#you have to be careful you have to be diligent

[millersfinest]

untethered | e.w

00s!ellie williams & 00s!miller!reader

wc: 7.4k

series: chapter one (you’re here!)

blurb: it’s been awhile since you’ve been back home; in upstate new york where you’ve spent most of your life waking up early and tending to the animals that moo’d and meh’d. after graduation high school, and then college, the city life has stolen most of your attention. enabling you to visit only a handful of times through the years. when your lovely adoptive parents (tommy and maria miller) invite you back for a thanksgiving dinner—a troubled old flame from your childhood manages to get your attention, despite its explosive ending.

cw: lmao flip phones, some vulgar language, ellie cheating on her gf (kind of), the millers, r is a writer, elements of longing, ellie is #1 lesbian yearner in the world, some early 2000s references, thanksgiving, some physical violence, adopted kid trauma (shoutout to all the adopted kids!!), hella angst, repressed emotions, a little bit of mature content, eventual smut.

note: i have too much confidence writing for ellie. but here’s another series im starting because i realized the plot is too much for a single work on here, hence the 7 thousand words ijbol. hope you guys enjoyyy.

It was quieter upstate. Breathable and airy—you missed it more than anything. As much as you loved living in Manhattan, there was nothing like the countryside. Waking up to the sound of birds chirping and roosters crowing. Hearing the excited neighing from the horses you birthed and took care of. It was refreshing to be home again.

And, of course, you missed your parents.

They adopted you as a troubled child, and you’ve considered yourself lucky ever since. Babies and younger children were often the ones to be pulled from inconsistent foster homes, but they chose you. A pierced, attitude-ridden, thirteen-year-old who liked smoking cigarettes because they made you look cooler than you felt. And it helped you cope with the lasting effects of neglectful parents.

That trauma didn’t just disappear once Tommy and Maria entered your life. It was something that grew from nothing, and they were adamant in making your transition as comfortable as possible. You never experienced anything like it before them. Their strictness and structure did the opposite of what most would think. You went from sneaking out and smoking cigarettes to staying up late studying and finishing your favorite novels—still smoking cigarettes, though, but out your window. It was hard habit to break.

Once you realized that they could be trusted and had your best interest at heart, you gave them the right to parent you. Sure, it wasn’t easy. The three of you argued many, many times—but you respected them more than you have anyone else. Really, just for tolerating you.

The Miller’s were always very family oriented and social. Sunday nights always managed to be a grand event—Tommy grilling in the acred backyard, Maria handling the food items that could be cooked inside, and you diligently decorating and setting the table. Football Sundays were always the worst, but they were great memories to think about. That was the first time you met, basically, the love of your life at the time. Ellie Williams.

It was 1995 when you had completely fallen in love with her—only knowing her for around three years. Joel Miller wasn’t really her father, or adoptive father, he was just somebody who took care of her. He owned a guitar shop that sold, obviously, guitars and other instruments alike; as well as holding lessons for those wanted to learn how to play.

The story goes: Joel was working the register on a very slow day when Ellie showed up. There was a shiner on her eye, but she insisted that she was fine—asking for lessons with crumbled cash and dirty coins. She couldn’t afford the lessons on her own, so he gave her a job and proceeded with teaching her how to play.

She grew up similar to you; hidden under the confines of foster care. The only difference was, she was never adopted. At least not until the age of seventeen, when she’d spent so much time with Joel that she had a decorated bedroom in his house. They both had commitment issues, but after Tommy convinced him to do the paperwork… He did. Surprising her on her seventeenth birthday. However, the outcome didn’t really go to plan. Not how anyone would have expected it.

It was 1997 when she completely broke your heart… Not to be cheesy or anything.

Her seventeenth birthday was hosted at your house, on the farm. You knew her the most out of everyone, so you made it your mission to make this the best birthday ever. Decorating had become a hobby of yours after so many Sunday dinners—you spent all day stringing up lights and colorful streamers. Maria helping you out with a homemade cake that said: Happy Birthday Els! You were too anxious to write the words yourself, so you let her do it instead. You were even sure to invite the friends you shared; demanding they each brought presents to show how much they cared about her.

Joel had showed up before she did; just in time so they could all hide and jump out with big smiles on your faces when Ellie arrived. You would always remember the feeling of hearing the rumbling of her truck coming to a stop. And the shy smile on her face when everyone jumped out from behind furniture��blowing birthday kazoo’s. It was picturesque!

Dina had trotted over to her, snapping a blue paper cone birthday hat over her head. While you walked over with her birthday cake in your hands, brightened with seventeen candles. “Happy seventeenth, Ellie.” You had spoken, warmly. A bashful grin spreading onto your lips. She looked at you with such awe in that moment. Blowing out her candles and kissing your cheek, muttering a blushing ‘I fuckin’ love you’.

You knew about her surprise adoption papers before the party had started, excitement running through your veins when Joel meandered toward her—handing her an envelope of hope. Ellie took it, eyeing him, skeptically. “Open it!” You urged—that was your mistake.

Chortling, she broke open the envelope, not caring if it tore. When she pulled out the certificate, reading the words on the page, her entire face dropped. “Adoption papers?” Her eyes squinted in disgust, glaring at Joel. The smile fell from your face, lips parting in slight shock. Her olive eyes glanced around the room, seeing the fallen expressions clouding everyone’s features. Landing on your fallen face, briefly—a look exclaiming, ‘how could you’. Freckled cheeks heating up in embarrassment and… Anger. “Joel, what the fuck?” She blinked at him, shoving the papers into his chest, then storming out of the house. Hands ripping the hat from the top of head, throwing it to the ground. The screen door creaking obnoxiously as she exited. It all happened so fast.

He quickly followed her out, calling for her, desperately.

Awkwardly, you turned to the frozen people around you. “Anybody want cake? It’s german c— chocolate.” You stammered, trying to keep your composure. Looking to Maria and Tommy for some sort of consolation, you frowned, placing the cake on the counter before fleeing to the bathroom.

You clenched at the roots of your hair, pacing around the bathroom. You could hear remnants of a solo screaming match from outside the bathroom window, causing you to grit your teeth. The papers were supposed to be a good thing! Ellie had always been a hothead—easily agitated like a stray kitten is distress. There were even moments where the two of you went at it. Until one of you caved, begging for affection as an apology. Your nerves burned at the idea of her not liking the surprise—was that selfish?

Instead of remaining in the bathroom, you swung open the door with your eyes fixed on the front door. Hands clenched at your sides, you walked through the kitchen, where Tommy tried to liven up the mood by handing out pieces of cake.

He tried calling your name, but you brushed him off, pushing open the screen door with an attitude that could be felt with every step you took. The brisk autumn air hit your exposed skin, the long-sleeve striped shirt not doing much to keep you warm.

Striding around the side of the house, you seen Joel and Ellie having a stern conversation. But by the time your eyes landed on them, they were in a beat of silence. Joel shaking his head with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Ellie had her arms stubbornly crossed, frowning. When her eyes found yours, he turned around to leave. “She’s all yours…” He solemnly sighed, walking back into the house. The adoption papers crumbled up in his hands.

Biting your bottom lip, you approached her with your arms crossed for warmth. “What happened, Ellie?” Your voice dragged, tiredly. There was something always wrong with her. “We just wanted to do something nice for you… Why’d you have to go and ruin it—?”

“Oh, I’m the one who ruined it?” She scoffed, a sneer resting on her lips. “I’m not the one who brought the fucking adoption papers!” Ellie exclaimed, gesturing broadly with her hands. When she was up in arms, she always gesticulated more. “Did you have anything to do with this? Because if you did—“

You interrupted her with scrutinizing glare. “So, what if I did? I thought this would make you happy, Ellie… Don’t you understand?”

“You had me open that in front of everyone knowing what was inside— and you thought that’d make me happy?” Her lips arched in disgust. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all.” Her words were venomous, lips twitching in anger.

There was nobody who understood you more than Ellie, and vice versa. You just got each other because you came from similar backgrounds—that was your glue. You don’t know me at all. That was new.

With your eyes growing warm with tears, your tongue rolled in your mouth. “I spent all day setting this up… For you. Because I love you, Ellie. I don’t know you— that’s bullshit if I ever heard it.” Your voice cracked, but you refused to let a tear run down your cheek. This was no time for tears—if she could get angry, so could you.

“I’ve known you long enough to have some semblance of understanding on why you’re upset, right now— that’s for damn sure.” You paused, averting your eyes to concentrate on keeping your rising emotions at bay. She watched you, cheeks still red with anger. “I’m gonna give you ten minutes— ten, Ellie! If you don’t get your ass back in there in next ten fucking minutes…” You lick your lips, shaking your head. “We’re over. Done!”

Giving a final glare, you turned to head back inside. “I can’t keep dealing with this shit.” You mutter, under your breath.

“So that’s what it is… Dealing with me?” Ellie voiced, a sliver of disappointment slipping in her moment of anger.

Wiping your cheeks, you peered over your shoulder. “What?”

“You got this perfect little life… Huh?” She began, approaching you intimidatingly. “The loving parents, the farmhouse— you became the perfect daughter for them… Gets the grades, does everything she can to appease them. This fuckin’ fantasy world that you chose to live in all because you wanted someone to love you… Fuckin’ pathetic.”

“Ellie…” You warned.

“Well, newsflash, little-miss-perfect— not everybody wants that! Not everybody wants to play pretend for the rest of their fucking life just to be—“

It happened before you could stop it, fists clenching at your sides as she bad mouthed you till oblivion. Your soft spot—and she knew all about that. Both of you grew up as kids who got into fights and disputes more times than anyone could count; you just decided to clean up your act. However, that troubled twelve to thirteen-year-old still resided inside of you. And, in that moment, she wasn’t your doting girlfriend—she was someone punching down on you.

Your knuckles collided with the side of her face, knocking into her cheek bone. Features scowling as if she were a stranger. Ellie stumbled, holding onto her face with surprised eyes. For a second the version of her you loved came through, but she quickly recovered. Her lips curling at the ends, taunting you. “I knew you still had it in you… You’re no better than me.”

There it was.

Not only was it the straw that broke the camels back—it was the truth. The ultimate truth. Behind all of your petty little arguments. Behind all her wild bursts of anger. She was jealous of you. Grunting behind your teeth, you charged at her. Taking the collar of her jacket as her back hit the gravelly ground. Straddling her, you didn’t hear the rushing feet hitting the porch. You could feel her hands settling loosely on your calves, only angering you more. “I did the fucking work— nobody else but me!” Tears poured down your cheeks. “I am better than you. Because I fucking try—“

Arms pulled you off her body, wrapping around your abdomen. It was Tommy, questioning you in your ear, but you weren’t listening. “Everything went to shit because of you! Remember that!” Dina and Jesse rushed to her side, but she only sat up watching you get pulled back inside. They glared at your forced retreat—they were always more friends with her than they were with you.

Tommy released you, with a disappointed sigh. Maria walking inside, shutting the door behind her, frowning. You heaved, looking at all the decorations that mocked you. Sparkling and shining against the dim lights in the room. The barely eaten cake sat on the counter in the kitchen making fun of you—it was all too much.

“What the hell has gotten into you, y/n?!” Maria pointedly, asked. Not really wanting a response.

“What’s gotten into me?! What’s gotten into her—!” You pointed to the door as if she replaced it.

The blond man leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter, bending at his hips. “Well, I don’t think it matters what’s gotten into her if you put your hands on her, Bug.” Tommy spoke, evenly. He was always the calmer of the two. “Did you… Did you put your hands on her?”

Maria stood with her hands on her hips. “What did we say about fighting—? And you don’t hit your girlfriend— you don’t hit the people that you care about!” She scolded, pointing her finger. “We raised you better than that…”

Your lips quivered, guilt setting in. “I didn’t mean to hit her! She wanted— she wanted me to… I swear!”

He glanced at his wife. “She wanted you to hit her?” Tommy deadpanned, pressing his lips into a line.

They both looked at you with separate expressions. Maria clearly overwhelmed with disappointment and utter disbelief. The same look she gave you when she caught you smoking cigarettes at the barn when you were fourteen—when you told her you quit. Tommy had an expression of pity, like he often did. That same look he gave when you had a meltdown at school when you first moved in with them.

More tears began to roll down your cheeks. “Maria… Tommy… She pushed me. Why would she do that? Why would she—“ You began to ramble, knees growing weak. Your strict mother-figure rushed to your side, catching you before you fell. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to— she was just being so mean.”

Sinking to the floor with you, her hands caressed your hair. Maria looked to Tommy, mouthing for him to go check on Ellie.

Outside, Ellie was dismissing the weary questions from her friends. She’d never seen you act in such an unruly way. Every time she came over, there wasn’t a hair that was out of place on your head. She was always the one acting out, swearing like a sailor. Sure, she knew about your smoking habit, but that was nothing.

Your girlfriend was envious of how everything was panning out for you—college was around the corner. You had an acceptance letter from your dream school, and without a doubt, you were leaving for the city. Leaving her behind to rot in the country. It wasn’t fair!

That adoption letter felt like pity. She wasn’t a fan of that feeling either.

As a bruise formed on her cheek, guilt settled into the pit of her stomach. Ellie had every intention on seeing the side of you that everyone talked about with a past tense that indicated warning. She needed to prove to herself that you weren’t the perfect person she saw you to be—but all that was left behind was remorse and a sore cheek.

She watched as Joel and Tommy stepped aside to talk. Their eyes glancing back and forth between the door and Ellie, as she leaned against her rusted red truck.

“I can’t believe she would do something like that… On your birthday?” Dina shook her head, with her arms crossed.

“It’s not like her…” Jesse narrowed his eyes at the auburn-haired girl. “What’d you do?”

Dina smacked his chest. “Jessie! She’s literally the victim here— domestic abuse!”

He sucked his teeth, rolling his eyes. “I’m not saying what she did was right.” Jessie began. “I’m saying that I know Ellie Williams, and I know how she is— she’s a pusher.”

The bruised seventeen-year-old scoffed.

“Yeah, I said it.” He stood tall, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You’re a pusher. Hell, you’re a professional pusher— you push people for a fucking living.” Dina glared at him, threatening to hit him again. “I mean, there was that one time… When we went into the city for that comic convention, and you completely obliterated Joel for worrying about you—“

The dark-haired, freckled teenager pushed her boyfriend out of the way taking his place. “We don’t have to relive that…”

Ellie rolled her tongue in her mouth. “Look, I know this is my fault…”

“Ellie… You’re the one with the bruise forming on your face.” She reached up, rubbing her cheek. Her wincing under her touch.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, squeezing her red eyes. “Yeah, and if it weren’t for me— for what I said… I wouldn’t have this fuckin’ bruise.” Ellie peered at where Joel and Tommy were speaking. They were wrapping up, giving brotherly hugs. “I am a pusher… And now my girlfriend hates me.” She pouted, tears welling up in her eyes. The blond Miller waved a hand at her, giving a tight-lipped smile that screamed I’m sorry. “I gotta go…” She pulled her keys from her pocket, getting into her truck.

That was the last full conversation the two of you had. Horrible, but the last. Everything in between then and the present was short and empty. Light conversations that only strangers and acquaintances shared. Letters here and there. It was a dispute that was so nuanced, for the first year after that, Joel barely said a word to you. Which bled into his relationship with Tommy. Maria tried to play middleman, but it didn’t work.

Perhaps, that was the reason you kept your distance. You didn’t want to continue to be the wedge that formed between two brothers. While you loved your parents, they were only a phone-call away. And, in the meantime, you could focus on growing in your career. Focusing on your book writing, instead.

You just wanted to forget about what happened when you were an emotionally undeveloped seventeen-year-old, but every time you seen her face—you remembered. So, avoiding Ellie Williams was a mission within itself.

A mission you were hoping you weren’t going to have to endure this year.

“You know,” Tommy began, sipping his fresh coffee. “Joel’s coming down from Jersey for the week.”

As you looked through the fridge, you snapped your head in his direction. “Is he now…?” You slowly question. Letting the fridge door shut on its own. The blonde woman to his right, sitting at the island counter, chuckled. Flipping through the interior design magazine you brought for her.

“And he’s picking up Ellie from the city.”

“What!” You exclaim, rushing to the opposite side of the counter. Pulling the mug from his lips, a surprised squeak left your throat. “Uh, dad… You forgot to mention on the several phone calls that we had in that last month that Ellie moved to the city.”

Maria perked up, pushing a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, she’s been there for about a year now… Brooklyn, is it?” She looked to her husband for clarification. He nodded, peering up at you with a plain expression.

“A year?! And none of you told me?”

“Bug, you did say that you didn’t want us to bring her up anymore unless you asked.” Maria stood to her feet, meandering to the stove and oven. “But that does remind me… They should be here in a few hours. Wanna help with the brownies?” She preheated the oven, walking around you casually.

Your mouth fell open, glancing between the two of them. “Okay, so they get brownies, and I get the worst news of my life…” An apron with your nickname embroidered on the front, Bug, hung in your mother's hand as an offering. “Yes, I’ll help with the brownies— this is very cruel to your very successful daughter.”

Tommy waved his hand, dismissively. “C’mon, that incident happened years ago now. You’re twenty-five, I’m sure she’s gotten over it.”

Tying the string around your neck and back, you pressed your lips into a line. It wasn’t really about her—you weren’t over it. You still harbored the same guilt you felt when you settled in your room that night. A crazy mixture of resentment and remorse all rolled up into one feeling; as you settled in your reading nook, with your hand out the window holding a burning cigarette with your index and middle finger. “I’m sure she has…”

Eventually, you switched the conversation around while baking. Falling into fits of laughter from mentioning past stories of your teenagehood. Teaming up with Maria to make fun of Tommy and his aging—all of a sudden, he was beginning to have a knack for playing a checkers. Only old people enjoyed playing checkers. Then, the waiting began.

To busy yourself, you pulled out your computer and brought it to the porch. Even though, you were taking some time off at your publishing job; when it came to your book writing, you had an agent to keep flooding your inbox with emails. Telling you to do this and do that—it was obnoxious. But you did as she asked anyway.

Typing away, a puff of nicotine fled from your lips. Murmuring under your breath, the words that were populating on the screen. On your hip, your phone rang, causing you to throw your head back in slight agony. Something always interrupted you when you were flowing. Flipping open your phone, the decorative chain swinging around as you placed it against your ear. “Hello,” You spoke, stubbing out your cigarette.

It was your roommate and closest friend, Sierra, complaining about the neighbors. Her strong long island accent echoing through the phone. “Oh, my God— they’re so loud! You’d think gettin’ an apartment in a nicer building would thicken the walls.” She groaned on the other end. “Please, come back. At least to tell them to shut up, and then you could go back upstate.”

“Why don’t you… I don’t know…” You shut your laptop, replacing your butt with the boxy electronic. Strolling to the far end of the porch, leaning your arms against the bannister. “Tell them yourself?” An amused smile spread on your lips.

Sierra paused. “Because that’s your job. I’m the nice one, remember?”

“Okay, well I can’t leave. I just got here, and I’m not spending another grand on taxi fare.”

“I’ll spot you.” You could hear her smile on the end.

“Sierra, I’m not coming back until Saturday. So, your only options are to either bang on their door— telling them to shut the hell up— or you suffer listening to their relentless daytime sex.” As you spoke, a truck began rolling up the driveway. Identities unclear due to the intense window tint, but you knew exactly who it was. However, there were three heads in that truck.

She groaned on the other end of the line. “Ugh! I hate you—“

“You love me!” You grinned, but it dropped right off your face when the people exited the vehicle. From the driver's seat, it was Ellie; then, it was Joel who exited, seemingly in conversation. And, finally, a girl stepped out of the vehicle. Joel noticed you leaning against the bannister on the porch, waving his hand with a smile.

Your muscles reacted, waving a fleeting hand. “Maria, Tommy! They’re here!” You yell loud enough to be heard through the screen door. You were always insecure about calling them by their parental titles in front of people—let alone new people.

“You’re yelling in my ear, hon. If you gotta go just tell me.” Sierra complained.

“I gotta go.”

Before she could say her goodbyes, you shut your phone, sliding it into your back pocket. Your parents came out of the house in high spirits; Maria clapping her hands, excitedly, embracing Ellie. Tommy giving a firm bear hug to Joel, laughing heartily—at what? You were unsure.

Awkwardly, you stood there. Smiling with your hands held in front of your body as if you were presenting a project.

Joel looked to you, approaching you with open arms. “Look at you,” He began, wrapping his arms around you, warmly. “All grown up.” He pulled back to get a better look at you, nodding proudly.

“Yeah…” You tapped his shoulder. “You, too.” A chuckle fell from your lips.

Then, you looked to your right at the freckled girl with her arm around a feminine stranger. However, you couldn’t indentify her before you did Ellie. Her auburn hair was pulled into a low bun, with pieces framing her gentle features. Her round evergreen, tinted with slivers of brown, eyes. Freckles decorating her cheeks, bridge of her nose; the beauty mark under left eye—

“Hey,” Ellie drawled out the greeting, awkwardly. Leaning in for a hug that teetered back and forth until you reciprocated.

You kept that same plastered smile on your lips, wrapping your arm under hers. “Hey, Ellie.” Pulling back, you finally looked at the girl beside her. She had tattoos and piercings and looked so much cooler than you. “Who’s this?”

Her earthy eyes widened. “Oh, this is, uhm, my girlfriend, Cat.”

The only response you could give was a nod and a half-hearted wave. It was like a dramatic record scratch in your head. But your parents took over with the rest. Guiding everyone inside to the warmth. Tommy remained outside, giving you skeptical eyes. “Help me with the bags…”

“Honey, don’t be weird about this.” He spoke, as you followed him to the truck.

“I’m not being weird.” You whined, gravel crunching under your feet. “Seriously, what’s to be weird about?” Reaching into the open trunk, you pulled out luggage’s and duffle bags. This was a lot of stuff for a week stay—they brought more than you did.

He gruffly breathed, pulling up the handle of one of the suitcases. “You’re my daughter, I know you— just sayin’…”

“Oh, my God— please!” You complained, hooking the duffle over your shoulder, pulling one of the luggage’s. Leaving him to follow you toward the porch.

Dinner had come quicker than you had hoped. If anything, if you could magically skip over the thing, and still eat, that would’ve been perfect.

All six of you sat at the dining table, forks and knives scratching at ceramic plates. Tommy and Joel had gathered in the back, last minute to cook up some steaks. And, to busy yourself, you helped Maria with the sides while Ellie and Cat got situated in the guest house.

“So, y/n, how’s the book comin’ along?” Joel wondered, putting a cut piece of steak into his mouth.

You made a surprised sound as you chewed your food, rushing to swallow. “Shit, you’re writing a book?” Ellie questioned, leaning her elbows on the table.

Taking a sip of water, you decided to respond. “Yeah, I’ve been working on it for a while.” Your eyes glanced at her, then moved on, quickly, to Joel’s. “It’s… Coming along.” A bashful laugh fell from your lips, as your hand reached for the glass of wine. It was barely touched, red hue swishing in the bulb of the glass as you took a sip. It’s fruity bitterness relishing over your tongue.

“What is it— like fiction or…?” Ellie pressed, genuinely.

“Non-fiction. A book of essay’s, really— written in different forms.” You nodded. “It sounds boring…”

Ellie shrugged, forking a piece of meat into her mouth. “Doesn’t sound boring to me.” She responded, with her mouth full.

“It’s the farthest from boring, honey.” Maria massaged your shoulder, sharing a small smile. You mirrored her in return, forking at the vegetables on your plate—perfectly steamed broccoli.

“How’s Brooklyn treating you?” You spoke up, raising your eyebrows.

Ellie lightly glared at Joel before answering, placing her utensils down. “It’s certainly treating me…” She muttered, rubbing her hands together, glancing at her girlfriend.

“It’s a great place for art, but just not Ellie’s art.” Cat chuckled, sipping from her wine glass.

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing.” You nod.

“I recall her using the words: too crowded.” Joel used air quotes to briefly describe the past conversation.

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “It makes me feel crowded— the city. When you say it like that, it makes me sound fucking stupid, Joel.”

“You did say crowded.”

“Well, I meant overwhelmed.”

You snickered at their bickering, leaning back in your chair. “Back to your art, I guess you’re experiencing the artistic equivalent to writers block?” Tommy inquired, still chewing on his steak, raising an eyebrow. The auburn-haired young woman nodded, chuckling to herself. “That’s why you’re stayin’ with us for a little while, huh?”

Another record scratch.

You blinked at you father, deepening your eyebrows. “Wait, what?”

Joel had set his beer on the table, leaning forward. “Yeah, Ellie’s stayin’ with your parents for a little while to get her juices flowing, again.” He explained, pressing his lips into a soft smile. Ellie cringed at his use of the words juices, taking a sip of her beer.

Tommy and Maria told you nothing unless you asked for it for almost everything now—you at least deserved to know that Ellie was staying on the farm indefinitely. After all, when they’re dead and gone, it’ll be yours; so, they could’ve at least told you without you having to ask—that’s big!

“And, I’ll help out so I won’t be sleeping the day away— because I know that I will without a proper schedule.”

“I thought you guys didn’t need a farmhand.” You glanced at your parents, with your eyebrows still deepened with confusion.

Maria chuckled, standing to her feet. “We don’t need anything, but who could say no to a helping hand?” She grabs the empty basket of biscuits from the center of the table. “Anybody want more biscuits?”

“I would love some!” Cat spoke up, holding up a tattooed finger.

“Me too, honey.” Tommy also spoke.

A dry chortle left your lips, leaning against the back of the chair. “Are you staying on the farm, too?” You peered over at the stranger—the girlfriend, with a slight accusatory tone.

Her lips parted a few times before she responded. “Oh, no, I’m going back to Brooklyn. Not much of a country girl.”

Pursing your lips, you nodded, downing the rest of your wine. This week was going to be a doozy. When Maria came back to the table, you snatched a biscuit from the basket, biting into it. There was a perfect crispy layer on the outside, mixed with the perfect gooey, soft innards of the biscuit. “These are so good.” You muttered with your mouth full with its buttery goodness.

On your hip, your phone buzzed. Cursing under your breath, you plucked the cellphone from your belt, flicking it open. It was your agent calling you at eight o’clock at night. “Excuse me, I gotta take this.” You scooted the chair back, pressing the green button. “It’s late, Isa.” You started the call, stalking out of the room like the corporate woman you are. Taking the route up the stairs to your old bedroom.

“I need that new chapter by tomorrow morning— as in, 8am.” She scolded on the other line. “I’m personally reminding you. Since you couldn’t respond to my emails.”

You sighed, shutting your bedroom door behind you. “Isa, I’ve been traveling all day on public transport, and I’ve been trying to have family time— is that not what Thanksgiving is about?”

“You’re writer, hon. You have little bit of family time, then you hermit to finish your work— now, stop giving me grief. Time is of the essence.” Her smooth voice told, chuckling after her words. “I’ll be anticipating you’re new chapter tomorrow at eight! Have a great night.”

“Have a great night…”

Slapping your phone shut, you sighed, running your other hand over your face. Being a writer was relentless—just as relentless as you and your roommate’s neighbors. But, instead of lingering in frustration, you grabbed your heavy laptop and propped yourself on the cushion beside your window—your reading nook. Not forgetting to put a Sade tape inside of your stereo for some background music, before you began to diligently work.

You typed at your computer, rapid clicking sounds filling your ears. Although, it was no surprise that you worked your hardest after the sun set—it was like you had one too many espresso shots.

Every word was coming from the heart, and coincidentally enough, the guests at your home made it easier. This chapter was definitely reflecting the feelings you felt the day of Ellie’s seventeenth birthday. You used imagery and metaphors to describe that feeling of attack—being backed into a corner, having the worst part of yourself brought into the light. And, like most of your pieces, it was dredging it all back up again; the emotions.

That feeling of losing the only person that truly understood you.

Of course, you had a few relationships since then—a few, trying to chase that same feeling you felt when your hands touched. But there wasn’t anyone who could compare to her. How pathetic was it to still be harping on a highschool sweetheart?

Hours passed under the radar. Your parents being the mile marker in your work, knocking on the door to let you know everyone was heading to bed. Too busy with outlining new ideas, you barely spared them a glance, muttering a smooth goodnight.

It was about one in the morning by the time you finished the chapter. Still, it needed some tweaking, but it was good enough to send to your agent for the editor to look at.

Shutting your laptop, you finally took in your old bedroom. Various music artists slapped against your soft pink walls, attached with tape—some corners hanging off. Catwoman figurines lining the back of your large, white, wooden dresser; with comics stacked alongside them. Stacks of old books in the corner of your room, stacked from the floor to the middle of her wall. If you were to stumble into them, they’d experience one hell of a fall.

Suddenly, curiosity struck.

Hopping from the cushioned seat under your paneled window, you looked under your bed. Reaching for an old shoebox that was filled with many, many interesting things. You slid it from under the dusty bed frame, taking it back to that plushy seat you appreciated so dearly. Plucking the top off, you released a sigh. Immediately being hit with polaroids of yourself as a teenager—mostly standing beside, laughing with, and cuddling Ellie.

They were the photos you snatched from your wall after that fight. Oh, she looked the same. Still had that uncertainty in her earthy, olive eyes. You didn’t understand it then, and you most definitely didn’t understand it now. Ellie didn’t have to feel the uncertainty she was used to in foster care. She had people who believed in her—who will always believe in her.

Sifting through, your hands hovered over a letter she wrote. It was an apology letter sent around the time of her eighteenth birthday—almost a full year since the situation. The envelope was ripped open from the day you received it; stained with salty, heartbroken tears.

If only that day never happened…

A startling knock sounded at your window. It was no more than a pebble, which was confirmed when another launched within your sights. Scrunching up your eyebrows, you unlocked it, pulling it upwards. Once you peaked your head outside into the brisk, cool weather, a small smile spread onto your lips.

“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’ up there?” Ellie called from below. “I brought a little somethin’… Thought you could use a break from writing.” She waved a tightly rolled joint in her hands—which could only be seen if you squinted.

The corners of your lips spread wider, feeling horribly nostalgic. “You’re actually a little too late on that front. I finished a few minutes ago,” You pressed your lips into a line, continuing. “But I could never turn down smoke break. I’ll be down in a second.”

Dropping the letter, you scooted off the seat to grab your jacket. Stuffing your feet into the semi-stained Uggs you wore into the ground, before fleeing your bedroom. You didn’t feel the need to sneak down the stairs, but a part of you wanted to—to relieve that feeling of adrenaline you felt in your youth.

Ellie met you at the back door, holding open the creaking screen door as you exited. “I honestly wasn’t sure you still did this.” She chuckled, looking at the ground as you both began to walk away from the house. Putting some distance so the smell wouldn’t upset the elders in the home.

“What? Smoke weed?” You perked an eyebrow. “You think because I went all corporate, I stopped being down?”

��Actually… Yeah.” She responded, nervously snickering.

The two ofyou settled in front of this white-lined shed that was illuminated by the two warm, orange-toned lights on either side of the door. “Well, you’re kind of right…” You admitted, squinting your eyes, embarrassed. It’s hard being known for your adaptability. “I try to keep the pot smoking to a minimum. In the corporate world they test you for it.”

Ellie pulled the joint from behind her ear, placing it between her lips. She shook her head in response to your words. “Says the cigarette smoker…” She joked, eyeing you, teasingly. While she flicked her lighter to burn the tip.

“Hey, they don’t give a rats ass about nicotine— I need to make up for that loss somehow. I’m a writer for christ’s sake.”

When she finally gets it to catch the fire, she took two puffs before passing it to you between her index and thumb. “Where’s Cat?” You innocently questioned, taking a hit of the joint, then looking at it, before taking another hit.

Ellie became rigid, releasing an exasperated sigh from her lips. “The guesthouse, watchin’ some movie.”

You handed her the joint. “What, is she not down?” Mocking your previous words, with amused eyes. However, her demeanor had quickly shifted.

“She gets easily frustrated after traveling all day…” She shook her head in a dismissive way, like she didn’t want any further questions to asked.

“Hm… That’s relatable.”

Silence engulfed the both of you as you passed the blunt back and forth until it was nothing more than a roach. Hearing nothing but the distant wind chimes sounding off on the porch.

Before speaking, Ellie took a deep breath, glancing over at you as if she were nervous to make eye contact. “I hope me stayin’ here for a little bit doesn’t bother you too much.”

Her words were double-take worthy, you looked over at her with expressive eyes—widening, in surprise. “Bother me? Why would it bother me?” You leaned your shoulder on the shed, kicking one leg over the other.

“You didn’t seem like the biggest fan—“

“Ellie, I was surprised. That’s all.” You waved your hand, shaking your head. “I feel like they don’t tell me shit anymore…” Shoulders shrugging, you glance toward the house standing tall in all its glory. “They didn’t tell me about you moving to Brooklyn, either. What does it look like when someone you’ve known your whole life moves to a city you’re actually familiar with and they’re not, and you don’t reach out to help them? I’m only a forty minute train ride away.” You rambled, deepening your eyebrows. “They basically made me look like an asshole.”

You weren’t entirely sure how you’d react if you knew about Ellie’s moving to the big city. Knowing your habits, you’d probably sit by the phone for hours before making the move to give her a call. But, it’s not like you were given the opportunity to figure it out for yourself. Now, it just appeared that you forgot about her—or could care less about her endeavors; which is farthest from the truth.

Her full lips cracked into a smile, chuckling. The auburn-haired woman, mirrored your position, leaning her shoulder against the wooden shed. “Always worried about what you look like…” She muttered, sucking her teeth. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’re an asshole— you just didn’t know.” Ellie shrugged. “It’s not like we talk as much as we used to…”

As much as we used to. That kind of stung.

Your eyes averted to the gravel under your boots. “Yeah…” There was an awkward beat that took its place between you. Swallowing, you shooed it away with speaking up. “What about your art? You’re living in one of the most creative cities in the world, and you can’t create?”

She puffed air from her lips, glancing in the direction of the guesthouse, priming her lips. “Okay… Confession— but only if what’s said here stays here.”

“What’s said at the shed, stays at the shed.” You affirm, holding a hand and crossing to fingers. The high from what you smoked clouding your mind, squinting your eyes and loosening your inhibitions.

“Cat and I moved in together pretty early— too early… I needed a roommate and she was the perfect option.” Ellie began, carefully. Olive eyes shifting under the dim light in thought. “I swear ever since I moved in with her… The inspiration to make anything new is fucking gone.” She ran her hand over her hair, which was actually loose without a hair tie. Dusting over her shoulders, pieces pushed behind her ears. “She, you know, hovers a lot— in a sweet way, it’s just irritating because not even her pushing me can be inspiring.”

Your heart skipped a beat; it was hopeful—you really are an asshole! “Damn… So, it’s not the city that makes you feel crowded. It’s Cat.” You hum, nodding your head, taking in your assumption. “And… You think staying here will help? Doing boring farm work?” A chuckle falls from your lips, borderline nervous, borderline humored.

She pursed her lips, raising her eyebrows. “I mean, I spent a lot of time here growin’ up…” Ellie looked at you, knowingly. “It was never boring when we did it together.”

“That’s because we were doing it together. I’m not gonna be here while you’re shoveling horse shit.” You chortled, peering at her through hazy eyes. She giggled and it sounded like music to your ears. It’s been awhile since you heard her laugh from something you said. Weed always did have a way of bringing people together.

“Well, maybe before you go, you could help me out. Jog my memory.” Ellie offered, raising her eyebrows. “It’s either you or suffering through Tommy’s jokes for hours—“

“I don’t mind, but we might have to jog each others memory.”

“Hey, you can take the girl out the country, but not the country out the girl.” She shrugged. “I have faith in you.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, a smile spread on your lips. “You’re still so corny.” Shaking your head, a laugh slips. Wrapping your arms around your body, you acknowledge the cool weather. It pricked at your exposed skin, and even through your jacket. “It’s getting late…”

She scratched the back of her neck. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I appreciate the joint— I needed it.” You pushed off the shed wall, licking your lips. In preparation to meander back toward the house, you rocked on your feet. “There’s some left over biscuits on the counter…” You drawled, but it was all right because Ellie had filled in for you.

“I’m fucking starving.”

Then, the two of you walked shoulder to shoulder back inside. Giggling at stupid jokes, surfing over any of the past debacles you had. Turns out reconvening with your childhood lover wasn’t so bad after all. For now, anyway.

[solxamber]

Heartslabyul, 2, fluff, pretty pls 🙏

Sweet on You || Deuce Spade

For the Holiday Event! || Theme: Baking/Cooking together ; Genre: Fluff

Deuce stands beside you at the kitchen counter, holding a mixing bowl as if it contains the secrets to the universe. His brows are furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a line while his biceps flex with each stir of the dough. You, on the other hand, have entirely abandoned your share of the task in favor of shamelessly staring.

"Are you sure this is mixed enough?" he asks, glancing at you.

You blink, caught mid-thought about how unfair it is that someone can look so good doing something so mundane. "Uh, maybe a little more?" you suggest, fully aware you’re just trying to prolong the show.

Deuce nods, resuming his task with the diligence of someone training for a cookie-making marathon.

When it’s finally time to roll out the dough, the chaos begins. The cookies come out in shapes that vaguely resemble hearts...or stars...or maybe blobs. You exchange glances, then burst into laughter.

"Wow, they’re...unique," you comment, holding up a particularly squished one.

"They have character!" Deuce defends, his grin wide.

As you frost the cooled cookies, Deuce suddenly wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I think you missed a spot,” he murmurs, pointing at a frosting-less corner.

Your heart does a somersault. “Oh, did I?”

“Yeah, right there.” His voice is low, and you’re certain he’s doing this on purpose.

With a shaky hand, you frost the spot he pointed out, trying to ignore the way your cheeks burn. “Happy now?”

He hums in response, clearly savoring your flustered state.

When you finally pull the cookies out to taste them, they’re...passable. Slightly overbaked, with uneven frosting and too many sprinkles in some places. But as you share a plate, bumping shoulders and stealing bites, you realize you don’t care.

“These are terrible,” you tease, laughing as he stuffs another into his mouth.

“They’re great because we made them,” he counters, and the sincerity in his eyes makes your heart melt faster than butter on a hot skillet.

And when he leans down to kiss the frosting off your lips, you decide that, misshapen or not, this is the best batch of cookies you’ve ever had.

Masterlist

[bunbunnies]

plaything | part 2

🔞 wriothesley x f!reader | minors dni 🔞

word count: 3.3k

tags: pwp, dom!wriothesley, sub!reader, bunny hybrid!reader, OFFICE SEX, light exhibitionism, possessiveness, daddy kink, praise, light degradation, cum play, penis in vagina penetration, masturbation, light voyeurism, slight dumbification

plaything :: one | two | three | four | five || ao3 link

You’re sitting on a couch at the Duke's office in the Meropide, patiently waiting for Wriothesley to finish his work. He has laid out some snacks, and books for you to entertain yourself with, but you aren't that interested.

You spend most of your time pretending to read, secretly stealing glances at him as he diligently works.

He knows that you're not reading, never hearing a single page flip in the hours that you've sat on that couch. But he never bothers to mention it, finding it cute.

"How are you feeling, bunny?" he asks, his scanning eyes remaining on his papers. 

“I’m okay… a little bored.” you quietly admit, bunny ears drooping. 

He lets out a tired chuckle, looking up from his paperwork to look at you. “Sorry, Bunny. I have some extra work to finish today…” he says. His gaze lingers on you for another moment, before he pushes himself, and his large chair, away from the desk. “C’mere”, he says, patting his lap for you to sit on.

You excitedly get up from your couch, practically dropping the book in your hand, to jump onto his lap. Your knees plant on both sides of him, into the soft, red cushion of the chair. 

“Hi, baby… I’ve missed you,” he smiles, holding your face as he leans in to gently kiss you. He’s been thinking about you all day, but has been too busy to show you that.

Your arms wrap around him, pulling yourself closer to him as you return his affection.

His tongue dances with yours, fighting for control- you easily let him take over, as you always do. Only after a few minutes does he break the kiss, leaving both of you catching your breath. 

His eyes bore into your own, darkening as they see your flushed face. He leans into you, slowly peppering a wet trail of kisses and licks down your jawline and neck, as one of his hands gently wraps around your neck. His other hand slips underneath your shirt, and finds its way to your lower back, pushing your hips closer to his. 

Stretching your neck to give him more access, you let out a soft gasp from his touches. As he pulls your hip in closer, you feel his erection slowly growing against you. Almost instinctively, your hips grind into his crotch, feeling the heat against your core.

Wriothesley lets out a low groan against your neck, as he feels your hips grind against his growing bulge. He can feel the heat radiating from you, and can see the way your body is reacting to his attention.

"Is my little bunny needy?" he teases, his voice low and husky as he continues to plant kisses all over your neck. His hands hike up your short skirt, gently squeezing your ass. He lifts his head up from your neck, and leans into your ear. 

"Do you want Daddy to take care of you? Make you feel good?" he taunts, his breath hot against your ears.

You let out a pathetic, needy whimper, feeling your arousal build in your pussy. You were already getting so wet for him. Wriothesley groans at your sounds, as he feels your growing wetness against him. It sends a wave of arousal to his cock, hardening in his pants. He resumes kissing and nipping at your neck, his hands roaming your body possessively.

"Daddy's going to fuck you so good, bunny…" he murmurs against your skin. "...Gonna make you scream his name." He slides a hand between your legs, his fingers brushing against your panties. He lets out a shaky huff feeling how soaked you are with just some kisses. His cock throbs with need. He needs you just as much as you need him. 

"Do you want Daddy to fill this needy little pussy?" he teases, fingers hooking and pulling your panties aside to tease your folds. His fingers make lewd squelches against you.

"Yes, please! I've been so good and patient for Daddy today!” you breathily gasp.

Wriothesley smugly grins, hearing your pathetic beg. His hands slide underneath the waistband of your panties, and slides two fingers into your tight, wet heat, it’s like his fingers are being sucked in. 

"Daddy's so proud of you, bunny," he mumbles, pumping his fingers in you slowly. "Gonna reward you for being such a good girl for me." 

You grind your hips against his long, thick fingers, letting out soft gasps.

His free hand unbuckles his belt, reaching underneath his pants to free his hard cock. He grips it in his hand, stroking it slowly as he continues to finger you. His swollen tip squeezes out beads of precum, dripping onto his hands, as he lazily gives it a few strokes in front of your stomach.

Suddenly, he pulls his fingers out of you. “Undress, now.” he demands. While he watches you hastily lift yourself off of him and the chair, he fully unbuckled his belt and pulls his pants down lower. 

You fumble as you pull off your top, then your panties and skirt, letting them fall to the ground. Giddy from excitement, you eagerly crawl back on top of his bare lap with a smile.

He smirks, seeing your obvious excitement. Holding his length between the two of you, he slaps the veiny, thick, hard cock on your bare stomach. The swollen, red tip leaves precum on your skin. 

Slap.

"Does bunny want Daddy’s cock?" he teases, his eyes locked on yours.  

Slap.

You nod eagerly. “Yes, yes, yes!” you pleaded, eyes seeking for his own. You lift yourself up, shuffling your hips closer to him.

Wriothesley groans, lining his cock underneath you. He grips your hips, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth motion, filling you up to the brim. 

You let out a loud gasp at the feeling of him burying himself into you. 

"Fuck, bunny," he gasps, his eyes rolling back at the feeling of your tight heat enveloping him. "You’re so wet and tight,"

You start to bounce on his cock, with his hands guiding your movements. 

"Good girl, ride daddy…" he commands, his voice rough with pleasure. "Show me how much you want it." He leans forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting your sweetness, and muffling your moans. 

"Daddy's going to fill you up, bunny," he murmurs against your lips. “Breed this needy little pussy." 

Tilting his head back to catch his breath from the kiss, Wriothesley devours the sight of your dishevelled look as you ride him. Your flushed face, hazy eyes, jiggling breasts- it's a sight that he could never get tired of.

He takes a hand to brush his index and middle finger over your lower lip. Without a word, you slightly open your mouth, and he pushes his fingers in for you to lick and suck on. 

You moan around his fingers, feeling so full of him. The fingers help muffle your noises, knowing that there's still people outside the Duke’s office. Not that it mattered much to him.

Wriothesley lets out a growl as he feels your wet tongue lapping at his fingers, his cock twitching inside you. He pumps his fingers in and out of your mouth, matching the rhythm of your bounces on his lap.

"That's it, bunny," he murmurs, his voice husky. "Suck on my fingers while you ride my cock.” He grips your hip harder, and starts to thrust up into you. His cock hits deep inside you with each movement, making your eyes roll back in pleasure.

Breaths turn into hot pants, and movement becomes more frenzied. The sound of wet skin slapping, and desperate breathing fills up the room. Already, he can feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening with each thrust, his thighs clenching. You drive him utterly insane.

"Daddy's close, bunny," he pants heavily. "Daddy's going to cum inside you." He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, both hands latching onto your hips as he thrusts harder into you.

But just as he's about to orgasm, he's interrupted by a loud knock on the door. 

Both of your sounds and movements instantly halt. Wriothesley glances towards the staircase, before looking back at you. He’s gripping your hips tightly, holding you still on his cock.

“Shh, bunny," he whispers, his voice urgent. "Daddy's going to keep you filled with his cock while we have company. Be a good girl and stay quiet for Daddy, okay?" He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He can feel his cock throbbing inside you, the need to cum almost overwhelming. 

You feebly nod, face warm at the thought of someone seeing you like this, on top of the Duke of the Meropide. You wrap your arms around him, nuzzling yourself in the crooks of his neck and shoulder, in an attempt to hide your reddening face. Not that it would help much.

"Come in," Wriothesley calls out, keeping his voice low and steady despite his arousal. 

A guard walks in, seeing your bare upper half intimately slouched against Wriothesley's. They spot your discarded clothes on the floor, but they try to avoid obvious eye contact with it. Luckily, they don’t see that you're currently speared open on his cock, behind the desk. But honestly, it wouldn’t take much to fill in the gaps.

"What is it?" Wriothesley asks, his voice sharp. He tries to keep his tone neutral, despite the arousal coursing through him. He feels your walls clench around him, aroused at the thrill of being caught. 

The guard nervously stutters out an apology, their eyes darting around the room before lowering their head into a deep bow. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's a situation in the production zone that requires your attention."  

Wriothesley nods curtly. "I'll be right there," he says, his voice strained. "Dismissed." 

The guard doesn’t waste another second in the room, quickly scuttering down the stairs and out of the office. 

As soon as the door closes with a heavy thud, Wriothesley lets out a shaky breath. You lift your head from his shoulder, keeping your arms around his neck as you face him.

"Did my little bunny enjoy almost getting caught?" he asks, teasing you with a grin.

You look back at him, biting your lips, before giving a shy nod.

Wriothesley's eyes darken with lust at your shy admission, his cock twitching inside you. "What a naughty, little bunny,” he smirks. His lips crash into yours, capturing you in a hungry kiss with his tongue, tasting you deeply. 

You let his tongue explore your mouth, his hands holding the nape of your neck as you taste one another. You clench around him, his kisses making you feel fuzzy sensations in your stomach- ones filled with excitement and need.

He gently tugs at your lower lips with his teeth, before letting go from the heated kiss. He rests his forehead against yours. 

"Daddy's going to cum in you now, bunny,” he softly whispers. 

Immediately, he grabs your hips and resumes snapping up into you. He thrusts into you hard and fast, chasing his orgasm. "C’mon, take Daddy's cum, bunny," he pants, his fingers digging into your hips. "Take every last drop." He was so close earlier, only to be denied and edged by an interruption.

“P-please, Daddy! Want your cum! Please!” you whine loudly, weakly holding his shoulder as he roughly uses you, making your breasts bounce on your chest. From the force of his thrusts, the seemingly steady chair creaks and wobbles underneath the two of you. You feel your own orgasm building, a tightening sensation.

He grunts at your pleas, feeling his balls clench. He feels your walls flutter around him, seeking his cum. He watches his length slide in and out of you, your face contorted with pleasure. It was so erotic, seeing you so visibly cock drunk from him- and only him. It kindles a possessive fire in him.

With a final thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his hot release. "Fuck! Bunny!" he loudly groans, his head falling back against the chair and gasping for his breath. His seed comes in waves, thick ropes painting your walls.

You whimper at the feeling of being filled by him.

Chasing your own orgasm, your fingers rub tight circles around your clit, and your hips continue to ride him through his high. “Please… want to cum…”, you whine. 

He shakily replaces the fingers on your clit with his own. “That’s it, bunny, use Daddy’s cock. It’s all yours.” he says, breathy from his own orgasm. 

Hearing him proclaim his cock as yours sends your brain into a frenzy. The tightening sensation finally snaps, and you come undone around him, crying out his name. 

Wriothesley groans as he feels you coming on his cock, your tight heat squeezing him for every last drop of his own release. He doesn't stop circling your clit.

As you come down from your high, your body falls limp against him, thighs wanting to press together. But he holds you up with his steady hands, fucking his cum deeper into you with shallow thrusts. You whimper and whine on top of him, unable to muffle your sounds as he uses your sensitive hole. You're positive that everyone in the Fortress knows how hard the Duke is fucking you.

"That's it, bunny," he murmurs, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Take Daddy's cum deep inside you.” 

“Too-, much-,” you softly whine, his thrusts sending you into overstimulation.

He slowly stills his movement, and looks down at the mess that the two of you have made on his lap. He begins to feel his cum leaking out around his softening shaft, onto himself, as you sit on top of him. 

He gently holds your face by the chin, taking your lips in a slow, passionate kiss.

“Daddy’s going to take care of some matters. Daddy will be back to fuck you again soon." he whispers. 

Your lips pout a little, wanting to be with him for a little longer. But you know that he has important duties to attend to. “Okay…” you mumble.

He lifts you up, pulling you off of him. His arms steadies you by the hip as you stumble standing up, legs shaking. With a gentle squeeze to your hips, he stands up himself and grabs a tissue to wipe the mess on his thighs before tucking himself back into his pants. He pats and straightens out his clothes, his expression shifting from lustful to authoritative.

"I'll be right back, bunny," he says, making his way down the stairs. His large, metal handcuffs strapped to his belt jingle with each step he takes down the stairs. Soon after you lose sight of him walking down the stairs, his large office door opens and closes with a thud.

You lean your body weight onto the edge of his table. Your thighs gently rub together, still needy for him. Your heightened sense of smells picks up on how the room smells intoxicatingly good of you two, only making you want more.

Eyes wandering, you spot his black and red coat that he often wears, left dangling on his chair. An idea pops up in your head, and you’re too needy to think better. You take his jacket to the couch, throwing it on a pillow to bury your face in. 

Wriothesley's coat envelops you in his scent as you bury your face into the pillow, deeply inhaling the musky aroma of his cologne mingling with the heady scent of sex. You arch your back up, your small bunny tail up in the air, as your fingers find your aching clit to rub slow, teasing circles around the sensitive, swollen nub. You softly moan into the fabric, your hips bucking into your touch. The memory of his cock stretching you, filling you so completely, sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you.

"Daddy," you whimper, your voice muffled by the coat. "Daddy's cock feels so good inside me."

Your fingers dip lower, pushing into your dripping pussy. You're still so tight and wet from his thorough fucking, your walls clenching around your own fingers as if trying to suck them in deeper.

"Daddy's cum," you moan, his seed dripping out of you onto your fingers. "Daddy's cum is so warm inside me."

You imagine him watching you, his eyes dark with lust as he sees you touching yourself. "Daddy, I need you," you mewl, your hips rocking faster against your fingers. "Daddy, please fuck me again." 

Wriothesley's scent spurs you on as you writhe on the couch, your fingers plunging into your aching pussy. But it's not enough. No matter how hard you fuck yourself, it doesn't compare to the feeling of Wriothesley's thick cock stretching you, filling you up so perfectly.

"Daddy," you whine, your voice desperate and needy. "Daddy, please. I need you."

You buck your hips frantically, in attempts to chase your high. Your clit throbs, but it's not enough. Your fingers are a poor substitute for his own, let alone his cock. It's not the same as being split open on his long, hard shaft, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each thrust.

"Daddy, please," you quietly sob against the pillow. "Daddy, I can't... I need your cock. I need you to fuck me. Please, Daddy."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you realize that no matter how hard you try, you'll never be able to satisfy this ache without Wriothesley.

The sound of the door opening and closing startles you out of your desperate haze, and you look up to see Wriothesley standing at the top of the staircase. His eyes rake over your disheveled form, taking in the mess you've made of yourself on his couch.

"Bunny," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "What have you been up to while Daddy was gone?" He strides over to you, his eyes dark with a mix of anger and lust. "Did my little bunny try to satisfy herself without me?" he asks, his voice a harsh whisper. He looks down at you, with your ass perked up and face pressed up against the pillow with his jacket.

Bending himself down to you, he cups your face, fingers gently rubbing the tears from your wet, flushed skin. "Daddy told you to be a good girl, didn't he?" he says, his tone threatening. "Daddy told you to wait for him."

He lifts his hand from your cheek, shoving them between your legs. The fingers push into your dripping pussy. "And what did Daddy find?" he asks, his voice mocking. "Daddy found his greedy little bunny trying to fuck herself on his couch." 

Your hips immediately grind into his fingers.

But the pleasure is cut short when he pulls his fingers out, bringing them up to your lips. "Clean them," he commands, his voice harsh. "Clean up the mess you made." His grey eyes intimidatingly glare into yours.

Looking back at him, you feel yourself shrink from his menacing gaze. Your lips form a pout with fresh tears in your eyes, looking away at him. "S-sorry Daddy... I wanted you so badly... but you weren't here..." you shakily stutter. You didn’t mean to disobey him- you’re his good little bunny.

Wriothesley's eyes soften as your voice trembles, your tears glistening on your cheeks as you become too scared to look back at him. He doesn't mean to hurt you- he never would. He knows how much you need him, how desperate you are for his touch. 

"Shh, it's okay, bunny," he murmurs, bending down on his knees to face you. His hand cups your cheeks, fingers rubbing soothingly against you. "Daddy's here now," he says, voice gentle. "Daddy's going to take care of you."

a/n: AAHAHAH god the draft of this was like less than 2k. now its 3.3k....... 💀 but lowkey kinda speed running posting this series coz the drafts of it have been sitting for awhile now... i will likely never be posting this quick again... 💀

++ i dont think this needs to be said, but pls dont use this fic as advice on how to go about your exhibitionist kinks…. consent, consent, consent (from all parties) <3 dont go fucking around unconsenting ppl n dont do it if ur partner doesnt consent

[autumnmobile12]

Ambush Simulation scenario where Fuyumi and Shouto both get sick. Because if they get sick, between Touya being immunocompromised and Natsuo not living at home, Endeavor has to be the one to deal with them.

Touya: *calling from Compress' house* I don't know what to tell you, Dad. You can either make food, order food, or text Natsuo. Your call.

Endeavor: Interesting how your sister is so diligent in taking care of you during your illnesses, and yet--

Touya: Don't you fuckin' gaslight me into coming home. You know damn well if I catch whatever those two have, it might just kill me. Unless that's the goal.

Endeavor: Don't be dramatic. It's just a cold.

Touya: Yeah...the last time I had 'just a cold,' I ended up in the ER two days later with bronchitis. I won the health crisis bingo card that week.

Endeavor: Oh really, what else was on this bingo card of yours?

Touya: Bronchitis, influenza, pneumonia--

Endeavor: That doesn't start with an N.

Touya: --pneumonia, gangrene, and a nasty oropharynx infection.

Endeavor: When the hell did you have gangrene?

Touya: Turns out, that's why I needed my gallbladder removed when I was ten and you totally forgot about that, didn't you? Hey, you think the freaks who put me back together gave me a new one?

Endeavor: Goodbye, Touya.

...

The further adventures that show Touya didn't need to become a villain to torment his father. He just needed to be a pain in the ass and enjoy the fireworks. I picture him gleefully kicking his heels through that entire convo.

[kenziebluex]

The Broken Heart That Makes Us

Happy Friday! Comment to be added to the taglist ☺️

Story Description: 

Your arranged marriage is on its last legs. After making an agreement with your step son, Megumi, you are puzzled when you are faced with finally making a decision.

Your whole life so far has been planned for you, leading you to struggle with the idea of moving on and finding something stable…someone stable.  

Will you finally be able to let go of the life that was made for you? Will there be others out there willing to pick up the pieces?

(18+) Pairings: Toji, Goji, Geto, Nanami, & Choso.

Read on ao3: TBHTMU

Chapter 3:

You turned around and posed in the mirror to get a better look at how the latex stretch black pants hugged your backside and your matching black strapless lace up corset gave you a nice shape. Even though you were only 26, you noticed the difference in how you dressed compared to the other parents that came to pick up their kids from the dojo. 

“Finding the sweet spot between acting like a mom and acting my age is….a task.” You groaned at your reflection, debating whether to find a nice jacket to use as a cover up.

‘Mmm… I am meeting my son’s teacher after all…’  You started to regret your choice of clothing. To be fair, you weren’t sure what Gojo’s intentions were when he invited you out. But dammit when was the last time you actually went out to have fun?! You felt the fruits of your youth slowly spoil as your whole life became just working, stressing and taking care of a 16 year old. 

You decided that you deserved to be daring today and donned a pair of lace up black sandal heels and a contrasting blood red mini purse to throw over your shoulder. 

Before stepping out of your new 3 bedroom condo, you passed by Megumi’s room and took a small peek through his bedroom doorway. You watched as he diligently did his homework while bopping to the music in his headset. You thought to yourself that this is the type of comfort he deserves. Lost in his own world while he chases his dreams. You just hope you’re doing enough to get him there. 

You tapped your phone on to remind yourself of the time as you stepped out of your front door. You rode the elevator down to the lobby and exited the condominium. It was dark and a shadowy figure lingered outside. You wondered if Gojo had arrived and you picked up your pace to exit the lobby.

“Oh great. You saved me so much time knocking on every door.” Your breath hitched and you clutched your purse as the man emerged from the shadows and into the dim lamp post. You eyed the double doors back into the lobby and debated whether you should make a run for it. Instead, you swallowed thickly and erased any emotion on your face.

“Are you y/n Fushiguro?” The man asked. His hair shielded by a black beanie that looks like it transitions to a shiesty and all black clothes. It only took one glance for you to notice that he might be carrying a weapon in his back pocket as you noticed he kept patting for it.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. That means that nothing associated with that name has any business with me.” You explained begging internally the man will just bow out and let you go. A million thoughts bulldozed through your mind, starting with how he found out where you lived in the first place.

“Tsss…look. I know this must be realllly awkward but your ex husband owes us some money and sold your name as collateral. That slippery bastard looks like he’s on the run but you were much easier to find.” You started to see stars. You held onto the wall to prevent yourself from fainting. It became clear to you that whether you were associated with Toji or not didn’t matter because he just sold you out to some loan sharks.

‘In the end, I still can’t escape his bullshit.’

“How much does he owe you?” You bit out clutching your fist. After everything started falling into place, something comes to fuck it all up. 

“Probably around 10 of those condos your pretty little ass just skipped out of.” He laughed lazily. Fury built up in your belly.

“Can you cover it?” He eyes you mockingly and his gaze trailed disgustingly lower.

“Fuck no!” You hissed and attempted to cover yourself. You looked around for anything that could fight him off and any neighbors that could be stumbling by. But before you could call out to someone he approached you and palmed his back packet.

The man yelped as a sleek blue biker helmet collided with the back of his head. He collapsed on the ground, limp and lifeless. You looked up at his attacker.

Exhaling as if he was holding in his breath, Gojo eyed the loan shark’s motionless body. Worry, anxiety and fear exited your body all at once as you felt your legs lose strength. 

Gojo was quick and caught you against his firm hand while you stumbled into his chest. You allowed his gentle hand to calm your nerves as he stroked your head similarly to how he stroked your back yesterday. You attempted to bury yourself in Gojo’s white shirt and black bomber jacket and trying not to get your makeup on it. But he pushed your head in anyway, not caring whether your makeup will leave a stain. 

“Do you want to live with me?” You heard Gojo whisper almost thoughtlessly. Your head fell backwards and your confused expression met his embarrassed one. Almost like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

He gently pushed you back and shoved his helmet into your chest. You took the helmet but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his face.

He was red. Beating red. And looked to the side trying to avoid eye contact with you. His eyebrows furrowed almost like he was scolding himself for saying that outloud. You looked down at the helmet in your hands and chuckled inwardly at his cute reaction. 

“Put that on.” He took the helmet back and fastened it on your head.

“A smile a day keeps the therapist away.” He laughed to himself while buckling the safety strap under your chin. He took your hand and mounted his sleek blue Ducati motorcycle and guided you to board behind him. He fastened the extra helmet that hung on the handlebars of his bike on his head and turned the bike on. He paused before doing anything more.

“I won’t ask about the problems you’re going through. But seeing him corner you like that made me want to do more than just knock his lights out.” He twisted his wrist and revved up his motorcycle with a loud growl. 

“I can’t promise that I’ll stop there next time.” He continued. With Gojo, you felt a cloud of safety and protection. You wrapped your arms around his torso and squeezed.

“…I’ve never had anyone other than Megumi protect me like that…Thank you.” You weren’t sure if you were loud enough over the rumbling of his bike but he seemed to have heard you and took a deep breath. You felt his back expand and then recede against you as he hauled up his foot on his back. You two disappeared into the darkness. 

✿❀○❀✿

“Shitttt I hope it’s not closed.” Gojo droned as you arrived at a dimly lit skyscraper. He put the stopper on his bike and took your hand to help you dismount. He hung the helmets on the handlebars of the bike.  

While entering the luxurious skyscraper, you advanced towards the entrance while taking in the posh surroundings. The host at the door recognized Gojo immediately and sprinted to take his jacket from him. 

“Welcome back, sir!” The host greeted Gojo formally and you turned towards him marred by confusion.

“Who the hell even are you?!” You spoke with your eyes. He erupted in an amused bellow and he took your waist and pulled you flushed against his side. 

“I didn’t come alone tonight. Show us a good spot.” Gojo ordered casually. You tried to fix your face to copy his nonchalant one but quickly failed when you entered the restaurant- no…specialty cafe as it seems that the restaurant only served expensive desserts.

“Are you sure you should be eating here? You know, since you also have to practice martial arts.” You joked low enough for only Gojo to hear. He clicked his tongue.

“A sweet treat every now and then doesn’t hurt.” Gojo paused and looked down at you. Lustful sky blue eyes bore into yours. “Everyone gives into their urges eventually.” He stated with a deeper meaning attached. 

You felt your cheeks warm but then the host spoke you out of your trance. 

“We always leave the balcony open to the Gojo clan.” The host beamed. You felt Gojo himself tense but when you looked up at him,  his face remained expressionless. 

“Enjoy.” The host bowed and broke away to signal a waiter.

You broke away from Gojo to bathe in the sea of lights in the city as you relaxed against the railing to the balcony. You thought back to the dinner parties your dad had you attend while wooing investors. You internally shivered. 

“If I knew you were a trust fund baby, I would’ve seduced you months ago, Gojo-sensei.” You jested while resting on your elbows. Large pale palms rested on either side of you as Gojo hovered from behind you. You stretched your head back and he peered down at you. 

“Call me Satoru.” He said softly. You shook your head and broke eye contact, directing your gaze forward again. 

“Unlike you, I know boundaries.” You sighed. Without wasting a beat, he gripped your bicep and spun you around to face him. He pinched your chin and forced your gaze to connect with his again.

“It didn’t seem like that when you were holding me nice and tight earlier.” He hovered his face just centimeters above your lips. You gripped his shirt as his body heat flooded your palms. 

“Close your eyes.” He whispered. Your eyes fluttered closed.

“Have you had time to look at our menu?” You and Gojo broke apart in response to the waitress arriving. It didn’t seem like she was aware that she was breaking a moment but the racing of your heart thanked her. 

You approached the table and Gojo pulled out your chair for you to sit. As you looked at the menu, each dessert looked like it would make your wallet cry. 

“P-Please give me a minute.” You laughed nervously as you scrunch your eyebrows to focus. The only thing you can afford here is the water and maybe an espresso shot. 

“There are just soooo many nice things here. I literally can’t decide. ” You spoke through your teeth, clearly feeling pressure over the menu. 

Gojo snapped his menu closed.

“We’ll just go with one of everything.” Gojo answered while you were mentally lashing out at him.

You closed the menu and gave the waitress a strained but polite smile while she took the menus. 

“I say I’m taking you out and you are still eyeballing the price.” Gojo scoffs while taking a sip of the water left on the table.

“I never trust a man who says he’ll foot the bill. I’d rather at least order something I can afford.” Toji absolutely killed that idea for you and you haven’t trusted a man for funds since. You crossed your arms and sat back comfortably on your chair. The wispy light from the candle reflected on Gojo’s cheek and made his glassy eyes contrast the dark sky behind him. 

“Fair enough.” He tilted his head voicing his response and took another sip of water. You traced your finger on the mouth of the tall glass of water standing next to you. You couldn’t help but focus on his lips as they touched his glass. The way his tongue wets his lips sends your mind into a spiral. He notices you gawking and a small chuckle escapes his lips. You rolled your eyes to the side innocently and struck up conversation.

“So other than training students at the dojo, what else do you do?” You huffed, swiftly pulling your own water glass to your lips. The relaxed grin on his face fell. You felt the atmosphere shift a little.

“You said it yourself didn’t you? I’m a ‘trust fund baby.’ Beloved son of one of the number 1 richest clans in the city.” He responded with heavy sarcasm.  You drew your lips together tightly. You gathered that family was a triggering subject. Well, it’s not like you are daughter to father of the year either. But even though Gojo seems to wear his heart on his sleeve, it seems that it’s just armor to hide his true feelings. 

“Eh. I don‘t know. Blood relatives suck sometimes.” You snapped back. Your elbows rested on the table and your chin fell comfortably onto your palms. For a second you saw Gojo’s eyes go wide, lost looking at you but he then quickly regained his composure.

“I’d rather form my own family. Like me and Meg. There’s something about loving someone and them loving you back just because of the person you are and not because you’re related.” You continued. Gojo lowered his glass and listened to you intently. You smiled down at the fire that danced on the candle and allowed one of your hands to rest on the table. 

“I’ve seen family members treat their own children like pawns and burdens to be neglected…” Gojo flinched at your statement and his hand rested on the table as well. You rested your palm on top of his and gazed at him softly.

“But blood doesn’t make it an obligation to love people like that.” Gojo intertwined his fingers in yours and scanned you curiously. He gently rubbed his thumb against the back of your hand.

“Hmmm? You sound like you had a tough love life.” He mocked and you choked out your water. You rolled your eyes as the tone of the date returned to being playful. 

“Don’t mind me. I’m just thinking out loud.” You retook your hand and folded it into your lap. Gojo pouted at the lack of touch. 

“Here you are! We pulled up another table to make room for all of the other desserts. Is there any flavor you would like to try first?” The waitress accompanied by 2 assistants rolled in the entire catalog of sweets. Gojo shook his head.

“We’ll figure it out.” He stood up and started making room for various desserts on the table. One particular dessert caught your eye.

“Hey. Pass me the (insert flavor) parfait.” You pointed at the neatly decorated yogurt. Gojo picked it up and inspected it curiously. He stalked to the other side of the table and knelt down to your level. Taking the long spoon out the dish, he lathered some whip cream on top of it. 

“Open wide~.” He cooed while floating the spoon towards your lips. Your brows twisted and you leaned your head back in rejection.

“You’re fucking joking.” You answered dryly. Gojo shrugged and turned the spoon towards himself and prepared to take a bite. 

“Hey-!” Your mouth hung open in protest and Gojo used the opportunity to sneak the spoon into your mouth. The parfait was heavenly and the flavors melted the tension in your body. You finished enjoying the taste and you took another glance at a satisfied Gojo, unsure whether to protest some more or to let him continue. 

You felt a hand rake the back of your head as Gojo’s lips advanced towards yours. However, he teased you and instead tongued the corner of your lip where whipped cream was left. You froze in your chair.

“Damn good. Should I eat the rest of the desserts like this?” Gojo taunted and then traced his tongue on your bottom lip.

 A pleased sigh fell from your lips as your tongue met his, battling for dominance. Your lips touched and it felt like electricity ignited throughout your body. You closed your eyes to soak up his taste and you heard him place the parfait glass and spoon on the table.  

With free hands, Gojo gripped both your thighs and glided them up and down your legs, barely ghosting your core with his thumbs. He pressed his lips against you punishingly and parted your legs to situate himself in between them.

You gripped his shirt to prevent yourself from falling backwards. One hand dragged up your body and he teased your hardened nipple under your black corset. Gojo released your lips and then proceeded to leave trails of kisses down your neck.

He moved his hand from your chest to your clothed cunt and pressured his grip against it. You bit your bottom lip.

“Gojo…the waiters could come in.” You panted trying to keep your fevered voice as low as possible. He smirked against your collarbone as his teeth grazed your shoulder.

“I’m not doing anything wrong. Just enjoying dessert.” He quipped while peppering more kisses up your neck and started massaging you gently. You felt yourself becoming soaked in his clutch. Your thighs closed around his wrist. You cupped his chin and turned him up to face you.

“You’re really not funny.” You whispered while he looked up at you with fire pooling his irises. He released you and shoved his hands in his pockets to shuffle his way back into his seat. You shifted your knees back under the table while trying to regain your composure. 

Gojo took a small dish of elegantly dressed mochi and took a bite while holding contact with you. He allowed two fingers to linger in his mouth while he licked off the flavor. He slowly sucked the flavor off of the long digits and then reached for another piece. 

You tried to avoid eye contact while you took another spoonful of parfait. The rest of the evening was quiet but the haze of desire still remained.

taglist: @beetusbritt ❤ @nousija ❤ @notleclerc divider by @cafekitsune

❀ follow for more ❀ ao3: kenzieblue❀

-kenzie & des

[det-agency]

payneland yule exchange 2024

@clementiiny

tw: bullying/abuse/ptsd/underage drinking

prompts: pre-canon, hurt/comfort, domestic vibes charles-centric fic

Charles eyes the space Edwin cleared out for him on their homemade bookshelf.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

It was funny at first, two ghosts were haunting an old abandoned building. Nestled in off streets on some abandoned development project in Southern England. He can remember when they first stumbled in on a mirror hopping exercise, and Edwin taught him how to concentrate so that he could help move the discarded clapboard pallets. The way the pressure built on his hand without the texture of the wood was so alien to him at the time. When the hastily nailed planks finally rose his eyes darted to Edwin automatically.

“Very good Charles,” his smile radiating in his voice and eyes.

“Thanks mate, I think i’m getting-”

The pressure dissipated instantaneously, the rush of sand colored boards falling in a blur and crashing so loud to reverberate in the unfurnished concrete building.

No one spoke or moved for a minute.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

Now two months have gone by and he has an empty shelf of the same discarded wood. Right next to Edwin’s growing collection of magical tomes and comics.

Somehow.

The sentiment is nice, but Charles isn’t much of a bibliophile. The last book he cracked open himself was probably Warriner’s English Grammar and Composition- complete course. If he had Edwin to read his coursework to him before his midterms- as well as the signs of faery possession- he might have had a better time retaining information.

He lets his mind fidget with the idea. Sneaking around to study with Edwin would have been loads more enjoyable than swotting up everytime he got wind of a quiz. For all the vapid consternated lecturing about their desire to teach the next generation diligence he’s surprised none of the teachers caught on to his more extreme study habits. He needed to revise twice as long as his mates, whilst still keeping on top of his cricket practice. The stench of smuggled coffee in the shared dorm space, sting of untreated paper cuts on his cricket bat, and echo of quickly flipped paper while on the bench-minutes before practice begins- still haunts him. No one can say his scholarship was not merited. To be candid, a few of his peers tried. They should put his name on a medal.

He winces.

They’d probably think that was lame though. With his friends there was always a give and take. Charles would be too excited or too visually distinctive, and then they would disparage him before intervening. He can almost hear them now, in his head, mocking him for caring enough to wonder what books Charles thinks Edwin would want next to his collection. They’d probably ring his bell if they caught him idling, grinning at it, like a gormless old twit.

Charles starts picking up the books Edwin had pushed to the far side of the room and carrying them back towards their place on the shelf. Each one aged into a different neutral hue.

It’s not like getting lumped aside the head is the worst, he’s just had his fair share of it. The sharp painful corrections reverberated through concert gigs, class, and his old house. With his Dad it was something you could count on. Like the chime of a clock or the clunk of his boots on the floor above him when he got home.

The closest he gets to that is when Edwin scolded him when he misplaced a hand-bound copy of Materials Toward a History of Witchcraft V. II.

His hands were steepled and eyebrows were pinched as he faced Charles.

“It is of our best interest to have our books on occultism organized if we are to keep helping any stray ghost that takes your fancy.”

His tone is sincere with “steps to make sure this does not happen whilst they are in each other’s company.”

It had been the first time Edwin had mentioned a future- their future- together.

So…there are more instances where he messes up with Edwin.

His first offense was gathering discarded vinyl records from the estate to solve the case of the mummified musician. He may have gathered more than necessary. The boxes littered their settled office with the crowded oppressive atmosphere of an obstacle course.

“ I don’t understand the importance of collecting memorabilia from his estate if his condition clearly exemplifies a pharaoh's curse, Charles.”

“Except he’s never been to Egypt, and something is wrong with these records, Edwin.” Charles tests.

“Whatever do you mean?” Edwin asks, hands centering more nervously.

Charles takes the dingy milk crate containing the cursed record to the top of their newly acquired office desk. “He didn’t have any photos of his parents in that house. Closest we got to them was that burnt photo with his passport. So whoever his family is in Egypt he isn’t going back to see them often.” He grabs the third vinyl ceremoniously holding it up and points accordingly.

“This band was based in the UK and was underground in the 70s; they did not have the money to parade around publishing records in Egypt, mate. It also doesn’t have English import tax added to the price on the back so we can figure whoever gave it to him wasn’t a distributor. Finally,” He slides the protective sheet from the record. “The Matrix numbers are utter gibberish.” Charles raises his head to find Edwin studying him instead of the vinyl.

“You know an awful lot about vinyl records, how come your interest has never come up before?” Edwin poaches.

“I’m not interested, mate, this case is just stupid convoluted and I’d really appreciate getting this case closed as soon as possible, yeah?” Charles twists away placing the covering back onto the record and into the jacket delicately.

“Right, of course.” Edwin reassures.

The following offense had occurred after a few days of dodgy eyeing on Edwin’s part. The silent treatment had gotten so intolerable he had resulted in point blank annoying him about the local bands when they walked past the building on their way to pick up new comics and magical tomes from the only occult shop in London to sell to “new ghosts.”

The cold morning air clung to the energy around their forms as they made their way through almost empty city walkways. The greys and blues of the world still clinging to the buildings and street as Charles prattles on about trumpet melodies and inconsistent show times. They had been trotting by a street light holding fast against the elements when Edwin had stopped walking and Charles went ramrod straight.

“Did you use to go to shows frequently?” he asks hesitantly, but his eyes are narrowed and posture is straight, holding a brick sized hand bound french magic book and a recent batman issue with the same reverence, snug against himself.

Charles feels the panic, in his arms and stomach, unfurl their tendrils.

“I-er-well, we all had the go-ahead to leave campus, right, but we could never make it back in time if we went too far, did we? This venue didn’t card, so we always found our way here…eventually.” Charles stammers.

Edwin’s eyes drift to the unassuming dark building with torn weathered posters littering its wall. “You mentioned going to see the Po-Goues in January, but the poster says they were playing January 14th, which is shortly after your holiday. So I may surmise, you came back to St. Hilarion's and then went to a concert in which the interim school faculty would be exceedingly vigilant. You must care about them a great deal.” His eyes roam, and lock back onto Charles, assessing.

“Didn’t think you were actually listening, mate.” Charles teases.

“The Kon 5 is playing next week, so we could attend a show, if you are still interested in such things.”

Edwin steels himself, takes a breath, and then points to one of the newer additions to the wall. Charles follows the line of action from the base of Edwin’s shoulder to the mass-produced poster for the stupid band he used to wait in line to see.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

The building is dark. Metal and Brick both painted over with worn black overcoats. The stairs lead to an expanse of hallway with an open bar and doors. He remembers Mark used to remind him not to be an idiot and forget the stuff they came in with. Abandoned high heels, coats, and a metal bat line the walk-way. If you follow it you can pass the bathrooms to the back and you can see the open floor of an expansive former church turned remodeled stage.

The members come up one after the other. Each fiddling with equipment and performing checks on their respective instruments.

Charles’ energy is erratic. His hand had phased through the bars of the catwalk; they were camped atop up to his forearms. Being inside shouldn’t be putting his nerves on edge. He should be able to differentiate being in the building now with Edwin for one of his favorite bands and the “friends” who introduced it to him.

Nevertheless, every place his eyes rest rip memories from the depths of his mind to the cold air around him. He remembers, agreeing to help one of his roommates move to afford one of the coats everyone wore. Being too scared to decorate it. Skipping class so no one would see him go to a Citizen 8 gig alone. Standing in the dorm’s communal bathroom, looking in one of the mirrors to the shades of purple on his body, no recollection who to inculpate. “It was just a lark, we didn’t mean any harm.”

Getting harrassed.

Getting Killed.

”Hard Lines mate, maybe next time.” muttered at his fucking funeral.

“Are you alright?” Edwin asks.

“What-er- yeah” Charles stutters, “Sorry, we’ve-I’ve- just never got here early before.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Edwin hesitates.

“Oh, yeah, brills.”

It’s strange they don’t have any roadies or stage-hands aside from the band members. Charles points to the stage. “That is the lead singer James doing the mike check. and-” his arm halts its motion as they both watch in horror as the drummer touches his kit, glows red, dives behind the curtain, and begins screaming hysterically backstage.

Edwin looks at him quizzically.

“Well, that was the drummer.” Charles stammers, “Er-‘m sure, he’s fine, mate”

The Kon 5 are about twenty or so minutes into their set. The trumpets and drums are sycophantic in their rhythm drilling the crowd. Shouts of encouragement and lyrics are spurred out from the people around them. He looks to his right, Edwin stands in his school uniform tight and pristine despite the dingy atmosphere and sub-par lighting. His soft, thoughtful expression breaks into a smile when his eyes lock with Charles.

Guilt stabs him inextricably.

Edwin’s face falls and he pulls him towards the front of the venue. The Green lighting is strained on the hallway to the bathrooms that Charles has had the misfortune of painting in sick after a few too many jars.

“It’s okay if you don’t like the set we could head to the office and-” Charles starts.

“That is not the drummer.” Edwin states matter-of-fact.

The words left no room for negotiation, and were left between them.

“The Glowing was reminiscent of faery possession.”

“They just got back from France,” Hammering draws from Charles’s heart and hits his stomach.

“The shows-the tour,” he supplies, “They might have picked it up in Paris. ‘Right, Edwin?”

“You have the list of tour destinations memorized?” Edwin asks.

Charles feels stinging behind his eyes first.

“No, no, I just used to have their albums on tape and the upcoming tour destinations printed on back ‘innit.”

“You had their albums on tape? I had no idea you were passionate about music when you were alive,” he states.

“ We should see if the drummer could lend us some tapes after we rid him of his faery infestation.” Edwin mutters nodding to himself.

“Passionate?” Charles squawks.

“I don’t know why you insist on pretending you have no-interests or hobbies Charles, but you are clearly knowledgeable on the subject at hand.I had hoped your admission to your interest in music had been an olive branch between us, since you are so pliable to my rantings on thaumaturgy and protection charms, but you seem more fretful. ” His eyebrows are knit together before he continues, “I do not want our companionship to be so one-sided. I don't know any of your passions nor do I wish to have our place of residence devoid of your impression.”

“Mate, i didn’t mean-”

“I saw you restocked the bookshelf. Do you not see the office as a worthwhile place to store your belongings?” he continues. “Honestly, Charles, if you have no plans to stay we need not discuss it, but at least give me something to remember you by.”

The clawing in his throat builds with the silence between them.

“I-er,” he tries looking towards the cheap drywall, ���This is just the first time it was okay to care about things, y’know?

And- yeah. I don’t, er- ” his voice breaks, and he half expects Edwin to shove him.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Edwin’s hand is steady as it grips his lapel.

He follows the pale pressed fingers to his wrist, up his covered arm and settles his gaze near Edwin’s face.

“Maybe on our return from our next trip from the occult book shop we can purchase some recordings.” He whispers.

Charles feels the buzzing energy in his hands again. He weighs everything said before him. The new revelation stripped the version of himself he had presupposed Edwin saw.

“Five minutes backstage,” Charles surrenders, picking up one discarded aluminium bat.

“Or we are summoning that drummer.” - ------ ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ ------

On the way back they pick up a walkman and cassette tapes for the Po-goues, rage parade, and Citizen 8. They leave behind a newly faery-exorcised signed guitar as payment.

When they get back to the office they make it to the middle of the floor before Edwin stands before him with his hand extended.

“What, right now?” Charles asks.

Edwin remains waiting patiently.

The magic canvas bag prognosticates. He swats his hand inside and picks up the cassette player, a tangled mess of earbuds, and the Citizen 8 tape all in one go.

Edwin’s hands dip for a second under the unexpected weight of the cassette player, but adjusts accordingly. Charles presses the eject button and places the tape into Edwin’s other awaiting hand. His fingers hold it in an unconventional manner while Charles stares in awe.

Too soon he presses the cassette into the cartridge and the hand is tucked under the handheld player.

“The earbuds please, Charles.”

Charles' eyes and hands return the mess of wire that he is desperate to untangle. He separates the left and right sides from the main auxiliary cord. Edwin’s hand reaches below and takes the jack and presses it into the aux with succinct precision. He returns, thumbing the earbud from Charles’s left hand to press it to the side of his face. He feels the loss of contact, and then watches Edwin take the earbud from his right hand before putting it to his own ear.

For a moment, he watches the cord between them.

The black wire joining their faces is short, forcing them a little closer than they usually get. His eyes flicker over Edwin’s face, but they find no discomfort. No, Edwin’s face is concentrated as he works. His eyes pinched with the ghost of a smile on his lips. They’re so close he can see the hint of stubble atop his lip and jaw. The coil coupling them taps below his ear twice before-

Edwin pressed the cartridge closed.

The guitar riff expels gruff and triumphant. Five seconds in the drums pick up a heavy beating in the heart of the song. Their lead singer screeches her arrival in a familiar melody.

Edwin’s eyebrows pinch slightly before a soft smile exposes a hint of dimples caresses his face next to the wire joining them. It takes a dull ache in the side of Charles’ face to realize he’s been smiling too. He feels the contact of Edwin’s fingers against his own before realizing he’s unconsciously reached to support the cassette player with him. The weight is lighter than anything he’s held in this new form.

It takes a few minutes before Edwin wanders to pick up his place in a discarded french spellbook. With both ears filled with the rapid pounding of a drum beat he places the remaining two cassettes on his spot on their shelf. With his energy still warmed from Edwin’s presence, he lays a hand on the exposed wood and lets himself press to feel the pressure.

[minswriting]

i have so many thoughts and all of them are inappropriate so here is post prison spencer vibes

nsfw | mdni | post-prison spencer x reader | hand-job, whimpering, some praise

spencer was different when he came out of prison. he was quieter, angrier, a time bomb that could tick at any moment. he hardly spoke unless spoken to. you guys hadn’t even slept together yet due to the emotional turmoil happening in spencer’s brain. which is why when he came home from work, all annoyed and bothered as he pulled at his tie and threw his things to the side, you had taken the initiative.

you waited until he was sat on the couch, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of it as he rubbed his temples, before you plopped yourself on his lap. spencer stopped rubbing his temples, opening his eyes to look at you, the first time he had really looked at you since he got out. instinctively his hands moved to your waist.

“wh-what-“ spencer began before you interrupted him by moving your hand to his crotch, palming him through his slacks. he let out a low groan, his eyes fluttering shut as his cock hardened in his slacks. had you know it would’ve been this easy for him to submit, perhaps you would’ve done it sooner.

you leaned in, pressing soft kisses along spencer’s jawline. “let me take care of you,” you murmured seductively but softly in his ear as you palmed him.

“please,” he pleaded, his soft voice sending sparks to your core.

so you did exactly that. you got off of spencer’s lap, moving to the right side of the couch and putting your legs onto the cushions. “come here,” you said, beckoning spencer to sit between your legs. and he obliged, positioning himself so his back was against your chest. you immediately began kissing his neck, sliding your hands across his back before meeting at his stomach and sliding them down to his belt.

no words were spoken, there wasn’t a need for words when all spencer needed to do was feel. your fingers worked diligently to unbuckle his pants before unzipping them. your hand brushed against his cock through his boxers, causing spencer to inhale sharply.

“i’m gonna make you feel so good, baby,” you murmured hotly into his ear, nipping at spencer’s ear lobe. your hands moved underneath the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down enough to reveal his cock. you grabbed his length, wrapping your fingers around it as you gave it a slow tug.

spencer let out a shaky breath, resting his hand on your knee. you brushed your thumb around the tip of his cock, spreading the pre-cum that had already formed. spencer shivered from the pleasure, unable to help the small whimper that left his mouth. “you sound so pretty for me,” you exclaimed, nuzzling your nose against spencer’s neck as you began pumping your hand a bit faster.

spencer let out a soft moan, leaning back so that his head was resting on your shoulder. with each pump of your hand, your thumb would brush the tip, causing spencer to buck his hips into your fist. his soft moans and whimpers were heaven in your ears, turning you on more than you already were. “my handsome boy,” you whispered, pressing a kiss onto his cheek.

“fuck,” spencer whisper-moaned, turning his face so that his lips were near yours. you leaned down to kiss his lips, moving your hand rhythmically up and down his cock. the months he spent in prison, he hadn’t gotten any sort of sexual release due to the stress of everything. and the few weeks he had been back, he had been too…frustrated in his own mind to even think about doing anything remotely sexual. but as he sat here with you jerking him off, all the anger and frustration he was feeling just simply faded away.

you moved your hand faster, causing spencer to breathe more rapidly. “o-oh fuck,” he whimpered, breaking the kiss. his eyes were closed shut as he thrusted his hips to meet your first. “i’m so close,” he moaned.

“go ahead, baby,” you encouraged, still moving your hand. “cum for me. you deserve it, my sweet boy.”

your words, your hand on his cock, the closeness, it all sent him into overdrive as his cock stiffened in your hand and a loud moan of your name escaped his lips. spencer began cumming, his legs shaking as he spilt his seed into your hand, bucking his hips as he did so. you pumped him through his orgasm, making sure to milk him thoroughly until he was shaking from the overstimulation. and when he finished, spencer relaxed against you, his beautiful brown eyes glistening with lust.

“you okay?” you asked, looking at spencer who’s head still rested on your shoulder.

“mhm,” he said, his brain finally at rest for the first time in a long time.

and that’s how you knew that an orgasm was exactly what spencer needed.

[m4ggotm0ld]

me when palaces of silver and gold cannot be designed over night

[bacchuschucklefuck]

assorted thoughts 1/when sklonda mentioned getting drinks with sandra lynn now and then I straight up cheered I was so scared for her social life being so overworked 2/straight up have no judgement on the whole ratgrinder situation on account of being a whole grown man. Im not getting into beef with fictional teenagers let them sort that out among themselves 3/sprak levefre

[hero-is-back]

pov I'm screaming, shaking, and crying while trying to correctly find and cite all my sources for a research PROPOSAL and all I can think of is a guy who made an entire career off plagiarism and lies

[orcelito]

Whines bc im a few hours into my sleep and I'm not so nauseous now but my limbs...! My limbs, they ache...!!! And it's just all of them, the bone aches in all of them, so I feel like Peter Griffin Death Pose in this bed tonight

[whumpfish]

Preach it! I wish people would realize how significant the overlap between the whump and the disability community is, and that we're not intruding or taking over spaces

Yeah. This wasn't a thing until recently, hence my additional annoyance with it. Like I said in the larger post, whump is a way for us to find common ground with each other and other people. I've learned a lot about the mechanics of pain disorders that aren't ME/CFS, and phenomena that are similar to what I experience but not exact, and not just on my own posts. I reblogged a reference post a while back from someone who has fainting spells, and I was fascinated to learn how much longer I'm typically unconscious for (30-90 seconds vs 2-15 wholeass minutes!). Previously I'd just thought unconsciousness was unconsciousness. It's been a good tool for me for talking to my doctors, even. One of the first things I'm asked when I mention my pain knocking me out is if I've ever fallen, to which I've always responded "??? By the time it's bad enough for me to pass out I've already had to sit/lie down??" Now I know why they're always asking what I thought prior to this was a weird and counterintuitive question, and I can say "I don't mean fainting, I mean passing out, this and that are different"... which is really going to help me in disability evaluations, because I've met a lot of lay people who are convinced that if you don't drop from a standing position it's not "real." All because somebody made a whump reference post for writers, and tagged it what it was so I could find it. And the thing is, there's already a dedicated "space for community things," it's called the actually tags, and it's why they exist. #actuallydisabled #actuallychronicallyill I use these all the time, and you know what? No fandom content. This is a total and complete non-issue. When this shit takes over your life, in my experience, you've got two options for what to do with the spoons you're left with. You can reach out, connect with people, find something you can do to counteract how the world treats you and feel human again... or you can sit around trying to make everyone else as miserable as you are. I choose Door #1.

[chipped-chimera]

Look ok. I am not American. I am Australian. I have seen the fucking trickle down effect of letting someone genuinely unhinged with absolutely no political experience and a hard right radical mindset globally. It's infectious roots reaching out and poisoning everything to the point it has affected me personally.

I know you hate Biden. I know your political system is fucked. But I am on my hands and knees, begging you, as my will to live trembles in a world where I genuinely feel like I fell into the wrong timeline the second Trump got in because 'surely people aren't that stupid?' - we are literally watching you all from the outside baffled.

You're the western world power whether you like it or not. You are the goddamn orchestra conductor and you set the tune for the entire Western world and you have a responsibility to.

FUCKING.

VOTE.

You do realise this is basically a vote between Mr. Burns and THE LITERAL FUCKING DEVIL right?

I don't care if you don't agree with Biden - because you know whose gonna vote if you don't vote 'in protest'? Republicans. He will 120% get in again because you decided to sit on your ass and do nothing to stop it.

Your disillusionment with the system is just spurring your own inaction. Yelling does nothing. VOTING DOES SOMETHING.

Like I genuinely fucking wonder if this disillusionment to the point y'all are just giving up, lying down flat on your back and letting the rabid dogs feast on your still living, breathing corpse - has been purposefully seeded and promoted by your right wing factions because as long as you don't vote? They win.

You aren't protesting. You're lying down to become their feast. You want action? You vote. You vote for the people who will most likely listen. They don't listen? GET INTO POLITICS. BE THE FUCKING CHANGE, NOT A ROADBLOCK IN YOUR OWN FUTURE.

Dear god please. I want to feel like humanity is worth living for. I am hanging on by a thread here.

Fucking vote.

[apolloes]

.

[lifblogs]

It has been 3 1/2 weeks since my biopsy and this thing is oozing pus and blood. What the hell, body!

[tinystarbites]

accidents | Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: during a long case away, Spencer accidentally sees Reader's nudes on her phone and can't cope because he is a MESS for reader whoops [5.5k]

Warnings: SMUT MDNI, 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff, some angst mainly Spencer doubting himself aww :(, Spencer is PINING for you hard (haha get it), nudes, Spencer loves you so much, pls someone give him a hug, m!masturbation, talk about sex, proofread but prolly not perfect lol, like you aren't probably ready for the amount of longing in this, *slaps Spencer* this bad boy can fit so much pining and yearning

read pt.II here

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Spencer swears it was an accident.

You were all away on a case, somewhere in Florida. And of course, something like that can only happen in Florida, because as much as he dislikes connecting random events with random locations, non-sequitur fallacy and all that, he cannot not say that many of his most embarrassing moments aren’t attributable to the south-eastern state. (He will not elaborate on these moments, he very much likes to keep most of his dignity still intact, thank you very much.)

But his dignity isn’t really the only thing that had been shattered to pieces by… by the accident. Far from it really and it- well, it- God, this really won’t end well for him, will it? He’s well and truly, as Emily likes to say, fucked.

It happened on the fourth day he and the team were cooped up in a small, dingy police station, chasing down an unsub that liked to paint intricate body art on the victim’s corpses as part of his MO. Aside from, y’know, slitting their throats with what seemed to be an old, rusty saw. The paradoxical duality of these two aspects, of the interplay of carefulness and diligence put into the painting process and the absolute careless way the unsub ends his victims was fascinating really – but not as much as it is disturbing, still.

Thus, this case is a very photography-heavy one. Most of the cases they solve involve photographs of some kinds of course, but Spencer has never sat in front of quite as many pictures of art and gore in his life before. It was strange, to say the least, even to him. Strange and annoying, to be honest.

Because Spencer isn’t exactly fond of all things that come with some electrical inner life, i.e. smartphones, his old brick of a phone isn’t exactly helpful for this case. He still feels the need to roll his eyes at Garcia after she, for the umpteenth time, called him an old grandpa and his phone a potato trying to pass as a phone. And failing miserably, especially when looking at the pictures it takes and their quality. Well, Penelope would say “pictures”, because she would also say that a resolution of beneath 60 PPI should be considered a war crime against modern technology, but Spencer doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know what that even means, so. Jokes on her.

Well, actually, the joke is on him. And yes, he knows, the joke is almost always on him, he knows his pipe-cleaner physique and too big eyes and long hair and everything about him really, makes him the perfect target for the occasional bullying he gets still as an adult, but he’s used to that. It’s normal, part of his everyday life. He can deal with that (more or less).

What he so brilliantly cannot deal with however, is having you around him almost 24/7. Because Hotch had had the amazing idea of fixing you to his hip as his personal photographer to circumvent his technological potato-problem. Uh- not that you, that you take pictures of him, why would you ever do that, but more like, taking pictures for him. Of their victims. And the body art.

Spencer was actually waiting for your protest, because there seems to be nothing worse for you than to stay inside the office when you could be out there, on the fields, in midst of all the action. Where Spencer usually isn’t. But that’s fine of course. Completely, absolutely fine. Spencer doesn’t look up every time the door to the tiny room he’s set up his camp in opens to see if it’s you bringing him another coffee just the way he likes, if it’s your smile that will make him feel more energized than any overly sweet coffee ever could. If it’s your voice and smell and aura (Penelope is definitely getting into his head) that for the short while you are there, makes everything seem so much more manageable.

It’s an energy burst unlike any other and Spencer is aware of what that means, so aware his body burns with it sometimes… Often. Okay, fine, most of the time. He just prefers to ignore it and enjoy the precarious friendship he built with you for what it is because he just likes to have you around so very much and – this was so not the point he wanted to make. He’s hopeless, when it comes to you, and it really is kind of embarrassing.

So, this is why the joke is so entirely on him that it’s not even a joke anymore. It’s basically bullying, he feels bullied. Because you actually had beamed the prettiest smile he’s ever seen at him, said ‘Oh finally, I can unpack all the dark hidden talents from within me’ which was so cryptic but so you and then you also winked at him. And well, Spencer has to lie if he were to say that he was being totally normal about this. That you didn’t just upheave his insides like an earthquake of magnitude eight with a single wink. Oh, he’s in so much trouble.

The first two days the two of you work side by side proceed without any unforeseen occurrences. And Spencer is so glad about that he could cry. From the moment you had joined the team two years ago, from the moment he met you, it was an undeniable fact that you were nice. Not only that, but truly, selflessly kind in a way that has left him all too choked up to even speak on multiple occasions now. The team is nice to Spencer, of course they are, they’re his family. But nothing in the entire world could have adequately prepared him to the spring of kindness you so freely distribute to anyone willing to receive it. And god, Spencer is willing. Is it every time you listen to him ramble on and on, unable to really hold his tongue despite the embarrassment clouding his cheeks darker. Is it every time you ask him about the book he’s reading, every time you ask him how his mother is doing and just- all these tiny things that add up and completely smush his brain into a fuzzy mess of warmth that leaks down his body.

He literally could spend every minute of every day just sitting next to you and soak up your presence and he would be the happiest person alive. That’s why he cherishes your friendship to him so strongly, and that’s why it’s the worst thing that Spencer is, well, himself.

He knows that you would probably be too nice to outright state that something he does unsettles you. Changes the way you think about him. Still. There is the worry. Buried so deep in his mind it’s as if he was born with it. And that’s why he’s so relieved that he is keeping the worst of the ‘Reid effect’ at bay while working with you on this twisted painter case.

It all goes well, until it doesn’t. Of course. Good things never seem to last for Spencer.

It’s already later in the afternoon on the fourth day you are working the case, no end in sight, unfortunately. Spencer is bend over the table, hands entwined in front of his mouth as he’s staring down the printed pictures of the unsub’s latest victim from three days ago. The brushstrokes seem remarkably stable, the colours uncannily vibrant. Spencer does not know much about art, but he does recognise talent when he sees it. And this unsub seems to have it in abundance. It’s almost a shame he’s a deranged killer. But oh well.

He jumps in his seat when the door to his room abruptly bangs open and a dishevelled looking you is bustling into the room.

Your expression turns apologetic. “Oh Spencer, shit, sorry. I didn’t wanna startle you, but they just found another victim.”

And oh. Spencer feels his heart sink in his chest. Guilt tugging it further down into the abyss. Why wasn’t he faster with figuring out these paintings?

“Really? Where?”

You immediately launch into a rapid-fire list of details, all in the wrong order because you do tend to be a bit all over the place. Spencer doesn’t mind. Gives him a bit more of a challenge to order the information in his brain the way it works for him. You two work surprisingly well in that regard.

While talking, you round the desk that almost takes up all the little space available in the room. You sit in the chair next to him, so close he can feel the stressed warmth radiating from you and it takes a very good portion of his brain’s capacity to stop his hand from reaching out. Or do something else even stupider. More stupid? Oh hell. It’s a wonder he can talk in complete sentences with you.

He watches you pull out your phone, fingers typing in the passcode he guessed right after two weeks of knowing you. The indignant expression on your face had been adorable. That’s why he still guesses your new passwords weekly, just to mess with you a little bit. Because he’s apparently insane like that.

“Here”, you turn the display of your phone towards him, “Precinct’s out of ink. Do you mind looking at the pictures on my phone until I come back from the store?”

This is where Spencer should have said no. Declined politely, smile on his face. Tell you that sorry, I don’t really get the same detail on screen like on a printed version. Should’ve emigrated to Tristan da Cunha, change his name to Ferdinand. Whatever. Anything, except say, “Oh, of course. That’s no trouble.”

You smile that breathtaking smile of yours, fingers touching his slightly while giving him your phone. Spencer sucks his lower lip between his teeth to keep himself from making any kind of noise at the tingly feeling skittering down his back.

He can’t not smile back at you. It’s one of his many weaknesses. Jello, trying to out-solve himself every day with New York Times’ new crossword puzzles, dairy. Halloween themed socks. Old obscure movies no one has ever heard of. Reading the most difficult books in twenty minutes. You.

Once you left, Spencer starts diligently going through the photographs of their latest victim. Not yet identified white male. Average height, average weight. Short-buzzed sandy brown hair. Striking blue eyes that seem to stare at him accusingly even after death.

He works through approximately forty pictures taken off the intricate and detailed body art. This time, the unsub left many smaller paintings woven in a bigger, overall painting. There’s still one that Spencer hasn’t seen a close up of, that’s kind of hidden behind the victim’s ears. Maybe you saved it to a different folder. He clicks around your gallery for some time, opening and closing folders full of holiday pictures. Pictures of you, smiling, at the beach. A folder full of memes that he doesn’t get but is familiar with because you keep sending them to him anyways. Spencer is aware that he probably shouldn’t have just- perused your gallery like that. But he was in case-mode. Hyper-focused on finding the next clue, on detangling the next hint that would bring them further. That would finally be the key to end this case and bring justice to all the victims.

He isn’t really thinking, when he clicks on a folder titled ‘xxx lol’. Thinks it’s another one full of memes because of the abbreviation, but maybe you accidentally saved pictures of the case in there, wouldn’t be too out of character for you and-

Spencer sucks in a breath.

Drops your phone almost as an afterthought. The noise of it clattering to the table makes him flinch.

It lands display down. Small mercies and all that.

And Spencer is- he is-

… That was not-

Not -

There’s a weird buzzy feeling in his limbs, his chest and head. Like his blood turned into a swarm of bees. He feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice over his head and like he’s on fire simultaneously.

Okay. Okay.

That was not- pictures of the case.

Definitely not.

Oh Jesus Christ.

Spencer was definitely not supposed to see. That. Not supposed to see you- like that. Ever.

His heart is totally beating itself into a frenzy. There are at least two litres of blood rushing to his head. The other four are gathering somewhere down down down and oh. Oh shit.

Spencer is actually fucked. More than that. He wants to get fucked and that’s. Just. Even worse.

He wants to scream.

He ends up biting his knuckles and letting out a frustrated noise against his fingers.

Did he really.

Did he really just see your nudes?

(And yes, he knows that word. Penelope is a bad influence on him.)

His head is kind of a- a mess. More than usual when you are around. And… what. What does he do now? He can’t just- can’t just leave your phone like that. You’d obviously see what he was looking at and that’s just- unacceptable.

But the other option appears just as preposterous. Because, because, he’d have to look at your phone again. At you, like that, again. To get out of ‘xxx lol’. Damn you. Why did you have to be so unserious and name your, uhm, very personal folder like that? And no password-block?

Spencer feels a different kind of warmth enveloping him because it’s just- so you, silly and funny and kind of unbelievable and Spencer is so deeply in love with you that he feels like he’s going crazy with it. Of course, you’d be like that about stuff like that as well. Spencer would give everything to just once experience what it’d feel like to kiss you. To feel your lips twisted in a silly smile against his, flicking a finger at his ear because you would. Do that. When kissing someone. And okay. Okay. Spencer needs to get his shit together, like, yesterday.

You could come back any second now, actually and fuck. He needs to close the gallery app on your phone, asap.

His hands are trembling as they retrieve your phone from the table.

He allows himself a deep breath. And then. With eyes squeezed almost close, he taps the return arrow. Well, tries to. He thinks he managed to escape your nudes-folder without any hiccups but well.

Spencer is freaking inept with technology.

So. He finds himself looking at another picture of you and god, it actually might kill him.

It’s inappropriate. So so so so inappropriate. You would kill him dead if you ever knew Spencer was ogling your pictures like that. Like a perverted stalker.

But. But.

There shouldn’t even be a ‘but’.

But.

You’re just. You’re just- You’re incredible. Not even in a sexual way, just-

You’re so beautiful it hurts.

And call Spencer selfish, a pervert, whatever. Because he knows, okay? But he also knows that he’d never, ever get to see you like that. And it hurts in a different way now, because Spencer just wants. Wants you so much. You and you, just you.

But…he’d never get to have you. Which is fine, of course. Having you as a friend is actually one of the best things that ever happened to him, and he’d never do anything to endanger that-

…Well. He’s not perfect. So, sue him, for only once, giving into his deepest darkest desires. He’s only human. And pathetically in love with you. And attracted to you. Oh, he wants to be with you so badly. Wants to- wants to get kissed and held by you. Wants to make love with you, which just. Sounds so dumb and cliche. But maybe he just is that for you.

Still. He shouldn’t think how absolutely breathtaking you look, sprawled across the white linen of presumably your bed. He knew you worked out regularly, but. Spencer feels hot all over when he thinks how easily you could just. Manhandle him around. To wherever you wanted him. And this is something he apparently likes. (He consciously stores that information away for later. Later.)

He shouldn’t think how you would tease him, how you would make him beg for you before he’d even taken off his clothes. He would. He would beg for you, go on his knees. Everything, everything.

He shouldn’t think how warm and safe you’d make him feel, even after knowing he’s inexperienced in everything. You’d take his face in your hands, smile at him so beautifully he’d cry. Tell that ugly internalized shame to go ‘fuck off to Jupiter’.

Oh, he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t.

But there’s always so much he shouldn’t do. Friends shouldn’t think of other friends like that. Friends don’t imagine how it would feel to be taken apart and put together again by their friend. Friends shouldn’t want to touch, touch, touch-

Maybe, for once, he just. Has enough of that. Maybe, he could just. Indulge. For a minute. To know what it’d be like. Just. A little.

To know what it’d be like if this picture was meant for him. What it’d be like- Be like to see you. And for you to see him. Like that. What it’d feel like to crawl into your lap, bury his face in your neck. Set his teeth on the gentle skin there and hear you gasp for him. How you’d bury your hands in his hair, and he’d make the most miserable noises until you pulled and-

Something in the corner of his eyes catches his attention and- shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

That’s you. Walking towards the door.

His hands are shaking so badly he has difficulties navigating your phone. But thankfully, this time, he manages to leave ‘xxx lol’ and find his way back to the evidence folder.

Oh god.

Oh god.

Did he actually- He actually-

The door springs open. Spencer startles kind of violently.

(Oh god.)

You have a big grin on your face. Some magenta ink smutched across your left cheek. And Spencer knows what you look like without-

“Heya, Spence, you won’t believe what just happened-“

(Oh god.)

“Uh… you okay there?”

His face feels like it’s on fire. His heartbeat is spiking and, well. He’s never been quite this turned on his entire life. He feels himself hard and aching against his trousers and Spencer wants you to push him down on the table and-

Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god-

He needs to- leave. Right now.

“Fine”, he squeaks, voice all over the place and he cringes, “Just-“

He wags his hands around in a very confusing, general manner. Grabs some photographs.

“I need to- Need to. Bathroom”, is all he somehow manages, photographs surely placed in front of his, ahhhh, problem.

You look at him as if he lost his mind. He probably has.  “Oh-kay? Then… go?”

Spencer goes.

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

Spencer can’t stop thinking about those pictures.

He’d known it would come to this. Him, lying wide awake on the uncomfortable hotel bed.

Having an eidetic memory has never felt more like a curse to him as now.

He buries his head further into the pillow. Fingers digging into it. Pulling his legs closer to him and, ah. That. Probably wasn’t the greatest idea of his.

He’s still- turned on. Uncomfortably so.But just thinking of taking care of that. Well. He’s 100% sure that that’s not the way to go about forgetting these pictures.

Also, it’s bad enough already that he even saw them. It would be so much creepier to jerk himself off to them. To you. His best friend. But- ugh.

It’s always kind of uncomfy for him to be away on a case. He prefers his own four walls over anything else, kind of, except maybe the university library. And now, being sexually frustrated away on a case that requires even more focus than other cases do?

Oh, Spencer is so fucked.

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

You notice that something is off with him. It really would have been a miracle if not, because then Spencer would’ve had to question your profiling skills. But even then- he doesn’t think that you’d even need to have these skills to notice him acting off.

Because Spencer is so not the person to play incidents like that cool. He is painfully aware of that, thank you very much.

So, the next day, when you came to say hi to him (“Hey there, Mr. Doctor.”), after he basically ran off the day before, and you, as always, casually put your hand on his shoulder, Spencer, he-

He spit out his coffee.

He could feel you freeze through the hand on his shoulder. Your expression would’ve been comical if Spencer wasn’t dying.

“Uhh… Do you… Do you need a moment?”

Well, that was a freaking understatement. Spencer needs not a moment but all of them to try to get his act together.

…which he didn’t. Not for the rest of that day, and also not for the day after. And the day after. This case apparently will never end. Fucking Florida.

You, of course being the kind soul you are, tried talking to him.

(“Spencer, are you okay? You’ve been acting kinda-“

“What? What do you mean? I’m fine, completely.”

“Uhm… Sure. If you wanna talk about it, you got my number.”)

And well. Spencer feels like he is going insane.

It’s come down to him not being able to spend more than thirty minutes uninterrupted in your vicinity without getting semi-hard, because he knows. Without him almost doing something stupid and drop to his knees then and there and beg you to either forgive him or to please let him eat you out.

Ah, yes, because apart from being so frustrated he could scream, he’s also feeling so guilty it’s slowly killing him.

There you are, still being his absolute favourite person on the planet, unaware of what kind of person you are laughing with. Of what Spencer did. It was an accident yes, but- He should’ve said something. Maybe warned you so that it would not happen again. Ugh, but the more time passes the worse it gets. The more impossible it feels to just- go to you and say ‘ah, uhm, by the way, I saw your nudes and maybe you should put those behind a password block’.

Spencer is just- the worst friend. What friend doesn’t give their friend a heads-up about something like that? He’ so, hopeless, incompetent, and he gets it now why he didn’t have that many friends in school. 

It’s gotten so bad so quickly that the others started noticing too, obviously. It really is a curse working with profilers. Spencer should reconsider his move to Tristan da Cunha.

“What’s got pretty boy so worked up, huh?”, Morgan asked him on the day after the incident.

“Did something happen, Spence?”, JJ pulled him aside on the second day after.

“Are they cancelling Doctor Who?”, Emily, on the first day after.

“Kid, you need to eat something”, as Rossi pressed a protein bar into his hands.

Even Penelope texted him.

is it what i think it is? ;))))))

He did not dignify her with an answer.

When Hotch comes to him on the evening on the second day after, Spencer is a mess. He’s practically spent the entire day in some state of fluster. He noticed he’s trailing off when he’s info-dumping. That he’s just- staring off into space more often than he usually does. That he can’t talk to you properly without stuttering, that he avoids looking you in the eyes. So, it really was only a matter of time until their unit chief would scold him. Or whatever Hotch is here to do.

“Listen, Reid”, he says, tone of voice a little too similar to when he is talking to Jack when he did something mildly inconvenient, “whatever it is, and I don’t want to know unless it’s something bad, deal with it. We need you with a clear head here, okay?”

And well, that could’ve gone a lot worse.

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

He still thinks so once he falls into bed that evening. But now-

Deal with it.

How? How should he deal with that? It’s not like he can just press the ‘Delete’-button in his memories. Thanks for nothing, Hotch.

His eyes strain from staring at the ceiling in the dark. Closing them doesn’t really help because all he’d see is you. He’s such a mess.

A pining, pathetic loser mess and he’s so hard again he can’t properly think. It’s just- Spencer has had rather inappropriate thoughts about you before. Has actually spent way too many hours in his apartment just lazing around, thoughts occupied on all the countless ways he’d like you to make him lose his goddamn mind. It had been kind of an accident (isn’t that just the story of his life), the first time it happened.

Spencer had almost been finished with his report, he’d just needed an additional detail from you to finish up. He’d asked Morgan where you were, and this is how he found himself walking down the corridor to Penelope’s ‘Dungeon’. Which, he’d never say out loud because that’s just ridiculous, right?

He saw the door to her office was slightly ajar, a mix of yellowish-red light splitting the hallway in half where it spilled out of the open gap.

There’s a giggle coming from inside the room and Spencer smiles- can’t help it really, because your laugh is just so absolutely ridiculous, a kind of high-pitched screech that ends in airy laughter and he’s so obsessed with it he wants to engrave it on a CD to listen to it again and again.

“No way, gorgeous, I don’t believe that��, Penelope whisper-giggled.

Spencer didn’t realize his steps slowed down, too curious by what you two could be talking about. And also, kind of forgetting that you shouldn’t just listen to other people’s conversations like that.

“Oh yes”, your voice was low, and Spencer would be lying if he said it didn’t send a tingle along his spine, “He broke up with me, but he came crawling back to me not even two months later because I apparently ‘ruined him’ for anyone else.”

Ruined him? What did you mean?

Both Penelope and you were laughing now, louder than before.

“You really, really gotta teach me your devious ways, buttercup.”

You snicker. “I guess it all boils down to making them come so hard they cry and forget their own name, really.”

Spencer didn’t get the detail he needed from you that day.

He’d gotten something much worse and that was curious. From the limited sexual encounters he’s had in his life before (a rushed hand-job somewhen in university in a toilet cubicle by that one other student he was into back then) he couldn’t really imagine something like sexual gratification that made one cry. Sure, getting himself off felt good. Sure, that orgasm had been fine. But… it could feel better?

He kind of didn’t think of that before.

So, when flustered-he had returned to his apartment after that overheard conversation, he kind of… thought about what these things could be that you did, to make others feel so good they lose the basic functions of their memory.

And the rest is basically history.

Of course, he’d never touched himself while doing… research about your techniques. It just felt- wrong. You are his friend and despite of his crush on you, it didn’t feel right.

But now…

He really really shouldn’t. But, he’s just so- desperate. For you and for things to go back to how they were. Without him almost bursting at the seams each time you look at him because before, he never had any problems with categorizing his mind like he does now.

So maybe… Maybe he can just… Do it once? Real quick, to get it out of his system?

The longer Spencer turns the thought in his head, the more… it seems like a good idea. You’d never know. Spencer could forget about- about the accident and move on. Solve the case and finally leave cursed Florida behind. If he just does it this one time, it’s not that bad right?

The fuzzy pleasure that shoots up his spine when he finally, finally presses his hand against himself through his pyjama pants answers him. Yes, yes, it says and more more more-

Spencer has never been good in denying himself things that make him feel good, better than good, things that make him forget about any pain that has nestled inside of his body or mind. Right now, that thing is you. Oh, perfect beautiful lovely you. He can’t stop the way his lips twitch into a smile, almost shy, even though he’s alone. But something about you just- 

He gasps, back arching a little when he slides the palm of his hand along himself, still through two layers of fabric.

Something about you just- god, how can he put this into words- something about you just makes him feel- safe. Seen. Taken care of. And it’s just, so foreign to him. Strange. He’s always been looking after himself. After dad left and mom-

He’s kind of addicted to it. To the way you make him feel. Spencer can’t get enough of it, can’t get enough of you. Never never enough.

His fingers trail circles around the head of his cock, light and unhurried, enjoying the shivers of good good amazing it sends through his limbs, to his fingertips. Spencer can feel the tension leaking out of him, can feel his muscles relax and his mind become hazy. He should do this more often, god he always forgets how good it is, it feels.

He almost forgets why he decided to get off right now. It had something to do with you. You. Naked and there, here with Spencer. He whines a little because you aren’t here, why aren’t you here he wants that so badly-

But all he has is the crystal-clear mental snapshot of your nudes. Spencer doesn’t remember ever remembering something with such clarity before. He feels kind of embarrassed by that, how obviously desperate he is for you. How he would do everything for you, with you. But this feels so good that he doesn’t care about any kind of embarrassment or shame that might trigger his self-loathing.

He increases the pressure of his palm slightly, oh god oh oh, it’s so good already and Spencer hasn’t even touched yet, not properly at least, but oh. Oh, he wants moremoremore-

It’s so easy letting his thoughts tangle, mixing old and new. Fantasies and reality. The you from the pictures merges with the you from his daydreams and oh shit. Oh fuck.

Spencer moans, high and needy at the back of his throat and god how are you so beautiful?

Imagined-you has absolutely nothing on the real you. Spencer could have never himself come up with you because he just lacks the imaginative capabilities to conjure the absolute vision you are. The vision you portray on those freaking pictures that have branded themselves into his very neurons. He’s sure, absolutely sure, that he will never get over them. Over you. Doesn’t even really want to.

Because he is quite certain that the sight of you, your stomach your thighs your arms your tits your- oh he forgot where he was going with this.

By now, Spencer’s hand has dipped beneath his pyjamas and beneath his boxers and he moans again, his lips pulled between his teeth and eyes shut because the feeling of good good better more almost peaks when he grabs himself, finally.

His right hand starts an even, slow pace along his cock because if he is only ever doing this once, he is going to make most of it.

It doesn’t take long for him to get close, though. He’s been so wound up the last few days, it really is no surprise. It’s actually more surprising he hasn’t come all over himself already.

Soft, keening noises are continuously spilling from between his lips, hips moving together with his hand because he just can’t help himself. The heat in his abdomen is building and building and he whimpers because he wants it to be you so so badly, his thoughts are a mess, he is a mess and he wishes he could be your mess, yours, yours to make a mess of and oh god he’s going to-

A knock. On his door.

He freezes, blood rushing loud in his ears, heart pounding and his cock hot in his hand and begging him to not stop but-

“Spencer? It’s me, can you let me in?”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

pt. II? 👀