#bare in mind this woman is like...60+

[twobruhsinahottub]

Oh god i gotta learn how to work ff.net now- theres two good fics i wanna read but how on earth does this site work 😭

[fushitoru]

the importance of skincare a gojo satoru fic

PAIRING: gojo x reader SUMMARY: worried about your boyfriend's skin health, you're set out on a mission to teach him about skincare, sitting him down and rubbing products over his face while seated on his lap. only, he convinces you that he has something to teach as well about facials. just not the kind you expected. WARNINGS: NOT EDITED, oral (m!rec), gojo cums all over reader's face, nsfw, FLUFF (a lot of it), established relationship, gojo is a nuisance, gn!reader, i have writer's block and this helped, silly little thought based off this drabble

“Applying sunscreen on my boyfriend because otherwise, this is what we’ll look like when we’re 60.”

You gasped out loud, despite being alone. Rolling around on the couch you were lazing in, you stared at the paused screen in front of you: a woman and her boyfriend, except she’s finely aged with a few wrinkles, and he looks like an extremely wrinkled potato. Suddenly, your mind flashes back to all the moments your boyfriend, Satoru, would scroll on his phone while you finished your nighttime skin care routine.

“Baby, you really should start doing some skincare.” You give him a sideways glance while rubbing snail mucin all over your face.

Satoru looks up from whatever nonsensical reel on his page half heartedly and observes you as you pat your hands all over your face and neck. “I wash my face.”

“Using your 13-in-1 wash?”

“I don’t use 13-in-1 wash.” Satoru fully looks up, frowning. Sassily, he adds, “And what you’re rubbing all over your face looks like cum.”

That’s as much prodding you’ve done to convince your boyfriend to adopt better facial hygiene, but today was different. You were not about to let your pretty boyfriend get skin cancer or age like milk.

The door opened, as Satoru stepped into your apartment. “Hi, baby!” You perked up from washing your dishes, your form barely able to peek over the kitchen counters over to him, at your doorstep. He can hear pitter patters of your feet as you make your way to him. Then your warmth envelops him, smelling of dish soap and rose. He gives a little mwah! to the top of your head while murmuring, “I bought crepes for you today. Extra Nutella and everything.”

But rather than excitedly reaching for the crepes, you stayed in his hold, hugging onto him tight and stuffing your face in his shirt, breathing in deeply as if to memorize his scent. Satoru confusedly looks down at you, hesitantly coming up to rub your scalp to give you head scratches with his free hand. “Are you okay?” 

“Satoru, we have to talk,” you mumble into his chest. 

Alarmed, Satoru looks down at you. “Oh my god,” Satoru nervously exclaims, “at least let me put down our crepes before you give me a heart attack.” Your only response is to nuzzle your face further into his chest, while he grabs your hand, unwraps you from him, and leads you to your couch. He puts the crepes down on the dinner table and grabs both of your hands, pouting and frowning slightly in that sweet, ignorant way of his. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

You glanced up at him, staring in distress. “Babe, you need to do your skincare.”

“This is what you wanted to talk about?” Satoru looks at you confused. “I thought it was something serious.” You almost want to sob at the way he looks like a confused kitten. You don’t understand why you’re so hung up over that one TikTok—although, your menstrual cycle app did say menstruation was near—but it definitely changed your outlook on your boyfriend’s skin health. 

“This is serious.” You were visibly growing more and more listless until you suddenly make the decision to stand up and make your way somewhere towards the bathroom. 

When you came back, you had your hefty Chanel purse, one that Satoru gifted you for your 2nd year anniversary. You set it down in the space between you and Satoru with a plop! as you began to rummage through the contents to find your essential skincare items. Dragging him to the bathroom, you command him to wash his face. And, to his credit, he does go through all the motions, albeit a little confused. 

A few minutes later, you sit him down on the couch—with your skincare items in hand—and take your seat on his lap. Satoru’s still a little confused as to what’s going on, but—to his credit—you aren’t doing much explanation, either. 

“Baby, I’m really confused,” Satoru is now putting his hands on your hips, pulling you closer to his torso as you lather different creams on your hands. Any further questions from him are stopped as you gently rub them all over his face, targeting his T-zone and cheeks. 

“I saw a TikTok of this girl ‘nd her boyfriend, ‘Toru,” you explain, lathering his face. “He doesn’t do his sunscreen, so he’s going to look like an overboiled tomato when he’s 60. Didn’t want the same for you.” 

 You continue to reach for another bottle, until you realize it’s set too far down the table for you to reach. Naturally, Satoru reaches it for you and puts it in your hands, frowning. “You made me so worried. I thought I did something wrong.”

“You are doing something wrong. You’re doing your pretty skin wrong.” You were scowling, but your hands were sweetly patting Satoru’s face in a way that made him relax. After a long day of dealing with Yaga, he appreciated your soothing hands massaging the tension out of his face. It was never easy dealing with dissaproving old fucks. 

Deciding to adjust his posiiton, Satoru crossed his arms behind his head, laying back onto the couch instead of sitting. Closing his eyes, he felt you straddling him in an effort to reach across his torso to his face to continue your pampering. You both fell into a comfortable silence as you droned on about what you were putting onto his face. A serum that smelled good. “This is hyaluronic acid serum. This’ll keep your face nice and hydrated.” A cream that felt cold on Satoru’s skin. “This is niacinamide, because I know you picked on your acne and boogers when you were going through puberty.” He wanted to protest, but it was so hard to when you pair the insult with a small smooch on his nose. Something that smelled harsher than the others. “This is retinol, and it’ll help you prevent wrinkles.”

In the midst of your teaching, he cracked open an eye and grabbed both of your hands by the wrist, seemingly in thought. “Wait, babe. You’re missing something.” You blinked. “What?” 

“Well, there’s this thing called facials." The beginnings of a smug smile bloomed across his face. It’s really good for your skin, ‘nd I have just the thing with me."

“‘Toru, you are so stupid,” you whined, licking up and down his cock and balls, giving little kisses to his pink and throbbing length.

“Shhh, baby, this is good fo’ you, I promise.” Sounds of plap! plap! echoed throughout the room as your boyfriend slapped his cock against your cheeks. He groaned, taking in the arousing sight of you: on your knees, only wearing his shirt. His cock hardens at the thought of you, his pretty little girlfriend, spending all day in his clothing. He could see your cute little baby blue panties covering your ass as his shorts rode up in your attempts to take his cock deeper in your mouth. As you continued to slobber on his cock, deepthroating him, he could continually smell your arousal, moaning as he realized you must be ruining your underwear.

“Awww, I can smell you, sweetheart. Your little pussy getting wet from just sucking my cock? I’m not even touching you,” Satoru pouted in faux pity and cooed, patting your head while he continually fed you his cock. 

You tried to protest. “Mmmff—” 

“Shhhh,” Satoru had a cocky smile on his face as he shushed you. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, baby.” With that, he lightly grabbed your hair, looking down at you for permission. When you nodded, he began face fucking you in earnest, cock throbbing as your hot, wet mouth enclosed around him. Your tongue laving over his sensitive spots made him groan. “Your mouth feel sooo good. What a good girl, taking my cock, slobbering all over it—fuck.”

He felt himself coming closer. “Baby,” he groaned, “you’re about to make me cum. Gotta give you your facial, right? Make you all nice and pretty?” You whined, tears running down your cheeks because of your stuffed mouth. It sent vibrations up and down his cock, making him come even closer. “Fuuuuck. Fuck, I’m coming.” Satoru pulled out of your mouth, pumping his cock onto your face, your tongue stretched and your eyes directly on his. Rubbing your tongue softly on his tip was what made him reach his climax; he moaned as he splurted long and think ropes of cum, coating your cheeks, forehead, and tongue. It was all so messy. Even after being done, Satoru was continually rubbing his cum into your skin with his cock. 

“Wheeew.” Satoru giggled, reaching down to put you on his lap. “Looks like you got your skincare.”

“Satoru, please give me a tissue. Right now. Your cum is dripping all over my face.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he whined. To your annoyance, he only further rubbed in the creamy substance over your face, using his palms and fingers to spread it. 

Disgusted, you knew what to say. “You’re never getting head from me ever again.”

Satoru had never scrambled to the bathroom faster.

a/n lol he's so stupid. this is the only thing i could force my brain to write but now i'm locked in and finishing all my drafts fr

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

60 Seconds

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.1k

Warnings: heavy angst, rape (explicit), being bound and gagged and blindfolded, kidnapping, heavy trauma

Request by anon: Would you write something with Spencer x reader (s7 ish doesn't really matter) where you're taken or kidnapped and when they find you, you keep yelling like 'no, no, don't hurt me' and shit like that cuz you don't realize it's them, and Spencer rushes to you and holds you but you're like trashing and hitting his chest until you break down in sobs pls that would be the cutest help. Also love me some team reactions to it happening skskdks OKAY BYE

Summary: One minute can change everything. A lot can happen in sixty seconds, and your entire world is turned upside down when you’re taken off the street in broad daylight. Spencer and the team fight to save you while you’re fighting to stay alive.

Square Filled: laid on a stretcher for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Everything can change in one minute.

That’s sixty seconds.

You pass by the bank you and Spencer have a joint account with. Three seconds. You see a woman and her child playing with bubbles across the street at the park. One second. You wait for the crosswalk light to turn green. Twenty seconds. You cross the street with a group of people. Ten seconds. You stop at a flower stand and buy two roses, one for Spencer and one for you. Twenty seconds. You turn the corner onto a desolate part of the sidewalk. Two seconds.

A van pulls up next to you and two men reach out and grab you. Six seconds.

One minute.

You’ve heard of stories where people are taken in plain sight and in daylight, but you never think it’ll happen to you. You’ve heard stories of victims being tortured, raped, and abused, but you never think it’ll happen to you. You’ve heard stories about victims needing a lifetime of therapy knowing it won’t fix them, but you never think it’ll happen to you.

Until it does.

Spencer moves about the office with you on his mind, excited to go on a lunch date with you. You’re not part of the BAU but you try to visit as much as you can. You have your own art business that you sell out of your apartment. You like to paint, make vases, and occasionally sew. Business has been booming for the last year so you’re not worried about not finding a “real” job any time soon.

Lunch time comes but you don’t show up, and Spencer thinks you might have gotten lost in a project. That tends to happen a lot, so he calls you to see if you’re going to be free any time soon. You don’t answer.

“Reid, JJ got something for us.”

Spencer puts his phone away and will call you later when he has a minute. Just like that, you’re pushed to the back of his mind. He has victims to save and bad guys to put away.

He just doesn’t realize that the victim this time is you.

The two men who took you were only the delivery boys. The men who have you are much worse. Spencer must be on a case if he hasn’t tried to contact you. Maybe he has. You’re not sure. You’re also not sure how many hours have passed or if it’s the next day. Time stops when all you can think about is pain.

They put a blindfold on you as soon as they stole you from the street so you’re not sure where you are in the world or what the room even looks like. All you know is that it stinks in here like dirt, sweat, and blood.

You’re hanging from the middle of the room by your wrists, your toes barely touching the ground. You’ve been suspended like this for so long that you’ve lost all feeling in your hands due to the rope biting into your wrists and cutting off circulation. If you’re lucky, they’ll fall off.

You’re stripped bare to just your panties. Those men love easy access where they can get it. Cuts adorn your once smooth skin and dried blood cake down your body. If you don’t give them what they want, they get violent. You’re surprised you’re not dead right now. They’ve beaten, raped, and abused your body multiple times in a single day.

You just hope that wherever you are, Spencer comes soon. You’re not sure how much of this you can take.

Spencer comes home after a grueling seven days in the field. All he wants to do is take a hot shower and snuggle in bed with you.

“Y/N? You home?” Spencer turns on the light but you’re not there to greet him like you normally are. “Y/N?”

He walks to the bedroom thinking you’re sleeping but frowns when he sees the bed is perfectly made as if no one has used it in a while. He checks the guest room but you’re not in there either. He takes out his phone and calls you but it goes straight to voicemail. He checks the Life 360 app only to see your phone is located in some ditch on the side of the road.

Now he starts to panic.

“Can’t get enough of this team? You just saw us for a week straight,” JJ jokes when she answers his call.

“Is Y/N with you?”

“No.”

“Have you seen her or talked to her all week?”

“No. What’s going on?”

“I think she’s missing,” he panics.

“Who, calm down, Spencer. Why do you think she’s missing?”

“She’s not home, she hasn’t been answering all week, her phone goes straight to voicemail, and I can see her location is in a ditch somewhere off the side of the road. You don’t think…”

“I don’t think what?”

“Do you think she was taken by the Daylight Killer?”

The Daylight Killer has been on the BAU’s radar for quite some time now. They take innocent women off the street in broad daylight only to return them back to their families after weeks. During those weeks, these women endure harsh psychological and physical torture. The BAU hasn’t been able to capture this man because they don’t think he’s working alone. If anything, it’s an organization that keeps him hidden from the authorities.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Spence.”

“JJ, she always answers her phone. Her biggest fear is me not picking up mine because of our job.”

“I’ll get the team together.”

Spencer immediately heads back to work and meets the team in the briefing room. They already have the victims of the Daylight Killer posted on the bulletin boards despite not having concrete evidence that you’ve been taken by him.

“What do we know?”

“I have already looked at the security cameras around your apartment, this building, and everything in between.” Penelope puts pictures of you on the screen for all to see. “She was last seen walking down Main Street when she stopped at a flower vendor on the corner of Main Street and Dobson Road. She turns the corner and continues to walk toward the BAU.” Penelope puts up three more pictures, one of you walking, another with a car parked right next to you, and the other with you gone. “This car stops next to her and she isn’t seen on any other cameras.”

“Did you get a plate?” Derek asks.

“Only a partial, but the system hasn’t come up with anything yet. You’ll be the first to know.”

“What if it is him? Do you know what he does to his victims?” Spencer asks with tears in his eyes.

“We need to speak to the survivors and see if they can remember their time with him.”

“You want to put them through that pain again?” Emily asks.

“What other choice do we have?” Rossi asks.

It’s safe to say that the victims of the Daylight Killer were less than thrilled to have to relive their experiences. Some of them are still in the hospital recovering from their injuries while others are locked away in their houses too afraid to go outside. There are only two girls who are brave enough to come forward. Confident that if they help the BAU, the men will get caught.

“If you need to stop at any time, please let us know,” JJ says gently.

“Okay,” Stacy, one of the victims, whispers.

“Close your eyes and focus on the sound of my voice.” Stacy does, and she wrings her fingers together nervously. “When you were taken, do you remember what you could feel?”

“You mean besides their hands on me?”

“I can only imagine this is hard for you but don’t focus on them.” Stacy nods and tries to relax. “Focus on the car ride. Was it bumpy? Smooth?”

“Smooth but then it became bumpy like they were driving on rocks or a dirt road.”

“How long were you on that road for?”

“It seemed like hours but probably ten minutes.”

“Then what?”

“They parked and took me out of the car. I was still blindfolded.”

“What was underneath your feet? Rocks? Dirt? Concrete?”

“Sticks. Dirt.”

“So, you were in the woods. What did you smell?”

“Dirt. Nature. It was musty.”

“What did you hear?”

“Insects. However, they stopped once we started walking.”

Spencer leaves the room after hearing enough from Stacy. So, they are keeping their victims in the woods. What woods, is the question.

The best part about you is Spencer. He brings out the best in you and pushes you to do your best in everything you do, especially with your art business. He never goes a day without telling you he loves you, and he shows it with the little things he does. He leaves out little notes for you on the kitchen counter before work, he buys you cookies and other sweets before he comes home, and he gets you flowers every single week.

Even in bed, he’s super loving. Sure, he’s been rough with you a few times but your favorite is how gentle he can be. He can spend hours in bed just worshiping you before giving you his sock. He fits so well inside of you like he was made for you. Even now, you can picture him bending you over and sliding his cock into your pussy. He touches your skin as if he’s mapping every inch of your body. He rarely leaves behind any marks because it reminds him that he can hurt you. He’s seen too much in the field to leave marks on you.

You’re pulled from your dream with Spencer when one of the men slaps your ass hard. His dick feels nothing like Spencer’s. He doesn’t care if he stretches you too much or if he doesn’t fit. He’s still slamming into you from behind and chasing his release. Your entire body aches from the pain but you refuse to give him and the other men the one thing they crave.

You refuse to cry.

You slip back into your dream and replace the man raping you with Spencer who loves you.

“According to the camera’s timestamp, she’s been missing for a week. Do you know what these men do to these women? What are they doing to her right now?” Spencer panics.

“I know it’s hard but you can’t think like that. We’re doing everything we can to try and find her. Right now, we have two women who remember being in the woods which means this unsub or unsubs need privacy. They can’t risk anyone finding them so they have to be isolated. That narrows down a lot of places,” Hotch says.

“They can’t be far either because Virginia PD is always on the scene whenever they release these women. They have to have a place close enough to where they can grab someone and release another in the span of hours.”

“Garcia, anything?”

Penelope pulls up a map of the area and circles the places where it’s likely the unsubs are located. All are in densely forested areas with nothing around them for miles.

“Based on the survivors’ accounts of being in the woods and the fact that they both said they weren't in the car for long once they got onto the dirt road, I estimate that the unsubs are located in one of five places. Every single victim has been released at a gas station before walking into town where there is reception.”

“That’s too many to go to. They could see us coming and leave. How are we going to narrow down this list?”

JJ comes marching into the room with a look of determination and worry on her face.

“We got another woman missing. Melissa Summers was out jogging when she was taken. This time, there were witnesses. They witnessed a ‘dirty white van’ and ‘two men grabbing Melissa off the streets’. They saw a partial plate which matches the one who took Y/N.”

Spencer goes rigid at the news because there are two reasons why they took someone early. They normally keep their victims for two or three weeks before releasing them and grabbing someone new. You’ve been gone for just over a week. Either they changed their minds and let you go early or you’re dead.

Spencer doesn’t have to say anything for everyone to know what he’s thinking.

“Reid, don’t go there,” Derek warns.

“Too late.”

Spencer leaves the room just before he bursts into tears. He can handle being by your side while you heal from their abuse but he can’t handle the thought of you being dead.

You wish that was the case. You wish they had killed you. After a week and a half of abusing your body for their pleasure, they leave you to rot on a dirty mattress with your hands tied behind you, duct tape over your mouth, and a blindfold over your eyes. The door opens but you don’t have enough energy to react. You’ve been saving your energy for when it matters the most.

“What should we do with her?”

They must have another girl if they’re already talking about disposing of you.

“We should just kill her, boss,” another man says. “She doesn’t make it fun. She doesn’t cry or beg like the others.”

“We should just leave her here and move on. She hasn’t seen our faces. She doesn’t look like she’ll talk.”

“Enough. Both of you. I’ll decide what to do with her when I’m done with her.”

The door closes and you’re back to lying in the darkness.

“Okay, so according to her parents, Melissa goes on a run on the same route every night. It’s on Mason Trail located next to a gas station. It’s one of the ones Penelope circled,” JJ says.

“We should go check it out,” Spencer suggests. “What harm will it do? The best case is we find the men responsible. Worst case is she’s not there and we try again. We have to do something.”

“I’m with Reid on this one,” Derek says.

“If we’re wrong and she’s not there, it could ruin everything,” Rossi says.

“You’re both right,” Hotch says. “Let’s go.”

The team, as quietly as they can, make their way to the house deep in the woods located near Mason Trail. It’s not quite night but Hotch keeps the headlights off to prevent anyone from seeing the sleek black cars. Virginia PD is right behind them because, despite the concern about this not being the location, Spencer has a feeling it is.

They park several hundred yards away from the house and finish the rest of the way on foot. If this is the house and someone is home, they won’t take kindly to Derek announcing that the FBI is at their door. Instead, he kicks down the door and just barges in.

There are four men sitting around the table playing poker who all jump up from shock. They reach for their guns but the FBI is quicker. Derek, Rossi, Hotch, and Emily take down the four men while the police search the house to clear the other rooms.

“Where is she?” Spencer asks once they are all in handcuffs.

“Dead.”

“There’s a door to the basement,” one of the officers announces.

Spencer refuses to believe you’re dead. Hotch leaves the unsubs in the care of Virginia PD and follows Spencer down to the basement. Light floods the room and Spencer pauses when he sees Melissa strung up wearing nothing but her panties, and you lying on a dirty mattress in the corner.

Emily and JJ immediately go to Melissa to help her down, and she starts to cry when she realizes she is being saved.

“You’re okay now. They’re not going to hurt you anymore,” JJ soothes.

Spencer runs over to you and unties the rope that binds your wrists. The second you’re free, you find the burst of energy you’ve been saving. You swing at the person who is above you thinking it’s one of the men.

Spencer grabs your wrists and tries to stabilize you but you’re thrashing too much for him to control. Derek comes over and helps Spencer hold you down, and Spencer removes the duct tape from your mouth.

“Y/N--”

“No, let me go!” you beg.

“You got her?”

“Yeah, I got her.”

Spencer lets go of you and Derek has to use his whole body to hold you still even though you’re still trying to get away. Spencer removes your blindfold and you blink rapidly to counteract the brightness of the dim lights. For someone who has had a blindfold on the entire time you’ve been here, the dim lighting it very bright to you. You look around and lock eyes with Derek who is the one who is holding you. You notice JJ and Emily caring for Melissa, and Spencer comes into view in front of you.

Almost immediately, you begin sobbing. You’re free. You’re safe now. You’re not going to hurt anymore. Every single tear you have been holding back is now coming out and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. Derek lets you go knowing you’re not going to start swinging which allows Spencer to pull you into his arms.

“I’m so sorry, darling. You’re safe now. You’re okay now.”

You bury your face in Spencer’s chest and sob and wail as loud as you can. Spencer can’t stop his tears from falling, and he looks at the rest of the team. JJ and Emily are in tears, Derek is clenching his jaw tightly, Hotch has a stoic look on his face but is breaking down inside, and Rossi has to look away before he cries.

“We need a medic,” Hotch says into his mic.

By the time the ambulance arrives, your sobs have died down to quiet cries. The men are all arrested and put into separate cop cars, and you’re laid onto a stretcher. Melissa is taken to the hospital in another ambulance, and you’re put into the back of the first one.

“Spencer,” you whimper.

“I’m right here.” He climbs into the back and sits next to you. He grabs your hand and runs his thumb across the back of your hand. “I’m right here. You’re safe now.”

“Please don’t leave me,” you cry.

“I’m not. I’m right here. You’re not alone. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

The entire ride to the hospital is you crying over your innocence being destroyed and Spencer trying not to cry.

x

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[readwritealldayallnight]

A Stranger is a Friend You Haven’t Met Yet… (Part 2)

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 5.5k words

(18+ mdni) warnings/tags: kinda barely enemies to lovers, tension, grinding, dry humping, finishing with clothes on, Ghost does not do feelings™️, mask stays on (for now)

Part 1 Part 3

‘Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst’.

That was something something you told yourself often, working as a woman in close contact with the military. Especially so when starting new assignments for the first time, landing on a new base, meeting new faces. More often than not the grand majority of those faces were men. Large, intimidating, burly men. Some of whom sometimes held certain feelings about a woman being brought in to work alongside them.

The first time you’d met Captain Price on yet another new base for yet another new assignment, shaking hands with the tall man, you’d once again repeated the familiar phrase to yourself. If only you could have known there was no real way to prepare for meeting the 141.

He walked you through numerous zig zagging hallway and corridors that made up the heart of the base, leading you towards the briefing room where you’d be meeting the rest of the task force your employer turned friend Laswell had assigned you to assist. Your work as a highly skilled translator meant that your unique credentials made you a vital asset to anyone you worked for. You were only a year out of finishing your degree when Laswell had scooped you up, seeing the potential in you.

As your mind shifted to her, you halted your steps, cursing yourself silently. You’d promised Laswell you would text her and let her know when you’d made it to your hotel safe last night. After the chaos of being left out in the dark, pouring rain at the wrong address following a 10 hour flight where they put your luggage on the wrong flight, being unable to find reception walking along a sketchy, desolate road in search of a way of calling a cab, being rescued by a large, mysterious, enticing stranger on a motorcycle, you’d forgotten to text Laswell before you crashed on the hotel bed that night.

It had equally slipped your mind the next morning when you woke up in a panic, only a few hours later due to the early start time of the briefing, shoving your still wet clothes into the questionable hotel dryer, hoping it would be good enough in time for your mad dash to the base. All this to say, the last 24 hours had left you frazzled, and you’d completely forgotten to get back to her.

“I’m so sorry Captain, I-”

“You’re welcome to call me Price, if you’d like. You’ll find we’re not always so formal ‘round here.” The older man replied, also pausing his foot steps so as to not leave you behind, offering a kind smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes.

“Price,” you corrected, offering him back the best smile you could muster up at that moment. “You’ll have to forgive me, I just need 60 seconds to contact Laswell, that’s all. I was supposed to-”

“Say no more.” He interrupts, holding his hands up as if in a display of mock surrender, taking one small step back towards the door to the briefing room. “If it’s Laswell, I don’t want to held responsible for upsettin’ her. Used up enough favours with her already to finally have her send you over our way.”

You offer him a genuine chuckle at that last comment, knowing that Kate is in fact more often than not bombarded with requests for your skills, and that the head of the 141 was one of those little birdies often chirping in her ear.

“I’ll give you a few minutes. Come in when you’re ready.” He kindly offers you before excusing himself into the briefing room. You take a steadying breath, pulling out your phone and quickly typing out a message to your friend, not wanting to cause a worse first impression than you might already be currently doing. The soft whoosh sound of your text being sent has barely touched your ears before you’re hiding your phone away, ready to get this show on the road.

Your hand is reaching out to twist the door handle, catching the tail end of Price’s deep voice telling someone that he’s “been tryin’ to get ahold of her for a long feckin’ time now.” before an excited Scottish accent adds “So it is a lass??”

‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst’ you thought one last time before opening the door and walking in to meet the 141.

“Last time I checked, yes, I’m still a ‘lass’.”

To your utter surprise, the transition into working alongside the 141 had been the easiest, dare you even say, the most fun, you’ve had in a long, long time. Price is a kind and fair leader, always looking out for his teammates. You, Soap and Gaz have gotten along with ease from the get go, the Sergeants taking an immediate liking to you.

“Is it really 11?” Gaz had asked you during that very first briefing between the five of you, a playful smiling stretching across his young, handsome face. Soap was gazing at you beside him with equal, genuine curiosity across his features.

“Yes, it’s 11.” You confirmed for them, used to the question at this point. It was a fair question, and you knew that. It wasn’t every day that they met someone who was perfectly fluent in six languages, fairly fluent in 3, and knew enough to effectively translate in another 2 languages. Sometimes, if you stayed on with a team for long enough, you forgot how ‘odd’ your work was, seeing people’s reactions for the first time, raving about how they wish they had your ‘gift’.

In actuality, your knowledge felt like the furthest thing from a gift, some days. Your skills were the result of hard work, blood, sweat and tears. You’d been raised in a household where 3 languages were spoken on a daily basis, and so though you did have that advantage early on in life, when you chose your path after high school graduation and decided to learn more than the 3 you already knew, you’d dedicated more effort to your pursuits than you ever had before.

Discovering your love for learning languages, your nose was never not in a book. This is how one of your first every contracts gifted you with the nickname that stuck with you to this day. Though you weren’t technically military, only working with them, the call sign was deemed too perfect not to be yours. This was something Soap was very curious about upon meeting you, and wasn’t shy to hide it.

“And the wee call sign? How’d a sweet lass like you end up being called that?” He questioned, earning a sideways glance from his superior, who was beginning to open his mouth to probably scold him before you laughed and reassured him it was fine.

“I was just starting to study Russian when I’d landed on what would be my longest job at the time. And Russian is really hard to learn, let me tell you. 33 letters in their alphabet, I was working more so had less time to study, anyways I was just reading a lot, always had my nose in a book.” You explained to the men, a familiar story you’d recounted countless times now. “Eventually that got me the nickname bookworm, which over time got shortened to, what it is now… worm.”

“Ach, nowhere near as fun as I’d been hopin’.” The Scot huffs out as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thought maybe you’da been forced to eat a worm at some point or-”

“Sergeant MacTavish!”

That first meeting had been a few weeks ago now, and you were pleasantly surprised at how well things were going. Well, almost everything. Because as kind as Price was, and as friendly as Soap was, and as inviting as Gaz was, those men only made up 3/4 of the task force. There was one other member of the 141, and the issue wasn’t that he’d been missing from that initial briefing, it was that he hadn’t said one goddamn word to you.

The entire time, the massive, intimidating, beast of a man sat in the corner of the room, eyes hidden by the shadows that the skull plated mask he wore cast over where his eyes should be, almost giving off the impression as if the figure behind were not alive. Price had introduced him as simply, Ghost, the Lieutenant. And that’s exactly what he was, a ghost hovering in the space, listening in on the stories that those alive and well were sharing around the table, never saying a word, never making a sound, never even moving.

It wasn’t until the briefing finally ended, Price explaining that he would show you towards the room that would now be yours for the indeterminate future, that you finally saw any sign of life from him, as he took no hesitation in standing to his feet and swiftly leaving the room, all without a word or look of acknowledgement in your direction.

“Don’t you be worryin’ yourself over him, wormie.” Soap had insisted one evening as he helped you spar in the gym. You were by no means a soldier, and were not expected to fight. However more and more often you work was requiring you to be on at the heart of the chaos, translating for your team on the spot in tense, increasingly dangerous situations. It was vital, no, necessary, to Price that they go over what sort of self defence you knew so that they could judge for themselves what was adequate and what needed improving before he deemed you fit to be defending yourself from more than your colleagues.

“It isn’t just you, he act this way with anyone new.” Gaz added as well from where he was stood on the edge of the mats, observing your progress (or the lack thereof rather). “Takes him time to warm up, ya see. He just doesn’t know ya yet.”

“He’s still warmin’ up to me, even now! If you’ll believe me, bonnie!” Soap had joked, wanting to squash your concerns.

The days dragged on however, and the Lieutenant’s behaviour became increasingly odd. He still would not speak to you, and so you never tried initiating contact, reading his message loud and clear. But there were times where you’d be holding multiple folders, if not boxes, of files and information on the way to a briefing, and you would run across none other than Ghost.

Rather than continuing to ignore your presence and continuing his way to the briefing room, he’d wordlessly pluck the items from your hands, carrying them in your place, pace quickening as if to leave you behind. Another time, you were practicing strapping on gear that you’d apparently be expected to wear at times depending on the climate and the situation, intent on heading straight to the gym afterwards to practice sparring, as per his idea to have you practice in actual equipment.

You knew Ghost was somewhere in the room as well, polishing some weapon or another, but you were focused on your task. That’s part of why you were so caught off guard when you stood up, thinking you’d finished gearing up correctly, and found your path to the door blocked suddenly by the Lieutenant’s immense frame taking up your line of sight.

You’d gasped in surprise at his unexpected closeness, finding your mouth gone dry when his large gloved hands reached out to your front, adjusting the straps of your tactical vest without a word. As quickly as he had appeared before you, he’d completed his task and disappeared, leaving you spinning from the interaction.

The next time, you were in the mess hall, standing awkwardly as you tried to leave a conversation but didn’t know how to do so politely. The young Sergeant had suddenly introduced himself to you as you were walking out, and the man had yet to take a single breath to allow you to speak and excuse yourself. Something apparently caught in his throat however, when he quickly clammed up, eyes going wide, gaze trained over your shoulder, before he suddenly had to be somewhere and dashed out of sight.

When you’d turned around, you’d barely caught enough of a glimpse, but you were certain it was Ghost you saw turning the corner, confusing you even further. You couldn’t make any sense of his behaviour, unsure of what to make of the situation. Things came to a head however, when Price decided it was time for the Lieutenant to begin handling your training.

Ghost casts a quick glance around the gym as he walks in, finding that he’s the first to arrive this morning, something he’s thankful for. He’s still not sure how he’s going to go about this. When Price had approached him, saying that he believed the sergeants were going too easy on you in your training and that he wanted him to take over, he knew he was not in any position to refuse.

After all, how was he meant to explain to his captain that he’d rather not be left alone with you. Not when he’d been trying to avoid you at every cost, realizing that out of the dark and the rain, wearing his usual Ghost mask that had been absent from his face the night he met you on his motorcycle, you hadn’t recognized him. And why would you? The only identifying feature you might remember from that night, was his voice, and he’d been making every effort to avoid speaking you thus far.

At first, he wasn’t sure why he was going to such lengths to avoid you, a complete 180 to the way he’d gone out of his way to help you previously. Deep down though, he knew why.

You’d called him a good man.

He’d gone back to base and touched himself, relieved himself, came all over his first like a damn teenager, all to the thought of you, the thought of your sweet voice calling him just that, a good man.

But you had only called him that because you didn’t know him, not really. Your idea of that hero riding in on a steel steed, saving you when you needed it, was not something he wanted to taint, to ruin, with the revelation that that man was actually him, the farthest thing from good there could ever be.

Realistically, he knew he couldn’t avoid you forever, not when you’d apparently be working together. God, what a shock that had been to see you stepping into the briefing room. His intention wasn’t to ignore you completely, at least not indefinitely. He only wanted to buy himself some time, give himself a chance to think of what he might say should you somehow recognize him. But then every time you were in his line of sight, the only thing he could think of was his exit strategy, how to get as far from you as possible.

And yet, even as the days turned into weeks, Simon’s avoidance of you couldn’t hide the growing affection that beginning to take form in the recesses of his heart. Any time he was within hearing range, his ears were tuned in to every word that left your mouth. When your back was turned to him, his eyes were following your every move. Even his own body was beginning to fight against his mind at times, taking initiative before he could realize that he was adjusting the straps to your tactical vest, the thought of you being in a high risk situation without being properly secured leaving a foul taste in his mouth, finding his hands relieving you of the load of whatever paperwork you were bringing to the briefing that day.

Or worse, he finds himself intimidating any man whose eyes land on your figure for a fraction of a second too long for his liking, or who has the balls to actually speak to you. Acting as though he had any right to act as your protector, to involve himself in your life like this without having ever even had the courtesy to speak to you. He really was going about this all wrong, wasn’t he?

Any further self destructive ideas Ghost might had come up with are instead cut short when he hears the hinges of the gym door squeaking open once more. His head swivels in the direction of the noise, eyes landing on none other than you. He’s seen you in your sparring sessions with the sergeants, seen you walk in full of energy, enthusiastic about proving your abilities and learning how to improve them. This morning however, you appear almost timid, trying to make yourself appear smaller as the loud thud of the door slamming shut behind you resonates out, only further emphasizing how alone you and Ghost are now.

He knows he has to be the one making you feel this way, and you aren’t without good reason. Clearing his throat, Ghost acknowledges he’s stalled as long as he can, if you’re going to recognize him, it’s just going to happen.

“Alright?” His deep, gravelly voice rings out in the space. You nearly jump in surprise but manage to school your expression. You wonder if his voice always sounds so rough, or if its a by product of the early morning hour. Whereas Soap and Gaz, ever the gentleman, had asked you what time you’d prefer to train, leading to late night sparring sessions, Price had informed you that Ghost would be meeting you in the gym before the sun had even come up. Damn military men and their early wake up times.

“I’m alright, yeah. How uh- how are you? Sir.” You reply, slowly stepping towards the training mats where Ghost is stood, muscular arms crossed over his huge chest. You tack on the ‘sir’ at the end, not wanting to get on his bad side before you even have a chance to begin training.

“Ghost will do.” He corrects you, ignoring your question otherwise. Ghost finds himself feeling antsy, almost out of his element, he doesn’t like that you’re messing with his head so much already. He’d rather get this over with. The less chit chat (and the less odds of you recognizing him by his voice), the better. “You ready?”

“Yes, I stretched before coming so, should be ready.” You answer him, finally stepping near enough that you’re within reaching distance of one another. Fuck, he’s suddenly extremely thankful you chose to do that before coming here, he’s not sure how he would’ve managed watching you bend over every which way to stretch.

“Right. Let’s see what the sergeants have taught you then.”

All in all, you’re actually not as bad as he might have expected, for someone who wasn’t a soldier. Obviously, he was going easier on you than he would’ve if it were Garrick or MacTavish he were sparring with, but he wasn’t completely letting you win either. You were fast on your feet, slippery in his grasps (maybe that’s why they should’ve named you worm), quick to think and to dodge his movements. He finds himself actually surprisingly quite pleased with you.

What he isn’t enjoying as much, or rather is probably enjoying too much and that’s the issue, are the fucking noises you keep making. Your small grunts of exertion, your puffs of breath drenched in effort, the groans you let out every time he lands a soft blow on you, not nearly as hard as he’d hit an enemy, but with enough force you knock the wind out of you each time. He’s also noticing the way the sweat drips down your neck, across your collarbone, sneaking into the heaving valley between your breasts.

There’s stirring happening in Ghost’s sweatpants and suddenly he needs this session to be over with sooner rather than later. He’s about to call it good enough for today when you open your pretty little mouth and say:

“Why are going easy me?” You’re panting, cheeks reddened with the blood pumping through you and his continues to gather somewhere it really shouldn’t be right now.

“What?” He grunts out, turning his back to you. He reaches a hand behind his neck with a towel, wiping at whatever sweaty skin his balaclava exposes.

“Look I’m not trying to pick a fight with you-” He’s cursing himself silently already at your words. “But not even Garrick or MacTavish treat me like I’m that weak. And they don’t have any issues with me being here.”

“Don’t have any issues with you.” He attempts to reply coolly, still not facing you, though he’s finding himself standing up straighter.

“With all due respect, that’s pure shit.” You retort. At this, he swings around to look at you, eyes narrowing. So she’s got some bite to her. “You’ve had an issue since I arrived, and that’s fine. I don’t need you to like me. But if you’re the one who’s apparently going to be training me now, I’d appreciate if you didn’t treat me like a kid. I’m here to do my job, and do it right. Can I expect the same from you, Lieutenant?”

If you were anyone else, he’d have you running laps around the entire base by now for talking back to him like this. Except you’re not anyone else, you’re you. And now you’re stepping closer to his space, this small thing daring to get into his face over him not training you hard enough? If harder is what you want, then harder is what you’ll get, little worm.

“You want me to go harder on you, s’that it?” He questions, taking the final step forward until your chests are now touching, and you’re having to crane your neck back to maintain eye contact. He’s close enough he sees you swallow at his question, but you don’t dare back down. Good girl. “Treat you like a big girl, s’that right?”

Suddenly struggling to find your voice, you manage what you hope is a confident nod. He’s never been so close to you before, and you’re noticing that the scent of him, even covered in sweat and likely morning breath behind his balaclava, is dizzying. Nearly intoxicating. He smells like a pure man, and you’re internally berating yourself to stay focused.

“Careful what ya wish for.” He says, barely allowing a second to pass before he’s suddenly throwing you onto the mat, flipping you onto your back, both of your hands pinned above your head in one of his large palms, his large, heavy body holding you in place underneath him, all in the blink of an eye. “What now, little worm? How are ya wrigglin’ your way out this?” He presses his mask covered mouth next to your ear, feeling a shiver go through your body at his words.

He’s careful to keep his now raging erection away from you, leaning his hips back but still pressing enough weight on you to keep you from budging. To your credit, you do try to get out from underneath him, but it’s a losing battle from the start, you’re no match for his size, especially with both hands above your head like this. Your cheeks are reddening in a mix of effort and embarrassment, and Ghost finds himself enjoying this view far too much.

“See, I was actually bein’ quite nice to ya,” He adds, barely tightening his grip on your hands, as if to remind you that he’s not even using his full strength with you. “But out there, wormie. They’re not gon’ be so kind-”

Whatever Ghost was going to say is cut off by a genuine, ragged gasp erupting from behind his mask. In your effort to free yourself, you’ve lifted your hips, unknowingly rubbing yourself against the bulge straining in the front of his sweatpants. Shocked by his reaction, you stay frozen in place, still pressed against what you can now tell is his throbbing member. And from what you can fell, it’s huge.

You’re momentarily caught off guard by his reaction to you. You weren’t exactly expecting… this. But his delicious, masculine odor is filling your nostrils, it feels as if every inch of you is pinned down by every inch of him, you can feel every twitch of his muscles and can practically count the steady beating of his heart through his cock pressing intro your thigh. And though you’ve always prided yourself on thinking first, acting second, you can’t exactly explain why you find yourself slowly beginning to rock your hips forward.

“This is you bein’ nice, Lieutenant?” You attempt to ask coyly, though you can’t hide the breathy way your voice comes across. Before you can pull your hips back anymore however, Ghost is suddenly releasing you from his grasp, standing to full height and dashing out of the room before you have a chance to even sit up.

Well, that went well.

The birds have only just begun to chirp when there’s a loud banging at your door early the next morning. You’re confused, prepared to tell whoever is on the other side of the door that it had better be a matter of life or death, when you come face to face with none other than a Ghost.

“What are-”

“If training starts at 0500, then you are to be in the gym at 0500. Understood?” His gravelly voice demands. A quick glance to your watch tells you it’s 3 minutes past 5 in the morning. You had been certain after yesterdays debacle that Ghost would never want to train with you again, assuming that he’d speak with Price about handing you back over to the sergeants somehow.

So why does the sight of this gigantic masked man standing in your doorway, so large he blocks most of the light coming in from the hall, someone who’s done nothing but piss you off so far, arriving in absolute insistence that you continue sparring together, have your thighs suddenly clenching together?

“I thought that-” You cut yourself off as you watch him tilt his head, almost as if daring you to finish that sentence. “Yes sir.”

“Get changed. You’ve got 60 seconds.” He informs you before reach to shut your door for you.

That’s how you find yourselves alone in the gym a short time later, training resuming. To his credit, Ghost does not go as easy on you this time as he did yesterday, genuinely challenging your abilities in self-defence and close quarters combat, teaching you moves that Soap and Gaz had apparently not considered necessary.

“If you’re ever in a situation where it’s your life on the line,” he had said between clenched teeth as he taught you to dodge his blows more effectively, as if the thought of you in actual danger enraged him enough to chip a tooth. “I want you doing anything necessary, to get out o’ there. Understood? You make it out.”

By the end of the session, Ghost himself is panting with exertion, the both of you having put in more energy than you would have, were you sparring with anyone else. You watch him, hands on his hips as he catches his breath, head tilted slightly to the ceiling, and you decide it’s as a good opportunity as any to try and catch him off guard, feeling confident in yourself.

Foolishly confident.

Before you even manage to land a finger on him, he’s flipping you into the very same position as you found yourselves in yesterday, you on your back with him above you, one of his hands pinning the both of yours above your head as his other is planted by your waist, warm breaths meeting in the middle.

“That, I never want to see you do again.”

“Was worth a try.”

“Was it?”

You slowly raise your hips, unsurprised when you make contact with his steel hard cock above you, teasingly rubbing yourself against his length.

“Maybe.” You whisper, eyes searching his glazed over expression. You find his pupils have darkened to the point they eclipse almost all colour, specks of black eye paint smudged around his eyes have caught onto his eyelashes. He’s so close to you, you’re able to make them out as blond. Something about being near enough to the mysterious, alluring Ghost to know that he’s blond under that mask causes the blush on your cheeks to darken further.

As caught up as you are in the obvious want you find behind his eyes, there’s something about them that almost, somehow seem familiar. As if you’ve looked into these eyes before, in a different place, a different context, a different time.

Any rational thoughts are cut off however, when you both hear and feel Ghost growl, the hand that was planted at your side now coming to sneak between your back and the floor, pulling your front somehow even closer to his muscular chest. There isn’t an inch of space between the two of you now, your heads falling beside each other, temple to temple, as his grip on the situation finally slips, his resolves breaks, and he begins to grind against you.

You let out a gasp, the feeling of his pulsing member rubbing against your centre, even with all the layers of clothing, is sinfully delicious. You suspect he’s feeling the same way, because his grip on your waist tightens, hips bucking already with more insistence. His grunts are music to your ears, as are the small moans and whimpers you let out into his neck. You’ve wrapped one leg behind him, widening your hips as far as they’ll allow, granting him as much access to your core as his large frame needs. Having released your hands to allow himself to explore the soft squeeze of your breasts through your workout shirt, your fingers in turn are roaming up and down his back, across his shoulders, fingers nails scratching at the fabric of his shirt.

Ghost knows he’s not going to last long. When he’d gone to get you this morning for your sparring session, he was determined not to let yesterday’s events get in the way of his professionalism. You were right, after all. You both had a job to do, and he would ensure you could do it right. He would sleep better at night anyways, knowing you were properly trained in how to defend yourself. Trained by him, and his hands. He hadn’t intended for the session to end the way yesterday’s had, with you laying beneath his raging erection on the sweaty training mats, though he wouldn’t lie and say he hadn’t hoped for it in some small part.

He knows he’s not going to last long because he’s finally, somehow, got you here underneath him, and your small sounds of pleasure are better than anything his twisted imagination could have ever conjured up. He shouldn’t take it any farther than this. This is already going too far, humping you into the ground of the gym fully clothed like a pair of teenagers who can’t keep their hands to themselves. But that’s exactly what you make him feel like though, isn’t it?

No, he won’t go farther than this, won’t allow himself to take more than this. This alone is more than he feels he deserves. God, how he wishes he could give you what you deserve though. Releasing your breasts from his continued groping, he snakes his hands down your stomach, meeting the hem of your pants, allowing his digits to slip beneath the band of your underwear, fingers instantly finding your pulsating clit between your soaked folds. Your moans only grow louder as he begins to quickly bring you closer to your peak, one of your hands coming to cover your mouth should anyone happen to be walking by.

It feels as if the two of you are caught in a raging storm, two inevitable waves colliding with one another in a fury likened only to mother nature’s doing. You’re both reaching your peaks together, tumbling over the edge into pure, mind numbing bliss, as you continue to hold onto one another, as though you’re life preservers in the sea, seeing each other through to the end of the end of the fall.

Ghost can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed at the fact that he’s cum in his pants. Not when he’s searing your blissed out expression into his mind forever. You’re both panting now, coming back to your senses, remembering your surroundings, as well as the fact that with the time that’s passed, it’s becoming increasingly likely for anyone to walk in.

Taking one last look at you, squeezing your side with what might just be affection, Ghost begrudgingly rolls himself off of you, coming to stand, readjusting the front of his now wet sweatpants. He turns himself around, extending a hand out to you, which you accept, allowing him to pull you up.

Only you don’t let go of his hand right away. Instead, you tighten your grip on his palm, pull him closer to you, narrowing your eyes at him, a cheeky smile spreading across your lips.

“So,” you say, licking your lips. “Same time tomorrow?”

Longest chapter ever and first time writing sort of smut! Feel like I’m earning my place on tumblr lol

Reader gets a call sign and a bit of a back story! Hope it wasn’t too long or boring to read, it’s literally only because I really wanted to justify naming reader as ‘worm’ because there is absolutely definitely without a question eventually going to be a chapter where worm is drunk and crying about how the boys are saying they wouldn’t love her if she turned into a worm thank you that is all

- M 🫶🏻

[gold-onthe-inside]

corrective maintenance

a reactive maintenance strategy employed to restore a system, machine, or software to its optimal working condition after a failure or malfunction has occurred.

who? spencer reid (s7) x analyst!reader what? the much demanded sequel to greylist; your complicated and suppressed feelings for spencer result in an argument, the blowback of which leads to a fight with penelope. content warnings: a little more background to reader given (neglected childhood, not many friends) word count: 2.1k a/n: finally put this thing together, reader and i will both have eye strain by the time we're 60

It’s just past a quarter to 11 when you trudge back to the apartment, the painkiller Spencer had given you just barely dulling the ache in your head. You close the door with your back, slipping out of your heels, the keys clattering in the clay bowl, pink with white cat-eyes. “How was your night?” came Penelope’s voice, floating over with a cup of coffee, wearing a red silk robe.

“Don’t get me fucking started,” you muttered, finding the energy to peel your coat off and Penelope hid a giddy grin as she sipped her coffee.

“You stayed at his place, huh?” she asked and you glared at her.

“Yeah, because you didn’t have the decency to go to your boyfriend’s place. We have rules about this stuff, Penelope,” you said, exhausted. You didn’t want to get into another fight, not when it felt like a construction crew was working in your frontal lobe.

“Did you at least have fun?” Penelope asked, her voice hopeful, and you scoffed, remembering the last half of your argument with Spencer.

"Just cause I don't have the same weird co-dependency that you lot seem to have with each other doesn't make me lonely," you said, your head still hurting from the hangover, rummaging through your purse for a painkiller but all you found was a couple Altoids, and you hear the pop of a tablet beside you, Spencer standing there, holding out a Tylenol for you.

“Then explain why I was the only one you had to drink with last night,” he said, not unkindly, but he’s probing into areas you’re uncomfortable with. You barely talk about it with Penelope, and you live with the woman.

“Only because Penelope was busy,” you retorted, almost not taking the pill out of sheer spite, but your head hurt too much for you go through with it. You popped the tablet, fully aware that Spencer’s still watching you as you chase it with water.

“And if you didn’t have Penelope?” he asked softly and you look at him angrily. God, why was it so easy for him to get under your skin? “Face it, you’d have been drinking alone, because Penelope’s the only friend you have.”

“And what were you doing, Mr Friendly?” you snapped back. “Since we’re all about facing facts, you had nothing better to do on a Friday night than answer Penelope’s call?”

His face blanched, and if you’d been in a better state of mind, you’d have played it off with a joke, lightened the tension. You wouldn’t have pushed him so far. “Because I’m willing to bet the only reason Penelope called you is because you reliably wouldn’t have plans,” you continued, a sharp edge to your voice. “Derek, who’s always got a date, and Emily who’s always doing something new, and Hotch who’s got a kid at home, and JJ who has her family. So don’t tell me about how lonely I am, Dr Reid, before you take a long, hard look in the mirror.” You let out a breath, running out of steam, looking at Spencer’s hurt expression, his angular face all drooping. You almost apologise. Almost.

“At least I’m not a coward about it,” he said quietly. “At least I keep trying. You’d rather make people not like you than realise they wouldn’t like you after getting to know you. Because what happens when Penelope wakes up one day and leaves you?” When. Not if. The sting is too much, the lump in your throat choking you.

“I have to go home,” you said instead, and he doesn’t stop you this time, in your black dress with the cut-out waist, wrapped up in a coat.

“What?” Penelope demanded, almost a shriek as you finished telling her the story. “That’s… Oh my God, you two are cruel, why would you say that to him? Why did he say that to you?”

You rub your face, tired and sad, your eyes half-closing of their own volition. “I was just… My head hurt and he was trying to be nice, but it just… it was too much, Pen, and then he started reading into it, because fucking profilers and—”

“So you shut him down,” Penelope groaned, sinking her head into her hand, saying your name with such disappointment. “So much for hoping you two would finally get along.”

“I don’t understand your insistence on making us get along,” you said, pouring yourself a cup of coffee and Penelope scoffed.

“Because you’re both perfect for each other,” she cried, as if it was obvious. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t see it—”

“When have you ever been right in saying I can’t do something?” you ask, but she steamrolled over you.

“You’re both insanely smart, you have the same sense of humour, you both devour books, you banter, it’s a made-for-Christmas rom-com,” Penelope insisted, watching you look at her skeptically. “You’ve never even given him a shot,” she said softly. “He… He’s not like every other guy, you know that.”

“He hasn’t even asked for a shot—”

“He dropped everything on a Friday night—”

“Because you demanded it of him—”

“Because he likes you!” Penelope cried hotly, standing up from her seat at the kitchen table. “This whole argument, where you were so mean to him, was all because he was trying to take care of you.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of—” you cried out only for Penelope to interrupt with, “Bullshit!” You stared at her outburst, uncharacteristic of the cheery woman.

“Everyone wants to be taken care of,” she told you. “You wanna act like you’re so above it all because deep down, Spencer’s right. You’re scared. And I wish you weren’t because you’re so wonderful and smart and kind and one day you’re gonna push everyone who cares away because it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to have to keep peeling layers away.” Penelope paused, catching her breath, looking at you, waiting for it to sink in. And it doesn’t.

“Then stop trying,” you said, as if it was that simple. The coffee was too bitter for you, and you leave your half-full mug to go shower, leaving Penelope stunned in the kitchen.

You stay in your cubicle all day, resigning yourself to your code, your pride keeping you from Penelope’s lair. You’d even left early, rather than your usual lazy commute to work in her car. Spencer’s not like Morgan, he doesn’t stick out from the rest of your co-workers, all computer nerds working on other projects, so you don’t see him approach you.

“For the last time, Jerry, I’m not reviewing your code for—” You looked up, pausing at Spencer’s hopeful face sticking up over your walls. “Oh. You.”

“Not the worst reaction I’ve had,” Spencer admitted and you let out a dry huff.

“I’ll break out into a rash for you next time,” you replied and he pursed his lips.

“How’s Penelope doing?” he asked, rather than playing along with your inane game.

“What do you mean?”

“Morgan said she took a sick day, which she hasn’t done since 2009, and I tried calling her but she wouldn’t pick up,” Spencer said and you frowned. “Is she okay?”

“I— She was fine last night,” you said lamely, your stomach bottoming out, and Spencer could read your expression of guilt far too easily for your comfort. “Don’t do that. Don’t profile me,” you snapped at him, standing up and grabbing your coat.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to,” you retorted, starting to head out and dialling Penelope’s number while Spencer chased you.

“Can I at least know what happened?” he asked, hazel eyes on you with as much concern as they had last night. You tutted, hitting her voicemail and enter the elevator to head out, Spencer following you inside.

“You happened,” you muttered, pocketing your cell.

“What?”

“You happened,” you repeat, heated and angry, mostly at yourself. “You just had to pick a fight with me—”

“Hey, I was being nice to you—”

“And so I was pissed off when I got home—”

“And you unloaded it on her,” he filled in before putting on the receiving end of your glare. “You keep doing that, you’re gonna desensitise me to that look,” he pointed out and you sighed.

“Fine, yeah, I did, happy?” you asked bitterly and Spencer looked at you slumped back against the elevator, and he pushed the stop button, essentially trapping you both inside.

“No, and neither are you, and you never will be if you keep acting like this,” Spencer told her.

“I’m getting a little sick of being lectured to, Professor,” you snap at him and he frowns at you.

“And I’m sick of walking on eggshells around you,” he replied. “I don’t know what I did, but for some reason, you’re acting like a killer T-cell. So intent on protecting yourself that you’re destroying every relationship you have.”

“Oh please, the last thing I want is pity from you,” you scoff, stepping away from him.

“There it is, see?” he insisted. “It’s like a reflexive response, to push everyone away if they get too close. If you’re always alone, then no one can hurt you, right?”

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" you demanded.

“No, not when you’re just waiting for me to give up so you can be right,” he replied. “It’s classic avoidant attachment—”

“God, just stop!” you yelled at him. “Stop, stop trying to worm your way into my head!”

“That’s the thing, I’m not!” he insisted loudly, stepping closer to you and you back up against the wall. “You act like all I want from you is some intellectual spar, some— But I’m trying here! I’m standing in front of you right now, with nowhere to go, asking you to talk to me, actually talk to me.”

"About what?" you asked.

"Anything!" Spencer replied, his voice echoing. "You always have some smart-ass remark to throw at me, to just shut me up. So tell me what's going on, tell me why that's easier than just talking."

You look at him, speechless. His hand comes to his face, pushing his hair off his face as he looks away. “God, I sound like a crazy person,” he said, as though the realisation took him back. His hand fell to his side, and he turned to leave. “Just… Just go see Penelope before I make it worse, okay? I’m sorry,” he said, looking at you. “You’re just so confusing, and you have this way of pushing my buttons, and— God, I’m gonna shut up now.” He stepped forward to turn the elevator back on, pressing the buttons that kept him facing away from you.

You stayed by the wall, looking at him. "I'm not used to it," you said softly. "I don't... have people like you guys do."

Spencer paused, before turning back to you. "Penelope said you never talk about your childhood."

"There's not much to talk about," you said, scuffing the floor with your sneakers as the elevator went to the lobby. "My parents both worked long hours. Weren't really around. Didn't have a lot of friends growing up. And I got into tech, but when you're the only woman in the class..."

"It's not very welcoming is it?" he filled in the blanks, and when the door chimed, you found yourself not wanting to go. He stepped out, holding the lift open for you. "So how did you end up an FBI agent?"

"Get to do a lot more interesting work here than at Apple," you replied.

He lets out a sigh of recognition. “I felt the same way when I joined.” He smiles at you softly, gesturing for you to keep talking.

"I just... I dunno, I'm not wired for this stuff," you continued, stepping out of the elevator. "Friends, relationships... Coding's a lot easier."

“I can get that,” he nodded. “It’s easier, less complicated.” He let out a sigh, taking a step closer to you and you looked up. “I’m not gonna let you push me around anymore,” he added and you blinked at him.

“I figured.”

When he moved away, the relief you felt confused you. “Go talk to Penelope,” he told you. “I’m sorry I’m not great at this stuff, and that we fight a lot, and I’m always in the way but— but I want to get better.” He turned quickly, leaving you standing in the lobby, unsure of what just happened.

[miley1442111]

thank god for dr. spencer reid

a/n: this was written with a fem!reader in mind but imagine what you want, reader has a period (same girl) :) spencer us such a cutie in this :)))))))

summary: your shitty family is in town and spencer is away, what will you do?

pairing: spencerreid x reader

warnings: heavy family issues, mentions of stress and sickness, very brief mention of abuse (litch not talked about just referenced dw), kinda cursing (just realised i've never warned this before... opps) and i might've missed some!

My eyes are glued to the screen with a perpetual frown playing on my lips. It’s hard to try to care about my job when I have this looming feeling of dread hanging over me like a cloud. Spencer has been MIA for days now. He left in a hurry on Monday night for a case. It’s Saturday now and he hasn’t been responding to my calls. On top of that, I have dinner with my mother and father. Both of them make it abundantly clear that they’re disappointed in my career choice, which is ridiculous because I’m a lawyer. Not the right kind of lawyer they constantly say. I’m an environmental lawyer and I make good money. The only way to satiate their insufferable whining is with Spencer. They love him. They probably love him more than me at this point. Alas, I will just have to deal with them alone tonight. And today has already been one hell of a day. First, Morgan called me,asking where Spencer was, telling me that they finished and that they should be home soon. He had not come home yet. Secondly, I feel like shit, an allergic reaction, my period and some random nausea all add up to making me feel itchy, gross, and practically vile all over. Thirdly, a huge pimple has decided to pop up on my face and  just know my mother will comment on it. My mother is one of those women who look effortlessly put-together 24/7. I am not one of those women. She does not like women who don’t look effortlessly put together. Aka, she barely tolerates me. 

I sigh and close my laptop screen, unable to reread the same few sentences again and again, hoping that they would get into my brain. I’m defending a client, one of my firm's biggest clients, in court next week. They were accused of illegal dumping (dumping they did not commit) and now they’re being sued for 2 million dollars. I slump out of my desk chair and out of my home office, locking it behind me for the weekend ahead. If I have court next week and Spencer is coming home after a difficult case, then we’ll need a day or rest and relaxation together. That is, if he even bothers to come home. I busy myself with getting ready and try to push those thoughts out of my head. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last hour of my life has been 60 minutes of absolute misery. Why did I ever accept this invite? My mother excuses herself to the bathroom and my father excuses himself for a cigarette, I nod along. Then it hits me… my dad doesn’t smoke anymore. I stare at the door and before I can stop myself my face contorts into a frown once again. Amelia, my sister. The sister that I haven't seen in years. The sister that bullied and abused me throughout our teenage years. Fuck. 

“Amelia?” I question, looking at the blonde woman who looks… different. She’s obviously older than I remember, and a bit more… I don’t know how to put it. Her blonde hair surpasses her waist and she seems to be pregnant? Her blue eyes seem dull and lack a certain vividness they used to sparkle with. She’s the typical peaking in high-school mean girl who became a nurse girl. I honestly can’t believe I used to look up to her. 

“It’s so good to see you!” She smiles, one of her fake-bitchy smiles and I grimace as she tries to hug me. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing, especially with the baby on the way, I’ll need all the help I can get!”

My heart drops. “Oh!” Is all I can manage. She sits in the seat beside me and I instinctively move further away. Just as I think this stupid dinner can’t get any worse, her pervy fiancé, Johnny, walks in.

“No Spencer?” He smirks. “What? Did you two break up? He was always too vanilla for you, you need a real man-” 

“No, sorry. I was just late. I had to come straight from the jet,” Spencer smiles from behind him. My parents' eyes light up, as Amelia and Johnny’s faces fall. I smile appreciatively at him as he hands the flowers he brought over to my parents and sits beside me, a comforting hand on my thigh. 

“How’s work, Spencer?” My father asks, his undivided attention on Spencer.

“It’s good, strenuous but good. Our cases recently haven’t been too difficult- though there was one that had a puzzle I thought you might enjoy…”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I walk inside our house behind him, a million thoughts at once flowing through my head. We walk to the kitchen, he sits me down and takes off my shoes for me, a true gentleman. 

He presses a kiss to my cheek and smiles. “You look beautiful.”

I just nod back, a small smile on my lips. 

“Is everything alright?” He asks, turning to me, his hands resting on my waist. 

“Fine,” I tiredly smile. “Just… you know, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“You know, saying that makes me worry more, right?:” He smiles softly, though we both know he’s serious. 

“I just… I can’t believe she just showed up, like 7 years  of not seeing her and she just shows up? Like it’s casual? And then asks for our help with her baby? Like she did nothing to me? Like she-” I stop myself, determined not to cry right now. 

“Angel, it’s ok, let it out,” he soothes, a hand on my back, rubbing comforting circles. 

“I don’t want to cry though, they’re not worth crying over.”

“Then how about we get ready for bed, yeah angel?” He offers, a tired look in his eyes. I nod and press a soft to his perfect lips. He smiles against my mouth, his hands finding the sides of my face. I run a hand through his hair. He pulls away softly, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I smile. “Thank you for coming, my knight in shining armour.” 

“I enjoyed it. Watching your father fail to solve a simple puzzle was amusing.” He smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye as I roll my eyes. 

“We’re not all geniuses,” I remind him. 

“You are.”

“And how am I a genius?” I chuckle.

“You’re dating me, you clearly have superior taste and intelligence,” he says matter-of-factly. I gigle at his antics and kiss him again. He pulls away and grabs my hand, leading me into our room. We both opt out of brushing our teeth and washing our faces, a makeup wipe sufficing for removing my makeup. He pulls me into bed with him, and finally, after a long week, I finally lie down in bed with him, his arms around me in a bear-hug of sorts. This is heaven. He’s my knight in shining armour. Thank God for Dr. Spencer Reid. 

[edenprime]

I keep flip-flopping on whether I like Liara's change in characterization post-ME1. Was she changed exclusively by the devs/writers so that she could be an action girl, which is considered more interesting/sexier? Was it a side-effect of her being put on the "everyone is now an edgelord" train? Or did it actually make sense?

At the present I'm inclined to think it's a mix of the last two. At the start of ME, she says that she's barely an adult by asari standards, that her work isn't taken very seriously due to her young age. We overhear, in ME2, an asari on Illium say that she's 60, so she's finally moved out of her parents' house. I'd say this makes Liara's 106 years around the equivalent of early to mid twenties. She suddenly finds her mother, an extremely well-respected woman in her society, betraying her people and going off with a rogue man who's rallying one of the galaxy's boogeymen to work for him, hunting down and killing innocents, turning them into monsters. Then, when she's gone to hunt her down to stop her, she finds out she's indoctrinated, that she set out to stop Saren, not join him. Benezia finds her mind for a few minutes, tells her she truth of the indoctrination, and attacks her and the person she's falling in love with (her first love, too!) only to die in front of her.

Whether Shepard rejects her or not, it's clear that she's in love with them, that her feelings are still there when the collectors attack the Normandy. And right then, she sees another person important to her, at best a friend and at worst a lover, die in front of her. She finds out there's a race to get their dead body, that it can be given to their murderer, or to a terrorist organization. She chooses, for better or worse, the second, the one who, as she says on ME2, gives her some hope. She admits to Shepard that her feelings got the best of her in that case. After dying for the cause, she sees their reputation be torn to shreds and every discovery they made be buried by politicians.

She loses Feron, another ally, another friend.

So yes, she changes. She's a 23 year old who went from exploring 50 thousand year old dig sites to being in the center of a belic conflict with her mother as an enemy. She sees her love die a horrible death, choking on nothing in front of her.

Of course she becomes obsessive and single-minded. Of course she adopts some of Benezia's worse traits. Of course she hunts down the shadow broker with such ruthlessness. And of course her behavior softens with Shepard - they came back. She's not stupid, I'm sure she knows her gamble, when she gave Shepard's body to Cerberus, was not without its dangers. She knows Shepard could rightfully be mad at her. She knows Shepard could have not come back at all! But she did it all anyway. Regardless of how her behavior can be seen as creepy or morally wrong, I can see where she's coming from, and I don't think she's all that wrong for feeling the way she felt. She stops being the saint she was on the SR1, but she's not an evil witch, and she's definitely not even among the top 5 squad members who needs the most atonement. Or jail time.

[wherewritersgotodie-blog]

Thousand Yard Stare — Kit Walker x reader

A battleweary soldier and a clairvoyant girl who is a little too curious.

warnings: piv, unprotected sex, sadism if you squint, war, psychopathy idk, ptsd

AU in which Kit Walker was sent to war and was traumatized, which is why more people don’t believe that he in fact wasn’t Bloody Face. Alma, nor the aliens, are mentioned, however this version of Kit is still not guilty, even as it is not clearly stated.

I do not specify said war below, but the timeline aligns with the Vietnam War. To clarify, this is entirely fictional and not indicative of my views on experiences of people who’ve served.

This AU takes place in the late 60s. Kit Walker is in his late 20s/early 30s, unspecified.

Deinstitutionalization (the closing of many psychiatric hospitals) began in the late 1960s in Europe then in the U.S.A. shortly thereafter. In this timeline, Kit is admitted after Briarcliff is sold to the state.

Take everything I write as pure work of fiction and not indicative of my beliefs on any life experience of real people. This is fantasy.

Dead dove do not eat.

Happy reading.

You’re the first truly beautiful woman he’s seen since being overseas.

Sure, he saw a few pretty girls out on the town before he was locked up in Briarcliff, but none so exquisite as you.

He couldn’t stop staring.

The way your body pressed against the gray romper you wore, which seemed as though it was a bit small for you. He deduced that a male staff had likely administered your clothing in the smallest sizes so they would fit the way they did.

He wondered if you felt uncomfortable in them, if you knew how easy it was to guess exactly what was underneath. That alone could get him off: watching you adjust yourself as you stood up, look down and pull on the fabric, hoping for it to offer you some privacy from the rest of the patients and staff— to no avail, of course.

He usually sat in corners, staring into the room or sometimes out the window. That was, until you showed up.

He wondered when you’d notice his constant gaze. You’d been here about a week, and not yet had you even made eye contact with him.

He sort of liked that, how unaware you were. Like easy prey.

Something has flipped in his brain, something sick and scarred.

All that emptiness, that endless void in the pit of his stomach was now filled— rather, overflowing— with lust, vengeful and unforgiving. Every minute he was out of bed he spent watching your every move. Perverse, twisted images of the violating things he would do to you were he ever to get his hands on you rushed his mind as he watched your often bare legs as you walked and the teasing silhouette of your waist and chest underneath your clothes. He wanted to make you feel dirty. He wanted you to be covered with his filth, just as he was.

He wasn’t always like this. Before the war, he was actually quite the gentlemen. Sure, he’d had quite a few girlfriends, but he was kind to all of them. He brought them flowers, bought their milkshakes, kissed their foreheads and gently whispered in their ears as he made love to them.

That version of him died right alongside the people he killed in the jungle— with guns, with his bare hands. That version of him died with his brothers in arms, of whom he helplessly watched bleed out just beside him on the battlefield. The light left his eyes just as it did in theirs.

The faces of those girls were simply shadows now; that version of himself the darkness.

He couldn’t remember if any of them were as beautiful as you. He doubted it.

You certainly weren't an alert person. You entered every room without scanning either direction, as if you'd never been in danger a day in your life. He admired that naivety— revered it, even. He could stare from the minute you entered the common area until you left without meeting your eyes once.

He stared at your hair often— the way you'd tuck it behind your ears as you scribbled in your notebook with your short pencil, which was cut to just about an inch long so you couldn’t hurt yourself or any of the other patients with it.

Most patients didn’t get the privilege of even regulation writing tools or reading books other than the Bible. He wondered what you had said– or done– to get such privilege, or if it was your pretty face that was just able to melt a man’s resolve enough to give you whatever you wanted. Other patients had rebuked you for your unfair advantage over them, but it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t help that everything about you made men curious about how your pussy felt.

He loved your legs, too. On days your legs were uncovered, he'd watch as your thighs rubbed together, your knees pressed to your chest. He stared as the fabric rode up your leg, teasing the soft skin of your perky ass. Your skin was smooth, your face soft and cherub-like. If he believed there was a God, he would believe that you were made to save him from his emptiness.

It wasn't until halfway through the second week that he finally got your attention.

You were in the common room, completing your daily mundane routine of reading and drawing. You had hardly introduced yourself to anyone, as you were trying to keep your head down and not become one with the wildness of Briarcliff. You thought, maybe, if you didn't interact with anyone, if you played the game right with the psychiatrists, if you reflected their language and healing back to them just right, maybe you had a shot at going home.

Today, though, you were desperate for some company. You craved conversation where you weren't screamed at or spoken to like a child or a criminal. Once you were finished sketching a vase of flowers– from memory, as you hadn't seen a flower since your admission to Briarcliff– you looked up from the page and glanced around the room. You began to fear that there was no one at Briarcliff who would at all understand you. No one seemed to be so lucid as you were, let alone able to hold a substantial conversation.

Just as you were about to return to your sketches, more frustrated with the state of things than before, your gaze instinctively flickered in the direction of a pair of brown eyes, watching you with a dead stare.

You recognized them– they were the eyes from a dream you'd had a few weeks prior. You hadn't slept for days after.

You couldn't see much through the smoke. It was enough to drown in. You felt your breathing get shallow and labored, but it didn't seem to be suffocating you. Your vision stayed steady.

After a few moments of directionless wandering through the endless gray swirling in the air, a shadow emerged from the distance with a heavy stride. You first identified it as a man. As he marched forward through the smoke, which was slowly dissipating, you saw the outline of heavy gear on his belt and a machine gun swung over his shoulder.

You went to move in the opposite direction of him, but you were froze in place.

Your heart pounded as he halted just a few feet from you. You eyes flickered to the all but fluorescent green forest behind him, realizing then that the smoke had cleared entirely.

You looked back at the man, scanning him from his dirt-covered boots, to his belt of bullets, heavy-duty camouflage jacket, black helmet, cloth that covered his face up to just above his nose, and, finally his eyes.

Deep brown, lacking definition, you watched as they traveled up from your hips, resting on your waist, then your chest, landing to gaze directly into yours. Your breath hitched.

There was an unmistakable blankness in them. They'd look exhausted, mournful, angry, maybe, if it wasn't for the endless black, that slack expression– emptiness.

You felt it to your core, like all the life had been sucked right from you, too. Suddenly, your limbs felt so heavy and your eyes were burning and the smoke was returning to the scene. The empty eyes ran up and down your figure once more, before the man turned his back to you.

You woke up in a cold sweat.

Those eyes, they were the same. Even from across the room, you could see how shallow they were—like all emotion, all humanity, had been ripped from behind them.

You could swear there was a smirk playing on the right corner of his mouth, but the shadows cast on his face from the window beside him made it hard to tell. Like a killer Mona Lisa.

He allowed his eyes to wander all across your body in the lewdest ways possible, full of lust that circled the air.

You felt it deep in your chest now. The emptiness was almost infectious, and it caused you to panic.

Just like the dream, you were frozen in place, watching those dead eyes.

You weren't sure what to do with yourself, so you offered him a small, twitching smile and a raised hand. Your chest, though, was heaving, and gave away your fear. Then, you were certain he was smirking.

When you finally pulled your eyes away from him, you gathered your things and rushed back to your room.

That night, his thoughts of you were so perverse they were violent. He was sick with his obsession with you.

He laid awake, facing the ceiling, fisting his cock, imaging you riding him, your hair a mess all around your bare shoulders, your hips rolling against him. As he got closer to release, his thoughts became more twisted. He imagined you beneath him, his hand wrapped around your throat as he forced himself into you, tears gathering in your round eyes as you stared into his. They'd be filled with fear, he was sure.

In the same hour, you dreamt of those eyes again, but this time, they were on top of you, and you could see a glimmering silver in the lower rim of your vision.

When you saw him in the kitchen the next day, you resolved to approach him, whether it was a good idea or not.

You walked up behind him, while he was facing the opposite direction, and tapped him on his shoulder. He turned around slowly, and when he met your eyes, that smirk returned to his face. His eyes were at half-mast again, and they scanned you shamelessly once more.

"Hi," he said, a toothpick in his mouth. His voice sounded far-off, like it a was ringing from a distant land– it was almost ghostly.

"Hi," you said, trying to shake that unsettling familiar feeling his eyes gave you. "I'm (Y/N)."

"I'm Kit. Kit Walker," he said, checking your hips once again.

"I know," you say, "Bloody Face."

"Nnn," he hummed, shaking his head, "I killed a lot of people," he said, "But those women back home? I didn't touch any of 'em."

"I know," you say, not breaking eye contact, as hard as it was. He could feel your discomfort. He reveled in it. "Thank you for your service."

That sent chills down his spine. The images flooded back for just a moment— the death, the carnage, the thrill. "You're welcome, sugar," he drawled. It felt oddly personal, like he really had been fighting for you.

You asked him a few questions about the war, to which he replied with short, vague answers. Your curiosity about the man whose eyes you had predicted only grew with his mystery.

Finally, after he’d grown tired of dodging your morbid intrigue, he settled on asking, “So how’d you end up here?”

You told him your sordid tale. How you had been able to predict future events all your life. You rarely told anyone about it.

You saw in a dream a vision of a girl, a girl you knew, being brutally murdered out on the edge of town. You wrestled with it for days, then finally resolved to telling her. She relayed your strange omen back to your family, who called you crazy for even suggesting such a thing could happen. So, when the girl in fact died, her family was quick to point fingers at you. As it was, her father was a prosecutor himself, and before you knew it, you were stuck in Briarcliff for a murder you hadn’t committed.

He simply nodded. He had no stake in the matter. He of all people knew that killing was situational— anyone could do it if they were given a good enough reason. Even pretty girls.

“So, how are you managing?” you ask, voice soaked in concern. You then push yourself onto the counter with your palms, straightening your arms and hoisting yourself up. You adjust yourself to sit on the edge of the counter. You don’t bother to pull the fabric of your dress down, which makes the full length of your thigh up to just about two inches below your hips visible to Kit.

He doesn’t bother answering your question, his gaze now flickering from your legs to your face rapidly.

There’s something penetrating that emptiness in his eyes, even stronger than the lust that’s been coming to a boil.

Hunger. Starvation.

You can feel it radiating off him— a need to fill that void now becoming a ravenous beast threatening to pounce.

Now you understood.

He could hardly breathe. So close to you, able to feel your body heat, able to reach out and touch your pussy, your ass, to see the outline of your nipples through the fabric covering your chest. They were hard, he could tell.

After the things he’s seen and done, after the places he’s been, offending you is the last of his worries. “I haven’t been this close to a beautiful woman since before I left the states.” He places a hand on your thigh.

“Oh,” you gasp instinctively.

“God, your skin is warm,” he practically groans, his head dropping to lean on your shoulder. Your muscles tense at the familiar action from the unfamiliar body. He runs his palm up and down your thigh, flat against your skin.

It’s like you already belong to him, he’s feeling around your thighs, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to milk every second of contact between your skin and his. He’s groaning into your neck, now placing each of his hands on the opposite sides of your thighs, feeling up to the soft skin of your ass and down to your knees.

He was worshipping you.

When you finally accepted him, you placed a hand on the back of his neck. In response, he press his hips against the counter and groaned into your collarbone as if you’d just put his whole dick in your mouth.

He was starved. Weary and uncaring, and you were feeding him and healing him with the warmth of your girlish fingertips and Playboy legs.

“I wanna touch your pussy so bad, sugar,” he mumbles into your neck.

What’s a girl to do? A handsome man who’s been overseas, who has been forced to do unimaginable things simply because his birthday was picked on the television, a man who bravely served his country and is now paying for it with his freedom, asking to touch you?

“Okay,” you hummed.

He pushed his hand into your cotton underwear, pressing his fingers to your wetness. He couldn’t resist then. He pushed his two fingers into you, earning a yelp, then, with his other hand, wrapped his fingers in your hair and pulled down— hard— causing you to whine again. He gripped harder, and your scalp burned.

“You like that?” he asked.

“No,” you mumbled.

“No?” he responded. Your neck was forced back as far as it could go, which added to the pain of his assault on your soft locks. It didn’t help, too, that he was pushing his fingers into you, and it was making you ache powerfully.

“Uh-uh,” you whined.

You heard a door close down the hall. You looked up at him in fear, and for a moment, you almost thought he was going to keep you in this compromising position, however, he pulled his fingers out of you slowly and stepped away from you just as the staff came to check the room. You jumped onto the floor, and you both put on your best business-as-usual act. Just as more patients entered the kitchen, he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “I’ll come find you.”

I’ll come find you.

The words replayed in your mind over and over.

“I’ll come find you.” I know where you are. You can’t escape me. You’re in it now.

That evening, during dinner, he didn’t even bother to look up at you. He was going to have you.

That night, in the dark of your small, locked room, you waited. In just a cotton t-shirt and white panties, you waited, back against the wall behind your bed, knees pulled in. You fiddled with your fingertips, internally criticized your legs. You looked like you were expecting someone.

The light from the window poured into your room. Moonlight and street lamps made a twilight of your hour before midnight.

Was he coming? Were you disappointed? Was he caught on the way here? Is it normal to be so worried about him? Were you really crazy?

Then came the keys jingling. Then the door opening. Then, Kit.

He took a moment to take the vision of you in, leaning his head on the door. “I didn’t think you’d wait up for me.”

You only smiled in response, which you didn’t really understand. His knees got weak. He closed the door behind him.

He got a good sight of your body, barely clothed, your hair in a braid that had dozens of strands that had fallen out. He thought he could finish right then.

He wanted to hurt you, that he couldn’t deny. But he wanted to be able to have you again. So, he did what any gentleman does: he played you slow.

He climbed onto your bed, kicking his shoes to the floor. He put his hands on your knees, leaning over you, then muttered, “All this for me?”

You stared up at him, wide eyed, nervous. You bit your lip and nodded.

“Yeah. For me,” he cooed.

He went in, starting at your neck, kissing down to the collar of your shirt. His hand traveled to your chest. You weren’t wearing a bra.

He put his thumb against your nipple, rubbing it gently, determined to hear you squeal. He squeezed lightly and you did.

He continued at your neck until his hand reached the stitch of your shirt. He grumbled and pulled it over your head.

He could swear his heart stopped.

On the field, thinking of these moments kept him alive. Civility, femininity, the possibility that a woman might be naked in front of him again.

He went straight for your chest, his mouth attacking your cleavage, your nipples.

You were still leaned up against the wall, but your legs were now parted, knees bent, his body between your thighs.

As he sucked on your nipple, his hand traveling down to your underwear, his fingers flattening against the cloth.

You were wet. His head dropped to your chest. “Fuck,” he whispered. He rubbed over the cloth with the back of his knuckles.

Then, he pushed his hand down your underwear, his fingers running along your slick. “Fuckin’ holy shit.”

You look up at him, a deep blush hitting your face that doesn’t go unnoticed, even in the dark.

“You really want me, don’t you?” he taunts, half shocked, half disturbed by your lack of self preservation, or lack of basic common sense.

You nod. You bite your lip and you nod.

He stares at you, working you with his fingers underneath your underwear, until he, frustrated with the stunt they put on his skills, pulls them down to your knees.

“You don’t… You don’t have to… I wanna take care of you,” you mumble into his shoulder.

“Aw, sugar,” he whispers, biting your neck. You gasp. “Your pussy’s gonna take care of me just fine.”

You groan into his neck. He reaches up and wraps his fingers in your hair and pulls down hard. Your back arches and he latches his mouth onto your nipple. It’s overwhelming, the combination of sensations. That’s when he reaches his hand around and latches it onto your throat and presses onto either side.

When he brings his mouth back up to the crook of your neck, combined with his finger speeding up against you, it’s enough to push you over the edge. You wrap your arms around his neck, attempting to stifle the sounds squeaking from your throat.

After he has let go from your neck, you reach down to undo his belt.

“Eager little lady, huh?”

“Oh, Kit,” you mumbled against his mouth. You attempt to push him on his back, but he doesn’t budge. But when you flutter your eyelashes at him, though, he gives into you.

You swing your leg over him, straddling him. You lower yourself onto him— you couldn’t quite see in the dark, but you can feel that he’s very big.

When your pelvis hits his, he moans. It’s not soft, it isn’t breathy. You can hear his tone of voice, the dryness of his throat. You think maybe the other patients may have heard, too. He latches his hands onto your thighs, hard.

It hurts, bad, especially when he digs his nails in. It’s entirely possible he’s drawing blood, but you can’t see. You squeal, but it’s suppressed.

He doesn’t miss this. He was smart, and even in the dark he could read you like an open book. You were letting him hurt you.

He wasn’t sure if it was pity or a lack of self-protection. Either way, he decided to accept it, even though it actually made him want to be more gentle.

He always took pity on the people he killed who didn’t fight. You were like that. Like a deer who doesn’t know to be afraid.

He retracts his nails from your skin, resting them flat on your hips. He pushes you back and forth, very gentle.

He let out a string of, “Fuckyou’retight, fuckyou’rewet, fuck, I can hear it, Isthisallforme? You’redrippingalloverme,baby,” to which you replied with incoherent moans as your ability to stay upright become more and more difficult.

As he started to roll himself up into you, you were grabbing at his thighs trying to hold yourself up.

Out of pity, he propped himself up on his hands, wrapping his arm around your waist. The heat from his body drove you over the edge again. You moan into his neck, mumbling his name, and then somewhere in there, “I love you.”

He chuckles at this, but it catches between moans, and he breathes out something like, “You better.” You come again as he does, too. He pulls at the roots of your hair again, arm wrapped tight around your waist. It just then occurs to you that you weren’t using protection.

After you peel yourself off of him, sweat making your skins feel like one, he pulls you into his chest as he melts back into the bed.

“Baby, you are some homecoming,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face.

“Anything for our bravest,” you smile into his chest.

He laughs like he just won the lottery.

[mrchiipchrome]

Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire

W.C.- 2 k

a/n: This is part of the 'Parents' universe, also i need a better title for it sooo please give me suggestions:)

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

“Aye María, you’re trending on twitter.” Mapi’s head snaps in your direction, eyes gleaming with excitement. She has no reason to be skeptical, you look truthful as always, blinding smile stretching across your lips. 

“Really?!-” Just as she was about to ask why she was trending, you interrupt her. 

“No.” Your tone was one of complete seriousness, deadpan beyond comprehension. You look on in delight as your teammate’s smile drops off the vicinity of her face, lips contorting into a disappointed frown. 

The back of your head stings with the hands coming down to hit it, a slap to the back of the head never hurt anyone, except you of course.

“Y/n, that’s not nice.” Alexia chides as you rub over the sensitive parts of your head, still stinging from the brutal hits. She looks at you through her peripheral vision, seeing the smile that’s still stretched across your lips, rolling her eyes at your childish nature. 

What did she expect though when they brought in a child?

“Neither was the prank she pulled on me last week but you didn’t tell her off for that, did you?” Annoyance seeps into your tone, slapping away the hand ruffling your hair. Alexia rolls her eyes at you again and you can barely resist telling her that they might get stuck like that if she continues, it was always fun to rile the woman up.

“You wanna test me cariño? I can make your life hell.” She interprets the huff you let out as acceptance, rising from the table to throw her trash away. 

On the other side of the room, you’re startled as lips press to your temple, hands placed on your shoulders.

“Causing trouble again, are you bubba?” Lucy plops down in the seat to your left, Keira occupying Alexia’s old seat to your right. You can’t help smiling again as your parents settle at your sides, they were a bit late to lunch as they were talking with Jona.

“No more than usual Robert, I wonder where I got it from. You think I need to go see the physios? Excessive childishness in a 15 year old is fatal from what I’ve heard.” You teased the older woman, who in response pushed her fingers between your ribs, the feeling way more ticklish than it should be.

“Leave the tot alone Luce, she’s got enough on her mind without you annoying her.” Keira says as she wraps her arm around your neck, pulling you into a headlock of sorts as she kisses your forehead over and over. 

“No way, I mean I can accept bubs and bubba, but tot? I’m fifteen.” It was almost like a toddler whining after its favourite toy, all tied together by the way your feet pound against the floor in protest.

“Mhm, sure. You’ll have to deal with every embarrassing nickname in the book until you take your last breath, bubs. Now, have you eaten enough? You know that we’ve got another training session after this.” Lucy reminds you hastily, pushing a granola bar into your hands as Keira hands you an apple.

“Yes I’ve eaten, no you two won’t be calling me ‘tot’ and ‘bubba’ when I’m 60, and yes I did in fact know that we’ve got training after lunch. Also, can I go over to Vicky’s after training? I need help with some homework.” You’re nearly through the doors of the meal room as you shout out the question, both Lucy and Keira nodding their heads in agreement.

Thinking no one’s watching you in the hallways is your fatal mistake, as you dance around in your spot you can hear the very distinct giggles from your usual partners in crime. Your eyes scan the space and in milliseconds you notice the short frames of Pina and Patri, the latter of the two holding up her phone in such a manner that convinced you that she was recording you.

“Having fun there osito?” Patri asks teasingly, as if you didn’t have plenty of incriminating videos of her doing things she definitely shouldn’t have been doing. The only response you give her is starting to run towards her at an alarming speed, the two women looking at each other in panic. 

Making the smart choice, they split up so that only one unfortunate soul had to deal with you, the one being Pina since she was easier for you to tackle to the ground if that was to be needed. She was also handed Patri’s phone when they were running, a sneaky attempt to keep the video.

“Come on, Osito, let’s not do anything drastic here.” Of course she was trying to negotiate when she was backed up against the wall, a nervous smile overtaking her face. “We’re amigos, remember?” When your eyes narrow, she knows she’s in trouble. Just as the shorter girl is about to try her chances at running away again, two stable hands land on your shoulders.

Pina nearly cries tears of joy as she sees Ingrid staring back at her, the norwegian’s arm now clasped tightly around your shoulders as she tries to pull you away from the short spaniard. But when you look back at her, thumb running across your own throat in a not so nice gesture, she begins to sweat again. 

It was no secret that you had dirt on her and Patri.

When Ingrid notices your obscene gesture she makes sure to slap the back of your head extra hard, obviously disapproving. 

“Why does everyone keep doing that?”

—---------

“Narla’s blue now, looks like a smurf bit her.” You tell Lucy who sits opposite of you at the kitchen table, Keira cooking dinner not too far away. Lucy’s head snaps up from where it was turned down to look at her phone.

“What are you talking about? Are you kidding me?” Her accent is way thicker than normal, clouding her words more than usual. Your perfected poker face was always useful, but especially in situations like this, it was extremely difficult not to burst out into laughter at her expression. 

“Yeah I am. Why would she be blue?” The first part is said fully deadpanned, it is only when you ask her why that you allow the laughter to seep through into your voice. 

Lucy’s chair falls to the floor as she stands up, hands placed on the table like she’s about to do a speech. Instead what she does is walk around to your side of the table, tackling you to the floor like it’s no problem.

The two of you wrestle on the floor like schoolboys for a few moments until Keira calls out for you both, the woman already seeming fed up with whatever’s going on.

“Kids, dinner is ready, go set the table.” She tells you, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips looking at you two in disappointment. Though most of it was channeled towards Lucy, she was supposed to be an adult after all.

The brit in question unlocks her strong arms from your midsection as you release her head from your grip, Lucy rushing to stand up.

“Careful now Luce, or I’ll get my pay back in the ring.” You hold your hands up in front of your face in the typical boxer stance, punching them out in a pattern. Right, right, left, right, left, left. At the same time you’re moving your feet against the floor rapidly, kicking them out whilst still keeping them against the floor.

“Calm it Sugar Ray.” She calls out from the kitchen, between the sounds of plates clacking together and utensils clinging. 

“Actually I was going for more of an Ali vibe.” You respond, fighting the smile willing itself onto your face. 

“Actually, Keira said ‘kids’ meaning both of us, so come here and help me.” Keira laughs at the playful shake of your head as you pass her by, her hands stretching up to mess your hair up even more. Dodging her hand as you slip into the kitchen has you triumphant, putting your hands up in celebration like Rocky.

It’s short lived though as Keira comes up behind you to complete her earlier action. You grumble in fake annoyance as you bring out the plates and place them on the table, sitting down in your seat with an overexaggerated  angry expression on your face.

It all washes away though as Keira pinched your cheek lovingly, a genuine smile coating your lips. Dinner was spent in pleasant conversation, spent like a family.

—------

“Jorge Vilda: father to be.” Exclamations of disgust, shock and pure hatred ring out through the Barcelona locker room, some even pausing in the middle of getting dressed to look at you. You yourself were staring down at your phone pretending to read an article. “The former Spain coach announced the pregnancy on his instagram earlier this morning.” 

“What the actual fuck?” Mapi finally gets out after nearly a minute of choking sounds, her face contorted into an expression of disgust.

“This has to be some kind of joke, Satan can’t have children.” Patri adds on, looking slightly green. You’d be more concerned about it if it weren’t for the facepaint you and Pina had applied onto her when she fell asleep first at the sleepover the night before. 

“Of course she’s joking, there’s no article.” Irene takes your phone from your hands, showing the girls in the room what you actually were doing. “She’s playing 2048, we don’t have to worry.” Relieved sighs cling out throughout the room before they realize what you did, multiple hands coming down to slap your head again.

“Stop the abuse, did any of you actually think any woman would get within ten meters of that man? I wouldn’t even if I got a million euros.” Most of the women in the room shake their heads in amusement, though agreeing with you.

“You have got to stop doing that osito.” Mapi laughs out, knuckles digging into your head affectionately.

“I’ll stop when you all stop messing with my hair.” You grumble, smoothing your hair down against your now hurting head, Mapi’s knuckles leaving bruises.

—------

“Luis Rubiales dead at 46 due to unknown caus-” You were cut off in the middle of reading the title of the ‘article’, some of the women in the room jumping up to stand on their chairs, others cheering loudly.

"Hallelujah!” Was heard from multiple people, others settling on just dancing in their spots like they’d won the lottery.

Trying to slip out of the room to avoid having to tell them it was a prank and ruining the joy, you were quickly pulled back by a suspicious Alexia Putellas, her glare so intense that you were shying back from looking at her. 

“Stop the celebrations, cariño was just pranking us again.” Even though Alexia tried to be the stern and serious captain, she couldn’t help the smile stretching across her face at the prank. She could admit when a prank was funny and the fact that everyone believed you, knowing full well that you’d done the exact same thing only weeks before made it that much more hilarious.

“Come onnnnnn, I thought we talked about not doing this bubs.” Lucy calls out to you sternly, but you knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t really mad at you, both her and Keira had amused half smiles on their faces.

“Okay, okay I promise that was the last time. Besides, I don’t think any reaction will ever top the one you just gave me.” 

The women in the room looked at each other and then back at you, seemingly deciding that the best course of action would be to smother you with their hugs and kisses. It was impossible to get away from the mob, the ones closest to you covering your face in platonic kisses, the rest just looked on in amusement, waiting for their own turn to torture you.

And even though it took about 10 minutes to get all the women off you, and back to your parents, you wouldn’t do anything to change them ever. You loved them all, even if they messed up your hair daily.

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

Translation:

Osito - teddy/teddy bear

[xo-myloves]

COULD YOU DO LIKE SLASHS AND AXLS CONTROVERSIAL YOUNG INNOCENT GIRLFRIEND

like the girl they are both dating is like in her early 20s while they are like in there 60s, and she’s super innocent.The press like calls her a whore and gold digger and she gets really upset , and Slash and Axl start to comfort her and it turns into the most filthy smut ever. Kinda like the boys fuck her so hard she goes dumb in the head

Can it be like, angst,fluff,heavy smut,fluff

(Obviously only if your comfortable writing this. Also make sure you take care of yourself 💋💋)

-🧛‍♀️

𝕊𝕌𝕄𝕄𝔸ℝ𝕐: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢/𝚗, 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚡𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝...

༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞𝚆𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙷𝚞𝚗༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞

The flash of cameras was blinding. The sound of reporters shouting your name, alongside crude accusations, made your stomach twist.

“Gold digger!”

“How much are they paying you?”

“Homewrecker!”

“Whore!”

Your breath hitched, throat closing as security pushed you through the swarm of paparazzi. You could hear Axl’s voice growling, warning them to back off, and Slash’s firm grip on your hand kept you from collapsing right there on the pavement.

The world thought they knew you—just another young woman latching onto two rock legends, using them for fame and money. No one saw the late nights of laughter, the gentle touches, the way they held you like you were their world.

Inside the hotel suite, the door slammed shut behind you, and you let out a shaking breath.

“Baby,” Slash’s voice was the first thing you registered, soft yet laced with anger. He turned you to face him, eyes dark with worry. “Don’t listen to that bullshit.”

Axl’s hands were already on your shoulders, his face stormy as he brushed your hair back. “They don’t know a fucking thing about us. About you.”

But it was too late. You felt the weight of it, the humiliation seeping in. Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“I… I never wanted this,” you whispered, voice small. “I love you both so much, but they—” Your words broke into a choked sob, you’re makeup dripping down your cheeks, leaving black particles everywhere.

Slash pulled you into his chest, his warmth overwhelming. “We know, sweetheart.” His fingers tracing your back for a way of comfort, his scent filling your brain, the smell of leather, cologne, and I faint whiff of cigarettes.

Axl cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear, pulling you slightly away from slash’s chest.“You’re ours, and nothing they say will ever change that."

His lips crashed onto yours—urgent, claiming, as if trying to erase every doubt from your mind. When he pulled away, Slash was there, tilting your head up for another kiss, his tongue teasing yours, slow and deep.

Your knees wobbled as they surrounded you, two men who had conquered the world now holding you like you were their prize.

“Let us remind you,” Slash murmured, voice husky. “Who you belong to.”

You barely registered being lifted, Axl carrying you effortlessly to the massive bed. His hands pushed up your dress, fingertips ghosting along your thighs as Slash knelt beside you, watching with dark, hungry eyes.

Axl barely gave you time to breathe before he had you sprawled across the king-sized bed, his body hovering over yours while Slash knelt beside you, smirking down at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The air was thick with heat, their combined presence making you shiver despite the warmth in the room.

“You trust us, don’t you, baby?” Slash murmured, his calloused fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, just barely brushing over your damp panties.

You nodded, already breathless.

Axl’s lips curled into a smirk. “Good girl.”

Your dress was gone in seconds, tossed somewhere in the room, leaving you in just your bra and panties. Slash let out a low groan, his dark eyes drinking you in. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, leaning down to kiss along your collarbone.

Axl wasn’t nearly as patient. His fingers snapped the thin lace of your panties, tearing them away as his other hand squeezed your thigh, spreading you open beneath him. “So pretty,” he murmured, his fingers slipping between your folds, teasing, barely touching where you needed him most.

You whimpered, hips jerking up, and Axl chuckled darkly. “Needy little thing,” he teased, slipping one long finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it just right. “That’s it, baby. Let us hear you.”

Slash kissed you deeply, swallowing your moans as he unclasped your bra, his rough hands cupping your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers. The contrast of sensations—the gentle, teasing touch of Slash’s mouth, the way Axl worked you open with his fingers—had you trembling, overwhelmed.

Then Axl replaced his fingers with his mouth.

Your back arched off the bed as his tongue flicked against your clit, slow, purposeful. He groaned against you like he was tasting the sweetest thing in the world, hands gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you.

“Fuck,” Slash whispered, watching the way you fell apart beneath them. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you again, deep and filthy, his teeth grazing your bottom lip.

Axl didn’t stop until you were shaking, your release crashing over you, his name tumbling from your lips in a desperate cry.

Your body was still trembling from Axl’s mouth, the aftershocks of your orgasm leaving you breathless. But they weren’t about to stop.

Slash was already undoing his jeans, watching you with hooded eyes, his cock hard and thick as he freed it from his boxers. He smirked when your eyes widened slightly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you.”

Axl knelt beside you, brushing his lips against your ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, his fingers stroking your jaw as he turned you to face him. “Fucked out and ready for more.”

You shivered at his words, at the way he and Slash looked at you—like you were theirs to ruin, to worship.

“Come here, baby,” Slash said, settling against the headboard, his legs spread. He reached for you, pulling you into his lap so you were straddling him. His hands skimmed down your back before settling on your hips, guiding you so you could feel the heavy weight of him pressing against your slick folds.

Axl sat behind you, his lips trailing down your neck, his fingers teasing your clit, making you squirm in Slash’s lap. “Look at you,” Axl murmured, his voice thick with hunger. “So fucking wet for us.”

Slash groaned as he slid his cock through your folds, teasing, making you whimper. “You want it, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice deep and rough.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Such a good girl,” Axl praised, his hand gripping your throat lightly, just enough to make your breath hitch.

Slash guided you down onto him slowly, stretching you inch by inch, his grip on your hips tightening as he sank into you. A deep, guttural groan left his lips. “Fuck,” he hissed. “You feel so good, baby.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you adjusted to the fullness, your body already aching in the best way. Axl’s hands slid down your back, his lips pressing to your shoulder. “That’s it, baby. Take him.”

You started to move, rolling your hips, moaning as Slash filled you completely. He leaned back slightly, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, his hands guiding your movements.

“That’s our girl,” Axl murmured, his hand coming down to slap your ass, making you gasp. “So perfect like this.”

The pleasure was overwhelming, the way Slash’s cock filled you with every thrust, the way Axl’s hands and mouth kept teasing you, driving you higher.

Then Axl’s fingers slid lower, teasing the tight ring of muscle between your cheeks, making you shudder. “Think you can take both of us, baby?” he whispered, his voice dark with promise.

Your breath caught, but the way they surrounded you, the way they owned you, made you crave it. “Y-Yes,” you breathed.

Slash groaned, his grip tightening. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re gonna look so fucking good with both of us inside you.”

Axl smirked against your skin. “That’s my girl.”

His fingers slicked with your arousal, teasing, stretching you slowly as Slash kept thrusting inside you, making sure you were ready for them both. The stretch burned slightly at first, but the pleasure quickly overtook it, leaving you shaking, breathless.

Then, finally, Axl pressed inside, slow but relentless, stretching you impossibly full. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and intensity that left you gasping, moaning loudly as they both filled you completely.

“Jesus fuck,” Slash growled, his fingers digging into your waist. “You’re so fucking tight like this.”

Axl’s hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you, slow and deep. “You’re taking us so well, baby,” he murmured against your lips. “Such a good girl for us.”

They started moving together, their thrusts deep and slow at first, letting you adjust before their pace quickened. Every drag, every movement sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you trembling between them.

You were completely at their mercy, lost in the sensation, in the way they surrounded you, filled you, loved you.

Axl’s fingers found your clit again, rubbing slow, teasing circles. “Come for us, baby,” he murmured. “Let go.”

You shattered.

Your entire body tensed as pleasure tore through you, your orgasm hitting you so hard you nearly sobbed. Your walls clenched around them, pulling them over the edge with you.

Slash groaned, his grip on your hips tightening as he came deep inside you, his body shuddering beneath you. Axl followed moments later, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing, the three of you tangled together, sweaty and utterly wrecked.

Then Axl chuckled breathlessly against your skin. “Yeah, let the press talk all they want.”

Slash smirked, brushing his lips against your temple. “We know the truth, sweetheart. You’re not using us. We’re the lucky ones.”

Your heart swelled, warmth spreading through your chest.

They weren’t just your lovers.

They were your world.

And no headline could ever change that.

Hours later, wrapped in their arms, you felt weightless, loved beyond words. Axl’s fingers traced lazy circles on your bare back, while Slash played with your hair, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Slash murmured.

You nodded sleepily. “More than okay.”

Axl smirked. “Told you, baby. They don’t know shit.”

Slash chuckled, pulling the blanket over the three of you. “Let ’em talk. We’ll just keep loving you the way you deserve.”

With them beside you, nothing else mattered.

You were theirs. And that was all you needed.

[purple-obsidian]

miscommunication (18+, dick grayson x titan reader) wc 2.7-3.1k

⭓ this post contains suggestive themes and is not suitable for minors. reader uses she/her pronouns.

"Shit." You curse under your breath when you see your last two messages failed to send. There's just no signal down here. You sigh, and pocket your phone, mind wandering and trying to predict what mission Dick is taking you on tomorrow night. He usually tells you when its time for full stealth, so you decide you'll show up in civilian clothes. He wants to meet earlier in the evening anyways, so you guess it may be something undercover or staking someone out. You let your mind wander for a bit, before returning your focus to work, watching two men in overalls argue in front of the buildings water heater.

The next day, Dick shows up to your apartment right on time. He pulls up in his electric blue sportscar, sticking out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. You can't help but grin when you see his car through your living room window. Checking yourself out in your bathroom mirror one last time, you make sure your concealed weapons and headpiece aren't visible, before grabbing your phone, keys, and wallet from your backpack. A sudden knock on the door to your apartment causes your eyebrow raises in suspicion, and you slip your shoes on before answering.

"Dick?" You greet the blue-eyed man standing in your doorway, surprised to see a bouquet of gorgeous white roses in his hands. His hair is styled neatly, and he's clean-shaven, too.

"Hey." He flashes you an excited smile taking in your outfit. "You look great." He comments, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he looks you up and down, taking in your casual attire.

"Thanks… You didn't have to come up here and get me, though. I was on my way down. Am I under-dressed?" You ask him, noting the button-up shirt and freshly pressed pants he's wearing.

"No, not at all." He extends his arm, presenting you with the roses. "These are for you."

"Oh." Your eyes narrow in confusion, glancing between the roses and his expectant grin. "Thanks… I'm assuming I'll need these later?"

Dick clears his throat and tugs at the collar of his shirt. "Well… I mean… need is a strong word," he replies, chuckling awkwardly, "But you can leave them here, if you like. To enjoy when we get back."

Him saying 'when we get back' makes you think there must be some follow up or additional work to do after you complete your objective.

You grin, and take the flowers from him. "So, does that mean we're pulling an all-nighter?" You turn your back to him and walk towards your kitchen to get a vase for the roses. You just miss the bright pink flush that creeps into Dicks cheeks.

"Uhm… I mean, I didn't want to assume anything, here, but if that's where the evening takes us…” He scratches the back of his neck, and follows to join you in your small but tidy kitchen.

He finds you at your sink, filling a tall jar with water. "Yeah, I got nothing going on tomorrow. We can go all night if we need. I've been in the mood for some action, anyways." You explain casually.

His face grows even more red, suddenly feeling very warm in the shirt he chose to wear. "L-let's just get through dinner first."

---------------//---------------

Your eyes scan the fancy restaurant, taking in the scene, noting all the exits, eyeing the people occupying the tables around you. There's a quiet hum of conversation, laughter, and clinking glasses that fills your ears. You don't notice anything out of the ordinary, but you stay diligent, slightly annoyed that Dick hasn't told you why you're here yet.

A couple to the left of us. Man and woman. Mid-thirties, wedding bands, the woman is on her phone, barely paying attention to her date. We have another couple on our right, two men, could be 50's or 60's, hard to tell. Nice watches. Ordered the salmon…

Dick pokes at his pasta with his fork, a small frown on his lips. He's been acting weird since you got here. But he didn't give you any briefing, which makes you think he must be waiting for someone. He said you would enjoy what he had planned, maybe taking down an old enemy of yours? You wrack your brain, trying to remember the last villain who wronged you.

Dick says your name, snapping you out of your thoughts. "Hm? Yeah?" You ask, looking up at him blankly.

"Are you okay? You don't seem to be enjoying yourself."

The waiter passes by your table, refilling your wine glasses with a polite nod.

"Thanks." You tell him with a brief smile. Your attention returns to Dick, who's blue eyes are trained on your own. "I'm fine, Dick. Honestly? I'm just a little confused about what we're trying to accomplish here. What's our objective?"

"The objective," he sighs, and takes a sip of his wine. "The objective is to enjoy ourselves. Spend quality time together."

You barely hear the words he's saying, thinking instead of how he's already on his second glass of wine. He isn't even fake sipping, like you are. This isn't like him. Dick never drinks while he works, unless he's undercover. But even then he will limit himself, never wanting a mission to go bad because he was inebriated.

"Uh, Dick? Shouldn't we cap if off at one?" You ask, nodding to the glass in his hand. "We need you sharp, don't we?"

His eye's widen a little as he sets his glass down. You find it hard to place the emotions playing across his face. He almost looks offended.

"Sharp… right." He sighs, grabbing his napkin and wiping his mouth, shaking his head a little in disbelief. "You know what? You're something else. I really wanted this to be a chance for us to get better acquainted outside of work. I wanted to get to know you better." He waves down the waiter again, signaling that he's ready for the check. "But it's clear to me now why you even agreed to this."

Now it's your turn to go wide-eyed. "Outside of work? Dick, what are you-"

"I honestly thought you were different. I thought we had chemistry. Real chemistry. Maybe I was wrong. Seems like you're only interested in making sure I can perform later, is that it? An all nighter? You can't even humor me, and enjoy a nice meal together first? You've barely said a word, and you haven't even touched your food."

Realization hits you like a ton of bricks.

Dumb. You are so fucking dumb. This isn't work, this is a date. A real date. No wonder he's dressed so nice. He brought you flowers. Fuck, how could I be so dense?!

"I… Dick, when you texted me yesterday, I thought-"

"Save it." He grumbles, rubbing his temples and avoiding eye contact. "Let’s just get this food to go and forget this ever happened."

You sit up straighter in your seat, and reach across the small table for his hand. "Please, let me explain?"

He looks down at your hand, then narrows his eyes at you. "You're going to tell me I'm wrong?" He challenges.

You aren't used to this. His glare sends chills down your spine. You don't often find yourself at the receiving end of Dick Grayson's anger, but its unsettling every time.

"Y-yes. You're wrong." You curse yourself for stuttering, but your heart is racing now, nervous about how badly this miscommunication could affect your relationship. Your eyes plead with his while your hand rummages around for your phone in your jacket pocket. "I think I misunderstood your texts. Just let me pull them up real quick."

The waiter returns too soon, check in hand. Dick waste's no time laying down a few crisp bills before angrily standing up. "No need. You thought this was just a hookup. I get it. Never mind about getting it to-go. Why don't you stay here, enjoy the rest of your meal alone." He throws down another large bill, slamming it down with his fist right in front of you. "You can take a cab home."

"No! Dick, please!" You stand from your chair, cloth napkin falling to the floor, watching him stalk past you towards the exit of the restaurant, anxiety filling your stomach with dread.

► let him leave.

► follow him.

don’t steal my work. don’t repost it somewhere, upload it to another site, use it to train ai, or claim it as your own.

[marvelobsessed134]

Love Me Tender Part One: the meeting

Series masterlist

Pairings: 60s!rockstar!bucky x innocent!fem!reader

Warnings: nervous reader, charming Bucky, societal expectations of the time period, men being men ig idk, mentions of drugs, hint of WandaNat/time period homophobia (sorry)

It was around 9 o’clock when the party was in full swing. You sat in the large Palm Springs mansion living room around starlets and musicians alike. You didn’t know why your father dragged you here but you have a pretty good idea. He’s been trying to find you a husband for weeks now ever since you turned 18. He said that as soon as a woman is a legal adult she must find a husband. Which you don’t really mind you just hope this guy-whoever he may be-is nice.

You spotted Natasha Romanoff across the room in all glamour. The redheads perfectly curled hair, her black slinky dress, red lips and nails. She was talking to Wanda Maximoff. The two of them seemed pretty close, almost too close but no one said anything.

You’re wearing a floor length cream colored gown with your hair in a beehive hairstyle. You’ve been obsessed with those fashion magazines that show the latest trends.

Your makeup perfect, with thick eyeliner, pale pink lips, little rosy cheeks. It was no doubt the men there were staring at you. You are fresh meat.

Looking down at your feet, you saw a shadow loom over you. You looked up to see a rather handsome man, steal blue eyes, dark hair. He could only be the one and only Bucky Barnes. Of course you know him, everyone knows him. you have a bunch of his records in your collection at home.

“Um…hi?” You asked nervously realizing how much bigger he was than you.

“Hi, darlin’. Noticed you sitting over here alone what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He asked. He had a bit of a southern drawl considering the fact he’s from somewhere in the south.

You blushed, “Um yeah. I’ve been dragged here by my father he’s been trying to get my hitched ever since my 18th birthday.”

“Oh? You just turned 18?”

“Y-yeah.” You chuckled nervously.

“Well you’re mighty beautiful for a young lady like you. I’d outta take you out for dinner.”

“Really? But I’m just kind of boring I don’t want to bore you…” you looked down shyly again.

The rockstar put his fingers under your chin and made you look back up at him, the action giving you butterflies. “Baby you are anything but boring and I’ve barely met you.” Just then your father came up behind him.

“Ah, I see you’ve met my Y/n.” He said.

Bucky turned to your father, “Mr. L/n wow what a pleasure to be in your presence.”

“I could say the same to you, Mr. Barnes. Me and my daughter are big fans of ya.”

The two men chatted for a bit before Bucky brought up the fact he wanted to take you on a date. “That would be nice wouldn’t it Y/n?” Your father said. You smiled and nodded with a blush.

“Y/n. What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” The brunette commented making you blush even more.

“Here’s our house number go ahead and give us a call. Me and Y/n better get out of here before the drugs come out.”

“Yes, I will definitely call you. Thank you Mr. L/n.” He turned to you, “goodnight, Y/n.” And he disappeared into the crowd.

You went home that daydreaming about the rockstar, and having some very impure thoughts about him.

[basu-shokikita]

don't think you're getting away with not doing 48 for the kiss meme 😏 for skwistok ofc

Wasn't planning to evade my Skwistok responsibilities!

From this ask meme

48. (Kiss) out of habit

They were watching a black and white, Eastern Europe film on their projector screen. Being rich had many advantages, one of them being able to avoid regular jack-offs while still doing regular jack-off shit like watching pictures.

At some point, Skwisgaar had settled his back against Toki's chest, his undivided attention still on the film. Way less invested, Toki worked on downing the remains of popcorn from their bucket. The crunching of his teeth drowned the quiet music during a particularly revealing scene but Skwisgaar didn't seem to mind.

Instead, he nuzzled against Toki, as if he was searching for the perfect position with his favorite pillow. It was a little endearing, not to mention downright adorable. Fondly, Toki wrapped his arms around Skwisgaar's abdomen, causing his black shirt to only marginally slide up. He grazed the bare skin with his fingertips as he lovingly nestled his face in the crook of Skwisgaar's neck.

It seemed to actually help Skwisgaar find the right spot, supporting the back of his head on Toki's sturdy shoulder. "She totallies ams in a pickle, now." He commented, referring to the main protagonist's struggles.

"Mmh..." Toki hummed, inhaling Skwisgaar's neck. Gently, one hand pressed against the overused fabric while the other played with the hem of the shirt.

"Now she has to choose betweens her countries and her sons...eider way she ams fuckeds.“ Skwisgaar said, unusual empathy in his voice. "Dats communisms for yous."

Toki opened his eyes to see the middle-aged woman crying on her knees. "I thinks she kills her elves cause she donts wants to picks." He said, too entranced with Skwisgaar's presence to feign any emotion.

"How you knows dat?" Skwisgaar turned to him, and their faces were so close to each other Toki was tempted to kiss his.

"I reads the plots when I downloads the-"

Skwisgaar gasped loudly, breaking away from Toki with a judgemental stare. "Tokes! Ams you spoilingks me?!"

"It ams a 60 year olds movies!"

"Ands?"

Skwisgaar glared at him for a moment before cracking a smile. "Kiddingks. I reads dat too when I looks de movies onlines."

Offended, Toki pursed his lips. "You ams means to Tokis."

"Pfft." Skwisgaar was still smiling. "Littol Tokes cants take a joke anymores?"

Toki sighed as Skwisgaar settled against him again. He was right, kind of. There was no reason for Toki to be so tense around Skwisgaar, it's not like they were rivals anymore. Plus, Skwisgaar actually liked him.

Right?

"Ams dere any sodas left?" Skwisgaar asked, eyes glued to the screen.

Toki shook the steel bottle. "Noes."

"Ams gonna gets some." Skwisgaar got up and headed to the kitchen. The sudden emptiness made Toki feel so weirdly alone.

He glanced at his hands, trying not to let insecurity get the best of him again yet feeling the dread creep on him inevitably. Did Skwisgaar even like him? Or was he just playing with him? Was he just another forgettable toy in Skwisgaar's life, soon to be discarded when Skwisgaar got bored? Would Skwisgaar even-

"Backs." Skwisgaar announced. Their eyes locked and eventually Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. "Well, ams you gonna moves or?"

"Oh, sorries." Toki made space for Skwisgaar to sit between his legs again.

"Thank yous." Skwisgaar resumed his earlier position and sighed. After a few seconds, he turned to kiss Toki on the lips before he returned his attention on the screen.

It was such a small, brief gesture but Toki couldn't help but feel as if his soul was returning to his body. He had gotten so used to the current state of their relationship that he had almost forgotten how precious it was. How unimaginable the idea of Skwisgaar casually kissing him would've been for him a few years ago.

Smiling, Toki tucked the golden wavy strands of hair behind Skwisgaar's ear and pressed their cheeks together in a new hug. He could feel the curvature of Skwisgaar's smile against his skin as he welcomed the hug.

He never wanted to take this happiness for granted.

[sweetspidergirl]

A Tangled Web (Spider HRT Story)

Chapter 1

“This is stupid. Why am I doing this?”

This question echoed in my head as I sat in the sterile waiting room of the doctor's office, accompanied by the sound of the clock ticking away in the background. Besides me and the receptionist behind the counter, there was no one else in the room. That made sense. With it being a few days before Christmas, who would willingly want to spend any amount of that time in such a depressing location?

A twenty-five year old woman dissatisfied with her life and seeking a new one, apparently.

As I sat there waiting for permission to see the doctor, my mind drifted back to how I got here. It was half a year ago where I first vented frustration over my life to my best friend Elisa, and she mentioned how I might be going through species dysphoria. She then sent me some articles and links and suggested I look into humanity removal therapy, or HRT.

I had been vaguely aware of humanity removal therapy, often referred to as therian HRT, for a few months by that point. It functioned mostly like hormone replacement therapy, only it would gradually change the patient into a human/animal hybrid, or therian. It was a recent development, only having been available to the public for a little over five years, and still had quite a bit of controversy associated with it from various political groups. Despite that, based on the testimonials I read and the various pictures I saw, the people who have gone through therian HRT seemed to be happier now than they ever had as humans. Maybe it would be worth it if I gave the whole thing a shot. Maybe being in another body might help me be happy again.

I glanced down at the blank screen of my phone, looking over myself in annoyance. I noted the long, messy brown hair that I barely made look presentable. I noted the pale skin caused by a lack of social interaction and preferring the light of a screen over the sun. I noted the oval-shaped glasses and casual hoodie and sweatpants that hid as much of me as possible. I was another drop of water in the ocean that was humanity. Even my blue eyes, once bright and full of hope, had started to appear dim and non-descript as of late.

“Taylor Thompson?”

I snapped out of my thoughts as the doctor called my name. Turning my head in his direction, I got a good look at the man who would be deciding my future. He was an older gentleman, probably in his 50s or 60s, with a grey receding hairline and mustache. His thick, round glasses made it hard for me to see his eyes. Grabbing my belongings, I quietly followed the doctor as he guided me to his office. The office was what I expected to see: a small, plain white room with a desk, degrees on the wall, and bookshelves full of books that I would be too dumb to properly understand. On the desk was a small nameplate that read “Dr. T. H. Erian, Species Dysphoria Specialist” in large, clean letters. I set my bag beside me and took my seat, my heart beating like a drum in my chest. I swallowed the lump of anxiety that was forming in my throat. There was no turning back now.

“So, Miss Thompson, what brings you here today?” Dr. Erian asked in a stern voice. One sentence in and I was already having flashbacks to my high school principal. The main difference here, however, was that my answers actually mattered for more than avoiding detention.

“I, um, was hoping to be prescribed therian HRT. Specifically spider HRT.” I answered, trying to remain calm and collected.

“I see… and why a spider, if I may ask?” The doctor questioned as he began writing something on a piece of paper in front of him.

“Well, I think spiders are a lot like me. Most people are scared of them, but in reality they’re mostly just nervous, adorable little beans.” I explained with a bit of blush on my face.

“Any preferred species of spiders?”

“I was hoping to be a tarantula. They're cute and fluffy, and I think I'd look just as good as one.”

“May I ask why you wish to undergo humanity removal therapy?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I've been unhappy with myself lately. My diet's been awful, I rarely go outside and interact, and in general I just hate everything about myself. My best friend, Elisa Andrews, thinks I might be going through species dysphoria. She works with therians and otherkin daily, so I assume she's right.” I explained to Dr. Erian. I then handed him a folder that contained the paperwork Elisa told me I'd need before being prescribed therian HRT: a medical examination, two psychological evaluations, written support from her and my father. I even spiced the folder up with doodles of webs and cartoon spiders in hopes that it would help my case.

Dr. Erian looked through the paperwork I gave him. I was unable to get a good idea of what he was thinking. His flat, emotionless voice was hard to read, and thanks to those glasses I couldn't tell whether he was impressed by work or annoyed at me wasting his time. I was hoping it was the former.

“Miss Thompson, before we continue, I'd like to ask an important question.” Dr. Erian spoke as he set the folder down in front of him on the desk. “How much do you know about therians?”

“How much do I know?” I asked curiously. “I mean, my best friend’s a physical therapist that works with therians, and I'm kinda aware of some of the legislature that's been passed recently-”

“That's not what I am referring to.” Dr. Erian interrupted. “I want to know if you understand what therians go through, what the process of going through humanity removal therapy is like and how you'll have to adapt. You are aware that I recommend patients spend some time living as their desired species before I prescribe them HRT, correct?”

“I-I mean… if it helps I have a few spider plushies.” I said sheepishly. I could already feel my luck running out.

Dr. Erian sighed and gently rubbed at his forehead before speaking again. “Miss Thompson, this is a serious life-changing procedure. Once you start therian HRT, your DNA will be rewritten to match your chosen species. You'll never be human again, even if you stop early into your therapy. I cannot prescribe it to just anyone who steps foot into my office.”

I sunk into my seat slightly, bringing my knees just under my chin as I almost curled up to feel safe and protected. “B-but… I was told you can help people with this kind of stuff.”

“I can, and I do. However, not everyone needs HRT. What you may think is species dysphoria could very well just be depression, and what you may need is something far simpler than a complete genetic rewrite.” The doctor explained.

I sat there in silence, barely listening to the doctor's words. He was saying so much when it all boiled down to one word: “no.” No, I couldn't get humanity removal treatment. No, I couldn't have happiness. No, I was doomed to hate myself for the rest of my miserable life. Tears started to creep their way out of my eyes, stinging slightly as they worked their way down my cheeks.

Just as I was about ready to give up and head home, I glanced up and noticed Dr. Erian looking through my papers once more. I was expecting him to scold me again. I hid my face against my knees and closed my eyes, bracing myself for his harsh words to wound my heart further.

“...are you sure becoming a tarantula will make you happy?”

I slowly brought my eyes up to look at Dr. Erian, not fully emerging from my self-made cocoon as I processed his question. What was making him change his mind? Did he believe that I'm suffering from species dysphoria after all, or was he simply taking pity on me? Regardless of the answer, I couldn't let this opportunity slip by my fingers.

“Y-yes… yes it will, doctor.” I responded, almost forcing myself to do so. A tense silence hung in the air for what felt like hours as Dr. Erian stared at me, almost examining me. I gripped the sides of my legs, waiting anxiously for either him to continue lecturing me or for me to have the courage to speak again.

“Well, if that is your answer, then I will approve you for tarantula HRT.” Dr. Erian said, writing on the piece of paper some more. “Considering it's the holiday season, it's likely your pharmacy won't receive your first dosage until after the new year, though.”

My heart almost skipped a beat at the news. I was… actually going to be a tarantula?! “Wait, really? You're… approving me for the HRT?” I asked, nearly jumping out of my seat. “Oh thank you Doc! Thank you very, very much!”

Dr. Erian sighed, writing some more information down on the paper. “As I explained, transitioning to a different species won't be easy. There will be some side effects to expect as your body changes.” He explained, making sure I had calmed down a bit before he continued. “Not all therians will experience the same side effects. Not all side effects will be present at once. Some will show up at different stages of your transition. At the earliest stages of spider HRT, I would primarily expect to see itchy skin as your hair grows in, as well as weight gain to provide material for your additional body parts to develop. Beyond that, you may experience headaches, nausea, dizziness, fatigue, and possible body pain.”

After making sure I understood the side effects I might encounter during my transition, Dr. Erian started digging through a drawer in his desk, and from there pulled out two items. The first was a pamphlet that had “Welcome to your Humanity Removal Therapy” written on the cover, alongside “Species: Spider” and a minimalist illustration of him. “This pamphlet will help guide you through your transition, Miss Thompson. It provides details on a recommended meal plan, the type of environment you should live in, a rough timeline of what changes you should expect and when you should expect them, a full list of potential side effects, and more.” The doctor explained. “I would make sure to give this a thorough read if I were you. I'll also be sending you a digital copy after our meeting. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me and I will provide an answer at the earliest convenience.”

I took the pamphlet in my hands, almost crushing it in excitement. “Of course Doc. I'll definitely give it a read once I get home.”

Just as I was about to get up and leave, Dr. Erian cleared his throat. “There is one other thing I must discuss with you before we conclude here, Miss Thompson.” He said, causing me to sit back down in my seat. “I still disapprove of you not doing any research on therian culture prior to our meeting. So… I'd like for you to interact with other therians while you're taking HRT. It's not mandatory, but I do feel it will not only help you learn about your new lifestyle but also potentially help with your mood.”

As Dr. Erian said that, he handed another item. I took it in my hands and looked it over. Instead of another pamphlet, it was a flyer detailing a therian support group that was close to where I lived. It detailed that it was bi-weekly, and that it was open to those on HRT, regardless of stage, as well as those questioning.

“I'll keep that all in mind. Thank you so much for all of this, Doc.” I said, stuffing the papers in my bag. After discussing insurance and other important information to get my prescription set in stone, I left the office and gave a heavy exhale as soon as I was outside. That was probably the most stressful talk I've ever had, but it was done and over with. While I stood outside and caught my breath, my phone started buzzing. Pulling it out, I saw that I was getting a call from Elisa.

“So, how'd it go?” Elisa asked, sounding exceedingly curious. Looking at the time on my phone, I hadn't realized she had just finished with work by the time I finished my meeting.

“Well, I managed to get the prescription, so that's good. You didn't tell me he was gonna be so scary though.” I answered back with a tiny bit of irritation in my voice.

“Hey I never met the guy personally. Besides, you still got the HRT in the end, so it all worked out.” Elisa answered back. “So how long before you start spinning webs and crawling up walls?”

“Well, my first dosage won't arrive until after the new year. Beyond that, well…” I trailed off a bit, glancing back at my bag and the papers inside of it. “I have some homework to do.”

---

NEXT:

Welcome everyone! This is the start of a (hopefully) long-term project I intend to work on. This is the story of Taylor Thompson, a 25-year-old woman seeking a change in life through humanity removal therapy. In the process of transitioning from human to spider, she'll learn more about the world of therians, as well as learn more about herself and what she wants out of life.

I want to thank @ayviedoesthings, @welldrawnfish, @entroart, @bubbleverseart, @nyxisart, @prettiestplatypus, @deadeyedfae, @kaylasartwork, and anyone else I may have forgotten (there's a lot of people I'm so sorry ><) for creating the world of therian HRT and creating such a community, as well as my fiancé for showing them to me and for inspiring me to give my own version a try. I can't say when the second chapter will be done, so just keep your eyes open, and I hope you all will join me on this long, wild ride.

Thank you so much in advance.

[agendergorgon]

Worm Crisis Protocol

Marvel Crisis Protocol is a tabletop miniatures wargame where the heroes and villains of the Marvel universe (well, a Marvel Universe, and a fun one at that where MCU inspired pouch fest heroes are stood shoulder to shoulder with leotard clad villains fresh from the 60s) get into manic brawls and gradually disassemble all the pretty dollhouse terrain pieces you spent so long laying out by chucking them at each other, and chucking each other at each other. Worm is a webnovel about a young woman who controls bugs and has too much of an imagination. Her and her friends have some well cool powers, like smoke clouds that sap people's powers, or a mind that unravels a foe's secrets over time. And her foes! Heroes that can conjure forth any weapon, villains that can summon blades from any surface. There's a whole rogues gallery. Or there would be, if Worm's fights weren't quite as cutthroat. What if one was to make a couple custom rules for adapting some of Worm's beloved and beloathed characters to Marvel Crisis Protocol's madcap combat? What if one was to make more than a couple? Whole teams and rosters to let people field everything from the Undersiders; a bank robbing team of teen supervillains who pull together to pull off daring heists and escape certain death or capture at every turn, to the Slaughterhouse 9, America's most feared roving gang of sinister slashers only barely held together by the machinations of their mad leader. And what if it came with little cut outs of character art so you could print tokens/proxies at home? What if indeed! Anyway, me and my husband to be have been working on this for a while but it sort of fell on the way side while other projects came up. BUT! figure if I stick a big ol COMING SOON on this to maybe kick my arse into finishing the Undersiders before I make rules for yet another Slaughterhouse 9 member that I'd only have to make up an alter ego for. Any Worm fans do tell us your own headcanon names for those we don't know and I'll use the best ones in this or a fanfic. Any MCP fans do give Worm a check out for some superpowered shenaniganry in literary form. Any questions or interest do DM me it'll help with motivation. Anyway, here's a sneak peak. Thanks again to @creator-crash for letting us use some phenomenal Worm fan art in this project.

[myceliumsunshine]

Clubbing - Sam Winchester

A/N - this is vaguely based off of an OC's story but it has no name, no notable features, and it draws inspiration from percy jackson as well, she/her pronouns. this is my first supernatural fic, please enjoy!

His eyes flickered over the neon sign that displayed the name of the club carelessly, before looking back at his phone to confirm that it was the right place. Next to him, Dean chuckled, a small grin on his face.

“Good taste.”

“Look, let’s just get in, find her, and get out.” Sam replied, starting toward the club with a frown on his face. Dean rushed after him.

“Wait, why can’t we take advantage of this? She’s got the right idea, you know, having some fun.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Come on Dean.”

The brothers pushed their way into the club and were immediately blinded by the flashing lights and choked by the sweat of the packed bodies that hung in the air. The music was far too loud, Sam’s brain clicking that it was Gold Digger by Kanye West subconsciously. 

“Right, let’s-” Dean wasn’t behind him. Sam’s eyes widened, looking for his brother. The other man had disappeared into the swath of bodies that crowded the club. He huffed, annoyed.

 Pushing through the people in the direction he thought that Dean could have gone, Sam shook his head. He had a bad feeling. His brother was a party boy, yes, but he knew when to rein it in for a job.

The music changed as he continued his search. Don’t Cha, by The Pussycat Dolls. Sam frowned, turning. There he spotted Dean, talking to some random ladies, having somehow acquired a pair of sunglasses from someone, glow sticks wrapped around his wrists that hadn’t been there before.

Sam shoved through the crowd, pushing up to his brother and grabbing onto his arm with a look.

“Sammy!”

“Dean. Have you seen her?” Sam said as the music changed once more to Yeah! By USHER.

“What?” Dean said loudly. “Speak up Sammy!”

“Have you seen her?!” Sam asked. He was worried, this didn’t seem like the kind of place she would have come to. What had caused her to decide to come to a nightclub?

A loud cheer erupted from behind him, and Dean pointed towards it. “She’s right there.”

Sam turned quickly, keeping a hand on his brother’s arm. There she was, up on the bar, dancing like some sort of stripper, much to the entertainment of the club-goers. Sam frowned. Now Sam knew that something was definitely wrong. She wasn’t a party girl, she wouldn’t get up on to the bar to dance under any circumstance he knew of. The girl he knew liked to read, and watch movies, and not go out. She liked Star Trek, Star Wars, and Harry Potter. She didn’t like alcohol, or dancing, or clubbing. She hated loud noises and bright lights.

Dean cheered for the bar top girl, pulling himself from Sam’s grip roughly and pushing his way through the crowd. Sam blinked and followed, a sinking feeling still in his stomach. Looking at the people as he went past, there definitely seemed to be an abnormal range of ages, from as young as 21, all the way up to a woman who looked to be at least 60.

“Dean! Sam!” The girl practically shouts over the music when she spots them. She sounds ecstatic, and drops so that she’s dancing in a squat. Sam shakes the strange age range from his mind, focusing on the task at hand.

“We need to get out of here! Something isn’t right about this place.” Sam calls back.

“Okay! Catch me Sammy!” The girl agrees with a loud giggle that Sam can barely hear, before launching herself into his arms. The masses cheer once more as Sam basically dives to catch her, stopping her from hitting the floor. He pulls her upright, the pair staring into each other’s eyes. 

“Hi,” She says breathily, and he can barely hear her over the music, which has once again changed to a song he doesn’t recognise.

“Let’s get out of here. Dean!” He pulls away from the girl, ignoring the thoughts that plague his brain and beg him to kiss her.

It’s only when the trio is out on the street once more that his thoughts calm. He takes a deep breath, glad for a break from the stale air that had clouded the club. Pulling out his phone to get a look at the time, Sam freezes.

2 days had passed while they were in the club.

A/N - tell me if you want more of this!

Edit - Part 2 Here! Part 3 Here!