eyes. Right, she was still piercing you today, nothing else. And the taste of the marker probably wasn’t pleasant enough to be placed there for so long…

“Uh- so, ‘m gonna get the needle now.” She stuttered out, before making a joke.

“Last chance to back out…..or tell me if you’re squeamish….”

Fuck, the needle was kinda of big. Like, really big. Was it really meant to be that big? For a moment you hesitated, wanting to back out of this all and go home. But then you looked at Ellie, holding the forceps in once hand, reaching to grab the needle with the other, and you really wondered if backing out and embarrassing yourself in front of Ellie Williams - because of a fucking needle - was worth it. It would be over quick, right?

“Um, no- I mean-” you coughed.

“No, not squeamish, so, yeah, ‘m ready…”

“Yeah? Just uh, take a deep breath, ‘n stick your tongue out when you’re ready.”

You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth, and stuck out your tongue - just like Ellie said. For a moment, you flinched, feeling the cold press of the forceps clamping on your tongue, before you concluded that keeping your eyes open would lessen the surprises. In front of you was Ellie, although a lot closer than before. And this time, with the needle in her hand, facing you.

She nodded, for approval. And you could only look at her with wide enough eyes that you hoped conveyed your consent, before she slowly, and gently, put the needle through.

Now, if Ellie hadn’t been on the clock, if there weren’t a couple people at the register or a possible camera somewhere in the room, Ellie would have fucked you. She would have shoved the damn piercing in and shove you flat on the seat and she would have fucked you so hard you’d be numb the day after. But Ellie couldn’t.

Fuck, she wanted to, but she couldn’t. Because no matter how fucking hot you were, or how cute you looked staring so trustingly up at her with your cute fucking eyes while she shoved a needle in your mouth, or how your small breathy whine of pain when it went through made Ellie soak herself-

“I uh- ‘m gonna put the piercing through now. It’s gonna feel a bit pinchy for a second.”

She didn’t know if you wanted her back.

You scrunched your eyes a little, as the piercing went through, but discomfort finally turned into relief as you could finally put your tongue back in your mouth. Then it went quiet for a bit, the both of you not really knowing what to do next. Which was weird, because wasn’t Ellie used to doing this?

“Can I um, take a look?”

She stared at you, for a moment, almost like she was in thought, before nodding and reaching for the mirror and handing it to you. You held it up and stuck your tongue out once again. And, to your happiness, it looked really fucking good.

There was a chance you got a little too happy, however, as you smiled openly and started to almost flick your tongue about, looking at it from every angle imaginable. And maybe if you paid less attention to your new modification, and more on Ellie, you’d notice her focused stare on you. Well, your tongue, more like.

You’d have noticed her furrowed brows, deep in thought, her own mouth slightly open at the sight, and her fists clenching and unclenching, too. But you didn’t.

What you did notice, though, was her ripping the mirror out of your hands. Like an epiphany came to her about your piercing. She threw it on the table, making a loud clanging noise, before cupping your face with her hands on each side. She stayed like that for a while, staring at your now closed mouth and so close that you could feel her breath fanning on your face. And it took about five seconds before Ellie’s eyes widened and she realised how fucking weird she was being.

“Uh- fuck-” she began, almost like she was breathless. Her eyes flitted around the room and she shifted on her feet, until she could figure out what to say.

“Your piercing.”

“My…..piercing?”

“It’s crooked. Might be the backing but uh- I need to fix it.”

You raised a brow. Wasn’t Ellie mean to be a really good piercer? Maybe it was the piercing itself or something, you thought, as you nodded closely and opened your mouth. Slowly, you felt her right hand trail from your cheek to your lips, thumb pulling slightly on the bottom one before slipping her index into your mouth.

Shit, Ellie missed it so much. Albeit, it had probably been three minutes since she last had her fingers in your mouth, but it felt so good. Like they belonged there. She wondered how long she could keep this up, before you noticed what she was doing. She was almost worried you’d find out and get mad at her. But then she felt your tongue swishing along her index, and then she slipped her middle finger in too. And then, Ellie stopped giving a fuck.

And you couldn’t help but rest your cheek on the lasting hand on the side of your face, almost nestling into it as subtly as possible. Part of you knew this was unprofessional, that there were better ways to go about a fucked up piercing. But another part of you couldn’t help but like what Ellie was doing. And you couldn’t help but suck.

Ellie choked out a moan. She covered it up though, by talking.

“You need to stop moving. Here, let me just-”

“Ellie-”

“Shhh, don’t move.” She spoke so tenderly, almost whispering to you as her thumb stroked your cheek. Maybe it was the soft dominance she was extruding, or maybe it was because of how desperately fucking wet you already were. Either way, you listened.

You sat pin straight, as you felt the hand cupping you cheek slip down your jaw, and find its place on your throat. And you stayed still, as you felt her hand close around it and squeeze on either side.

“Can you stay still now, baby?” God, that made you feel fuzzy. That and the now limited blood circulation coming to your brain. Fuck, you never realised choking felt this good.

Ellie watched you, as you slouched and drooped your eyes, as drool started to slip out of your mouth while you were still sucking on her fingers. How you whimpered as her hold on your throat tightened - how your thighs rubbed together as she did that.

And you watched Ellie, through your hazy, droopy eyes, as her breathy pants got deeper, as she leaned even closer to you as her grip tightened, and as her eyes searched yours for some sort of response to a question she didn’t ask - but you knew she wanted the answer to. You sucked even harder. You let your tongue run along the ridged and bumps the gloves made on her finger. You swallowed so hard that her hand on your throat moved along in tandem.

“Shit- you- ohmygod-” Ellie’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and she whined. She was pleading you at this point.

And you nodded.

…Fuck it.

“You wanna fuck?” She mumbled breathily, taking a long, condescending glance at your body - the state of your body - and then another at the lock on the door. Running a hand through her hair, Ellie took a deep breath, before letting out a loose chuckle.

“God- s’is so fuckin stupid…” She ran her tongue along her teeth, scoffing at how eagerly, how desperately you looked at her. And this time, she answered her own question for you.

“…..Yeah, let’s fuck.”

Taglist: @happysparklingshadows @irelandzo @r3starttt @iamaboringrattat @genderfluidlesbain999 @slut4mascss @rxreaqia @kylorey25 @massivepeacefemme @elliewilliamsfavborderhopper @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @ratdungeon @elxarw @mariasabanahabanabana @vvynia @abbyshands @littlegingerperson5 @flowersforvi

[adayumantium]

The Good Guy 

Logan Howlett x fem!reader

A/N: MY FIRST LOGAN FIC YIPPEEEE; also, my first fic in ermm many, many years. My bad. Pls be nice as I try and get in the groove of it all… Inspired by  X2: X-Men United (2003), in which Logan ensures Jean that he can be “the good guy” that she needs. After being told that he’s the bad boy so many times, Logan is inclined to believe it

Summary: When you need a date to a family function, you know exactly who you want. He, on the other hand, is not so sure… 

W/C: 918 

tags/warnings: a n g s t then fluff, family functions , cursing, reader is shorter than Logan but i thinkk that’s the only physical descriptor, ooc!logan, maybe, just to cover my rusty writing, confessing feelings teehee, logan x fem! reader 

********************************

“Please Logan, please, please, please,” you pleaded. You weren’t one to beg, but this man did it to you. He took another puff of his cigar, refusing to meet your eyes. 

“No dice, bub,” he exhaled, “I’m not your guy,” his voice was gruff, rugged. 

“I already RSVP’d that I’d bring a plus one, I cannot show up by myself. I’d never hear the end of it,” you sighed, trying once more to entice him with your eyes. He was steadfast. “You don’t have to read into it or anything, it would be totally platonic,” you added quickly. 

“Then you have your pick of the mansion, sweetheart,” he scoffed. 

Even if this was true, you didn’t want anyone else. This is the man you wanted in formal wear. This is the man you wanted on your arm all night. This is the man you wanted to dance with, close enough to smell the whisky on his breath. The man you wanted to introduce to your family. Even a little rough around the edges, you would choose him any day. 

“Alright, then I pick you!” you insisted, tugging on his jacket. 

“Darlin’, I’m telling you, I really think you should reconsider,” he looked at you now, eyes full of something you can’t quite place. Fear? Doubt? 

“Lo, everyone else is lame! And there’s an open bar, and-”

“It's a bad idea!” Logan snapped, jerking away. Before you could react, he stormed inside, leaving you with nothing but the smoke in the air and a sinking feeling in your stomach.  

Would he not choose you back? 

Having left you behind, Logan slammed the door of his bedroom. Of course, in your years of knowing one another, he'd thought about you; his earliest memories of knowing you were fantasies, and he hated every moment in the dark after that. He felt selfish, wanting you to himself. You had such a good life. You were friends with good people, and you deserved a good guy. Not him. 

Logan was ripped back into reality by a knock on the door. He could smell your sweetness through the door. It made his mouth water, his fists clench. 

“Was I not clear enough?” he stood with a huff, striding to open the door. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t turn you away, not when he knew you were just trying to check on him. You would always do the right thing; it was part of your charm. 

“...Hi.” You looked up at him, clearly hurt. Through shaky breaths, you stood before him, and it sent his senses ablaze. He wanted nothing more than to hold you, to kiss your head, and tell you that he didn’t mean a word. But that was for guys who stuck around. Logan sucked his teeth, clinging to the leftover nicotine in an attempt to feel something other than dread. He hung onto the doorframe with one arm, shooing you off with the other. 

“Y/n, really, just-” 

“Logan, I’m in love with you,” you cried. At that moment, he couldn’t run anymore. Not from what he felt, or thought you felt. 

“Bub, I’m not what you want,” Logan shook his head, but refused to break from your eyes. “I, uh, I’ve seen a lot of shit, I’ve done a lot worse, and you need somethin’ a lot different from all that,” he exhaled. 

“That’s up to me!” you insisted. “You can’t tell me what I want, or ‘need’. That’s not up to you, Lo. If you don’t want me… just say that,” you quiver. “I don’t care about an asshole, but I can’t stand a liar,” you look at your feet, preparing yourself for imminent heartbreak. 

“Princess…” Logan whispers, tilting your chin up. His fingers are calloused, but gentle as the pad of his thumb runs over your face. “Is that what you think this is about?”

“I mean, what else could-” 

“Fuck, darlin’, I’m sorry. I…I meant what I said. I’ve seen a lot of shit. Been through a lot of shit. But that’s about me, not you. Shit, I mean, I’m obsessed with you,” he held your face in his hands, stroking your cheeks softly. “I’m just not the kind of guy you take home to meet your family. That’s all,” Logan shook his head. 

“Wait, you’re what?” you smile softly. 

“Y/n, I do want you. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. Fuck, I…” he trailed off before crashing his lips into yours. Taken aback, you blinked once, twice, before melting into him. You loved the way Logan’s facial hair brushed your face; you often daydreamed about what it felt like. Your arms draped around his neck, and he settled on the small of your back. The taste of his lips was dizzying as Logan pulled you closer, making your chest flush to his. If the way his warmth enveloped your body wasn’t enough to drive you crazy, the little noises escaping his mouth definitely were. 

You pull back to take a breath, forehead against his. 

“I, uh, can’t promise you forever,” Logan sighed. “At least, not yet. But I can promise you right now, and I hope that’s enough, princess,” he nodded slowly, his hands making his way to your waist. 

“How about two weeks from now?” you smile. “Which is totally not an excuse to get you in a suit…” you giggle. 

“I guess I’ll come. Y’know. For the open bar,” he smiles back, pulling you into his room for further kissing. 

[toruro]

— ✧ crazy stupid love

pairing. kwon soonyoung x reader

description. your best friend, turned fuck buddy, seems a little too upset about your latest instagram post ...

tags. smut (18+), fwb to lovers, some angst, fluff, confessions, mean dom → switch hoshi, jealousy, arguments (dw there is resolution), angry sex, biting, dacryphilia, degrading (+ discussion of degradation), use of safeword, slightly inspired by crazy stupid love

w/c. 3.6k

a/n. happy birthday hoshi! ngl this has been sitting in my drafts for like 2 months but i figured i should wrap it up and post it today :3

"who's this?" soonyoung asks, holding his phone up to your face. on the screen is a picture that you posted on your story last night, your friend with an arm around your shoulder.

"huh, that's dongwoo," you say, looking up at him with furrowed eyebrows. the back of your head is leaning against his shoulder as your legs are propped up on the other end of the sofa. soonyoung came over to watch the harry potter marathon with you a few hours ago, but with the showing break going on right now, you're both taking some time to catch up on your phones.

"who's that?" soonyoung says flatly, not looking at your face as he pulls his phone back, squinting at the photo. his gaze feels oddly scrutinizing, but you don't say anything about it just yet.

sitting up from your position, soonyoung frowns as you lift yourself off of him to sit across from him on the couch. "you don't remember dongwoo? he went to high school with us?" soonyoung gives you a blank stare. "jeong dongwoo? doesn't the name ring a bell?"

the name does ring a bell, but soonyoung only shrugs and replies, "uh, no i can't say it does."

"no way! we had chem with him! he was really nice and good at labs too," you go on, reminiscing about your memories from your teen years.

"that's weird, i don't remember him." that's a lie—soonyoung definitely remembers dongwoo, but he doesn't remember him ever being as smitten with you as he looks on your post.

"well whatever," you brush off, leaning back onto soonyoung's arm. "he was in town and dmed me asking if i wanted to catch up over dinner."

"a date?" soonyoung asks shamelessly.

you scoff. "no. not a date. just two friends meeting up for dinner."

"a guy and a girl don't meet up for dinner and not call it a date," your friend argues, and then you lift yourself off of him again. soonyoung is slightly annoyed you aren't curled up by his side anymore, but he's even more annoyed by dongwoo's stupid smile on his stupid face with his stupid arm around you.

"what are you talking about? we go out for dinner all the time! those aren't dates," you tell him as a matter of factly, frowning slightly as you do.

"yeah," soonyoung murmurs with a humorless laugh. "and we usually fuck afterwards, so our case is obviously different."

heat courses through your body as the words leave his lips. it's not like he's wrong, but the shamelessness of it all is a little more than you're used to. you're used to the deafening silence and the unspoken words that fill the gaps every time soonyoung leaves you breathless, every time he leaves your brain empty, every time he fucks you.

after he says that, there's that thick, ugly silence wedging itself between you and soonyoung again. you don't like it, not one bit.

"whatever," you finally huff out, not sure if you should lay back down on him or continue sitting up, sensing that soonyoung might want to make a bigger deal out of this than is good for him. "it wasn't a date, i don't know what else to tell you."

neither of you know why you're trying to convince him of this. it shouldn't matter if it was a date or if it wasn't, if dongwoo had an arm around your shoulder, if his touch lingered more, fingers ghosting down your body, up your thigh—

that's what soonyoung tries to tell himself—that it doesn't matter, that none of it matters, that you don't matter to him—at least not like that. too bad he can't control himself. soonyoung can never control himself when it comes to you, and he's starting to wonder if that's a blessing or a curse.

he scoffs, "you're being a real brat right now."

your eyes narrow at him and while this would usually put you in one of those moods—the mood where you want to yank your pants off, have soonyoung's hand in your panties—you're slightly annoyed right now. "what's that supposed to mean?" you ask accusingly, crossing your arms tightly over your chest.

it's a thoughtless gesture but your tits bunch up together and the curve peeks over the collar of your loose shirt. soonyoung stares for a moment and then thinks about if dongwoo looked at you like this. like he wanted to grab your tits, tweak your pretty nipples between his fingers, drink in your moans while he licks into your mouth.

the thought has red flashing through his vision and before you can even think, there's a pair of hot, wet lips on yours and soonyoung is kissing you like he'll die if he doesn't. teeth gnashing against each other as one of his hands wraps around your torso, the other goes up to grab one of your tits, massaging the flesh with his palm.

yeah, you said you were annoyed, but yeah soonyoung is a great kisser and your mind is throttling, going back and forth as you try to decide if you should give in or attempt to hold your own. "soonyoung," you pant as you break away to take a breath, but his lips are on yours again too quickly for you to form a reply.

you find your resolve running thin as you thread your finger into his hair, bringing his face closer as he shifts on the couch above you, knees on either side of you, caging you in. his mouth his pressing kisses to the side of your lips now, peppering your cheeks, and then he's on your neck.

your lips aren't occupied but any words of protest have effectively died in your throat as you squirm under soonyoung when he sinks his teeth into your skin, whining out his name. your hips buck into his for some much needed tension and you can feel soonyoung chuckled against your skin as he licks over the reddening mark.

you feel dizzy when he pulls away and admires the way he's quite literally marked his territory on you. scoffing out loud, soonyoung gives you mean look. "wonder what dongwoo will think about this ..." your mind races at the words—what soonyoung means by that is still a bit of a mystery to you, but the fact that he's so hell bent on keeping you to himself is ... it's turning you on like crazy.

and soonyoung doesn't stop there as he pulls off his shirt and you try to shimmy out of your pants. "what'll he think, huh? his cute little crush ..." he murmurs, looking down at you after your pants are off and thrown to the side, leaving you in just your soiled panties. "his dream high school sweetheart with her legs open, pussy dripping, for a guy who isn't even her fuckin' boyfriend ... like a fuckin' slut."

you gasp when he brings up a thumb to toy with your clit through the fabric, hips jerking up at the contact. "w-what are you—" you're cut off by your own moan when soonyoung pushes the cloth to the side, slipping one finger into your aching cunt without warning. you really want to ask soonyoung what he means by all this, but it just feels so good—too good, and you can't help it at all—your body seems to always give into him.

his finger is already hitting that one spot that he knows has you seeing stars, and your jaw goes slack at how quickly the pleasure is all hitting you. usually, soonyoung likes to work you up to it; starts by playing with your clit for a few hot minutes 'til you're begging for just some fingers inside and then he toys with you for another good while before he finally gives you his cock and fucks you dumb. something tells you today is a bit different.

today is very different, but you have a strong feeling that you won't mind. because all it takes is a few more quick flicks of his wrist and you're crying out his name, saying, "'m gonna cum—soon-soonyoung, 'm cumming!"

you thrash around on the cushions as your orgasm hits you, and soonyoung buries his head into your neck and biting down even harder than before. the slight sting has your senses heightening and your cunt throbs around his fat fingers as he fucks you through the high, not relenting until your neck is littered with hot red marks and you're quivering beneath him.

a content sigh escapes your lips when he slips out of you, allowing yourself a moment to breathe as you start to sit up when soonyoung narrows his eyes at you, unbuckling his jeans in the process.

"don't move," he warns and although you furrow your brows, you comply nonetheless, letting your head fall back against the couch as you watch him shove down his pants and boxers in one go. soonyoung's fat length springs out, hitting against his abdomen as he shuffles his way in between your legs.

pressing his lips together, he asks, "color?" and when the word green is slipping softly from his mouth, he finds it hard to hold back. "fuck, how are you this needy already," he groans when he catches the look on your face—your bottom lip jutted out as you look up at him with shining eyes.

soonyoung grabs your cheek with one hand roughly, shoving a thumb into your mouth as he positions his cock between your folds. you're quick to wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking hard and swirling your tongue in hopes that it'll egg him on to just stick it in already, but instead he just slides his length up and down your folds.

you pout around his thumb but don't stop sucking, letting the drool run down your chin as tears well up in your waterline, and soonyoung chuckles at the look. "go on baby, go on. know you want it," he coos mockingly, continuing to cover his length in your slick but not actually giving you what you want.

"soonyoungie," you whimper when you can't take it anymore, trying to lift your hips yourself so he'll get the message but then he's pressing down on your stomach and holding you in your place.

"be patient slut," he demands, and your eyes press closed when he does, walls clenching around nothing as the word slips from his mouth. "you just came—are you really that insatiable?"

you nod dumbly as he slips his thumb out of your mouth, using the same, wet hand to tightly squish your cheeks together. soonyoung thinks you look so cute like this—puffy lips and lashes thick with tears—and he doesn't give you even a moment's warning when he snaps his cock inside of you in one go.

his balls are pressed against your ass, and soonyoung holds himself there for just a moment before he's pulling back and thrusting back into you. "god fuck—perfect pussy," he groans, thrust after thrust as you throttle against the couch with the increasing force.

you can feel your ass and thighs burn from the way his skin slaps against yours every single time, the sensation only adding fuel to the fire as you cry out his name.

"bet dongwoo thought about this," soonyoung moans as he starts jamming his cock into you less methodically and more sloppy, more hard, more fierce. "thought 'bout having you moaning his name like the pretty whore you are."

you try to mewl something along the lines of, "we're just friends," but it comes out as nothing but a high pitched moan as your second orgasm creeps up on you.

and it's fucking mind-numbing, and you don't think you've ever cum so hard and so fast but soonyoung is grinning down at you as you arch your back and squeeze around his cock so tight it almost pushes him off the edge but no—he's determined to keep going until you can't take it anymore.

"keep goin' baby, i know you can take it." he hardly gives you a second to rest, thrusts slowing only for a few moments as he watches you cream his cock before letting his hands roam all over you.

in your overstimulated haze, you hardly realize when soonyoung flips you over, cock still buried deep inside your hot cunt as you try to stabilize yourself on your knees. his hand is on the back of your neck, pressing your face into the cushions so hard it muffles your moans as his cock batters your buzzing pussy.

he's ramming into you so hard now and all you can feel is white hot pleasure ripping through your body, soonyoung whispering about how you're his filthy little slut, taking everything he's giving you. gripping onto the side of the couch, you try to hold yourself together, you really, really do, but it's too much all at the same time and the word slips from your lips before you even have to think about using it.

"r-red." it's so quiet and hoarse the first time that you aren't even sure if he can hear you so you cry out again, "red, s-soonyoung, red."

it's all a haze when soonyoung slips out of you slowly, giving you both a few moment to adjust as you finally catch your breath over the hiccups of your soft whimpers.

now soonyoung likes seeing you cry, but not when it's like this. he likes seeing you whine and tear up when you're under him and writhing from pleasure, but what he doesn't like is the way your eyebrows are furrowed like this. 'cause when he looks at you now, he sobers up and the anger that fogged his mind just moments ago is clearing up.

"s-shit, i'm sorry," he says quickly as you curl up against the cushions, limbs still quivering from all the pleasure and stimulation. soonyoung wants to reach out, wants to touch you—hold you—and ask you what wen wrong, promise you that he didn't meant to go too far, promise you that he didn't even realize it, but he's not sure if he should.

because right now you won't meet his gaze and he's wondering if he's somehow royally fucked up what's likely the best thing he's got going on his life.

soonyoung's lost for a few moments before senses are snapping into him and he thinks he should get you some water, a towel—do anything except sit here dumbly like he is right now. but when he shuffles away from you and is about to step of the couch he feels a familiar touch around his wrist and he gapes down at you.

"wait," you mumble, finally looked up at him once the tears have stopped flowing. soonyoung stills for a moment, and he's not sure if he should take that as in invitation to move closer or just stay put, but then you're tugging him softly and he can't help but cave. "can y-you lay on top of me?" you ask timidly, and soonyoung gives you a weird look as if to ask, are you sure? "i, uh, i think it'd help me. please?"

that's all takes for him to drape his whole body over you, arms pressed against your side and hands stroke your shoulders. your bare chests are pressed against you and soonyoung swears your rapid heartbeats sync up on the spot as you breaths start to relax.

when all finally feels calm, soonyoung takes a moment to finally ask you the question that's been bothering him this whole time. lifting his head, he finds you looking right back at him. "are you okay? what went wrong?"

"i—yes, i'm okay."

"a-are you sure? you can tell me anything you know—i won't judge, i won't care—i mean obviously i'll care but you know what i mean and—" he starts to ramble, and your lips almost twitch up into a smile, "—and i'm sorry this isn't about me but i'm worried i did something and might have majorly fucked things up and—"

"soonyoung," you say, voice all breathy and light. "slow down, i'm okay."

"are you?" he asks, and his voice is so shaky you frown.

"yes, i promise. i'm, well, i think i just got overwhelmed. it was a lot and happened really quickly and it was a bit more intense than i'm used to," you admit. "not that i didn't like it ... i just wasn't expecting it."

soonyoung watches you carefully as you speak, sitting up and pulling you up in the process too. "i'm sorry—i didn't realize," he confesses. "i was—" he inhales sharply wondering if he should admit his jealousy, "— a bit lost in my own head. i shouldn't have taken it out on you like that. do you want me to get you water?"

you nod and he stands up, heading to the kitchen to grab you a glass. when he sits back down, next to you, soonyoung is relieved when you curl up by his side, gulping down the drink before questioning him. "um, can i ask what you mean by, uh, lost in your head? wait actually—before you answer that—" you pause, "—do you really think i'm a slut?"

soonyoung's eyes widen. "no—fuck, god no. i just—you know, we usually—you know—degrade. if you don't like it i'll stop and—"

"no no, soonyoung, like, i meant outside of sex. do you think i was—i dunno—messing around with dongwoo?"

dongwoo? "no—i don't think you're a slut for that. shit, i'm sorry—i don't even know what the fuck got into me. i just—i don't even know. okay fuck. fuck. okay. i was jealous."

"of dongwoo? we didn't even fu—"

"i know. i know—it shouldn't even matter because we're not exclusively fucking or whatever but i got jealous okay? i don't know—i fucking love you so i saw him with his stupid hand around you and i wanted to punch him in the fuckin' face."

your eyes snap wide at that. "what? you—fuck—what?"

soonyoung hardly even realizes he's confessed until you're looking up at him with those wide eyes and he wonders how he's managed to dig himself deeper into this hole. shit, there's really no getting out of this now. he might as well crawl down further and sit there for the rest of his life and—

"i, uh—i didn't know you felt the same way."

"what? what do you mean the same way—"

"are you stupid, soonyoung?"

"um, kind of."

you laugh and kiss him hard for a second. suddenly you're pressing his shoulders and swinging a leg over his thighs so you can straddle his laps.

"wait hold on," he murmurs, but continues to wrap his arms around your waist as you lift your hips to align yourself over his still hard cock. "a-are you sure? are you okay?"

"yeah," you mutter, kissing him again as you wrap your arms around his neck. "can we take it a little easier from here though?"

soonyoung doesn't hesitate to say, "yes, of course—" but the last word gets cut off by a hitch of his breath when you sink down on him, the two of you moaning in unison at the feeling. his hands are gripping your waist and holding you down as he relaxes, leaning back into the seat as he casually says, "i am never calling you a slut again. or anything degrading for that matter." it's half a joke, half not, and you can tell he's still on edge.

"i like it," you admit as you adjust yourself on his lap, not really moving yet though. "just—i was a bit worried today. i thought you— i dunno. didn't know you liked me too and i didn't know what to think."

soonyoung furrows his brows but can't find the right words to say, so he kisses you instead, pulling you up so his cock drags out of halfway before gently letting you fall back down, tip hitting your walls slowly but deep.

"fuck," you moan into his mouth, holding his head closer to yours. absentmindedly, you lift your hips up again and then grind down methodically, causing both of you to break away from the kiss and look down at the sloppy wet mess where you connect.

and as you both get lost in the moment, fingers grappling at each other's burning skin, letting your bodies melt together, it dawns on you that you and soonyoung have fucked a countless amount of times but this is the first (of many) that you two have made love.

it's an entirely new experience, dreamy eyes and wet, passionate kisses with whispers of love confessions under your breaths and the smooth and damn good thrusts that slowly but surely bring you to the edge.

"feels so good," soonyoung moans, thrusting up into you gently to meet your bounces as you steady him with your arms around his shoulders.

"g'na cum, soonyoungie?" you try to coo, but it comes out as a whimper of your own as you feel that knot in your belly threaten to snap. and when he's nodding into your neck and sucking on the skin, you both fall apart in each other's arms.

cries and grunts mix together in a beautiful song and when you and soonyoung look at each other, sweating, flushed, teary eyed, and so fucking in love, you know that whatever happens with the two of you after this, it will work.

a/n. hope u enjoyed it!

tags. @synthetickitsune @leejihoonownsmyheart @dahliatopia @gyuswhore @hoeforcheol @5xiang @hajimelvr @miriamxsworld @lixiel0ver @josefines-things @mimisxs @kawennote09 @bbyjjunie @rubyreduji (strikethrough could not be tagged)