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bluejaywuzhere · 8 months ago

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Collisions of Then and Now

For the Flufftober prompts: Days 4, 11, 13, 14, 18, 28, Alt 1, Alt 2, and Alt 3: Market Day; Ingredients & Spells; Attic, Cellar, Hidden Room; Fantasy AU/Mundane AU; Bewitched; Lucky Charm; “I’ve got you”; Rainy Day; “Wait, you love me?” - “I always have”

- - - - - - - - -

James Buchanan Barnes hadn't always been of the magical world. He had been normal, once. Before the war, before Hydra, before ice, he’d been a normal young man in a normal village with a normal best friend and housemate.

Well, he supposed his housemate wasn't the most normal. Stevie had always had health problems, and despite his best efforts, it’d been hard on him and his mother’s finances. When Ms. Sarah passed (bless her soul) and Stevie needed help with managing the house, Bucky moved in to help his buddy out. Yeah, sure maybe it wasn’t the most normal of situations, but it worked for them and they were happy. And then their kingdom of America declared war and everything got a lot more complicated.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky said he’d volunteered (that was a lie. The royal guard had threatened his sister). He said he was fighting for his kingdom (that was also a lie. He was fighting for his sister. He was fighting for Stevie. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn't give a damn about America). He said he’d be back soon (he hadn't meant that to be a lie. It was).

- - - - - - - - -

His entire troop was captured by the other side, instead of being slaughtered (at the time, he was thankful. But later, Bucky decided he would have preferred death to the hell they put him through).

- - - - - - - - -

It was a league of witches, witches who called themselves Hydra. They were experimenting with spells and potions and runes, combining all three into dangerous magics that they hoped would help achieve immortality (and if not immortality, enough power to win the war). Bucky became a test subject (it felt like they were pumping lava into his veins sometimes, turning his skin inside out other times, and some of the worst times it felt like all the warmth was being leeched from his insides. He wasn’t surprised that everyone died, he was only surprised that he had survived).

- - - - - - - - -

Steve (brilliant, wonderful, idiotic Steve) rescued him. Steve had signed up for an American experimental program and had become extremely strong and fast and tall and healthy. Steve had barged into Hydra’s little lair and stolen Bucky away. Steve, who used to be fifty pounds soaking wet and couldn't run more than six feet before wheezing. (Stevie, who made the most fantastic paintings and had the biggest heart ever for such a tiny body. Stevie, who fought guys three times his size in back alleys, on the justification that “he was attacking her, Bucky” and “he can’t just say that about the men who’re out there dying for us”). Steve, who their kingdom called Captain and lauded with glory, who didn't care beyond the muscle and blonde hair, who girls fawned over and littered with kisses. Steve, who meant no more to America than a glorified weapon. (Steve, who Bucky knew better than himself and who he would die for a thousand times).

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky didn't know it, but Hydra had stuck magic inside him. America had done the same with Steve. Magic that would keep him alive. Through tortures, through swords, through ice.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky fell. Hydra found him. And this time, they made sure that he could never resist them again.

- - - - - - - - -

Seventy years. They kept him spelled him, tested things on him, and made him a murderer. He was their puppet for seventy years.

- - - - - - - - -

Stevie saved him. Stevie always saved him (true love broke the most powerful of curses).

- - - - - - - - -

After everything was said and done, Bucky left America. He established his own little hut in the forest, bought spellbooks, and tried to make a living for himself. After a few years, Stevie hesitantly showed up on his doorstep. Bucky, like always, welcomed him with open arms. It was five years before anything disturbed them again.

- - - - - - - - -

After almost a decade of practicing magic (or well, ninety-something years if you counted the mindless Hydra puppet years, which Bucky did not), Bucky Barnes was getting used to being a witch. And he humbly considered himself to be fairly decent at it. So, when a traveler asked for a luck charm, Bucky deemed it an easy request to answer.

“Steve, we’re out of yarrow again!” Bucky yells over his shoulder, frowning at the empty space where the dried yellow flowers were supposed to be.

Steve pokes his head through the wide open doorway separating the kitchen and the sitting room, furrowing his brows as Bucky rifles through the cupboards.

“You sure? I swear we just bought some three suns ago.”

Bucky sighs and shakes his head, his grown-out hair swishing strangely around his face.

“Yeah, I did! Where’s it all gone?” He complains. Steve thinks for a moment, walking into the kitchen and resting his big blonde head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Well, if we’re really out, then the market is open until sunset tonight. You have a deadline, right?”

Bucky groans, thunking his temple against Steve’s head. “Yes.” He grumbles, turning his face into Steve’s fair hair. Bucky distantly notes that it smells faintly of grass and fresh linen. “I have seven suns as of today. It takes two to brew the potion, and then it has to soak for three. ‘M already cutting it close as is.”

Steve smiles into Bucky’s shoulder before pulling away, reaching around Bucky’s head to close the open cabinet.

“Well then, you better get to it, Mr. Magic Man.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and swats Steve’s shoulder, nodding towards the door.

“You gonna come with me?” He demands, and his acerbic tone would have sounded terse and harsh to anyone else, but Steve knows it was simply Bucky’s way of hiding (whatever it was that it was hiding). Steve beams at him and whacks his shoulder as he passes. “Of course! I need to get some more sorrel anyway. I’ll grab the umbrella.”

- - - - - - - - -

One accomplishment of Hydra’s experiments with Bucky was diluting the effects of what Hyrda dubbed ‘wasser-seele-korrosion,’ literally, ‘water-soul-corrosion’. A common consequence of gaining witch powers was that fresh or running water would erode one’s core of magic, destroying them from the inside out. Hydra’s efforts to reverse the side effects were not entirely successful, but they did manage to reduce the fatalistic nature of water to witches: instead of the water eating away at one’s soul, it would eat away at one’s skin. Thus, instead of killing the subject, it would merely cause them unbearable pain. Needless to say, Hydra saw this as an outstanding breakthrough and tested it on a live subject at the first opportunity. Specifically, the super-enhanced, bewitched live subject they had helpfully in custody.

- - - - - - - - -

When in the process of changing, Bucky resolutely avoided the mirrors. After nearly a decade of being free from Hydra’s control, he still wasn’t able to look at his patchwork of scars without feeling sick. Especially his arm- god, every time he caught even a flash of metal, he had to stop and breathe for a moment.

- - - - - - - - -

In another one of their experiments, Hydra had turned his left arm into solid metal. They spelled it to feel normal, to move like normal, to feel no different than his arm made of flesh and blood and bone, disregarding the fact that they had irreversibly transformed skin and muscle into steel. They then made him use that arm to spatter blood and crush bone.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky takes a breath and pulls off his shirt, flinching as sunlight glints off the metal. He closes his eyes and breathes, feeling the air in his lungs and the wooden flooring beneath his feet. He pulls on a new shirt, the feeling of his fingers scraping over his pockmarked back sending shivers of revulsion down his spine. Eyes still closed, he grabs a glove to fit over his metal hand. Only once the entirety of his left arm, from his shoulder to his fingertips, is covered, only then does he open his eyes and breathe freely. No panic attacks, then. A good day.

- - - - - - - - -

Steve smiles brightly when Bucky emerges. If he notices Bucky’s shaking shoulders and the way he grasps Steve’s arm a little too tight, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, Steve starts chattering about his paintings. Bucky knows that Steve mostly paints for himself, but he’s recently received his first commission, which he’s working on now. Steve talks about the difficulty of certain pieces and how hard it is to get the colors right, but also about how good it‘s turning out. Bucky relaxes bit by bit at the sound of Steve’s voice. Warm, familiar, soothing, and above all else, safe. Then Steve says something that makes Bucky tune back in sharply:

“Hey, do you mind if I draw you sometime?” Bucky shoots him a sharp look, mind whirling. Steve just gazes at him, expression open, honest. Bucky doesn't know what to say. He’s… he’s thought about Steve drawing him. He’s always squashed that thought down though, because… well, that’s not really something friends do. And Bucky‘s long since buried any hope of being anything more than friends with Steve.

“You want me to… you want to draw me?” Bucky hedges, still eyeing Steve for, well, he doesn't know what he’s expecting. Steve doesn’t seem like he’s joking, or playing some kind of prank, but Bucky can't quite believe the words coming out of his best friend’s mouth (best friend, that’s what Steve is, dammit, and that's all he’s ever going to be, Bucky has to keep reminding himself). Steve is still smiling, oblivious to Bucky’s overthinking.

“Yeah! You have a very pretty face. I’ve wanted to draw it for a long time, but I wanted to be able to do it justice. Now, I think I can draw you right.” Steve says sheepishly, and well, how can Bucky say no to that?

- - - - - - - - -

The market is surprisingly busy, considering it’s past mid-sun and barely halfway through the lunar cycle. It is always busy on a full or new moon, or solstice, or at night, but to be this busy in the sunlight on no remarkable moon is… odd. Bucky finds himself uneasy. Something’s wrong. Steve feels it too. There’s something different in the air, and it’s making them both nervous. Instead of splitting up like they usually would, by unconscious and mutual agreement, they stick together. Bucky pays for the yarrow with quick hands and a strained smile, every hair on the back of his neck sticking straight up. When he bids hasty farewells to the yarrow seller and looks around anxiously, he accidentally locks eyes with a strangely familiar-looking guy across the square. Bucky has a moment to wonder where he’s seen him before, and then Steve brightens and hurries over, beckoning Bucky to follow him.

“Sam!” Steve whisper-yells and the guy nods tersely, glancing around.

“Oh yeah, I remember you,” Bucky realizes, finally remembering glowing red wings that appear and disappear at will. Sam nods hello, then turns back to Steve.

“America’s rounding up anyone magic. Everyone, actually. The king sent out the whole royal army, they’re sweeping every house within a three-sun journey. Word on the street is that we’re all gonna be killed. Be careful.” Sam warned. Steve nods seriously, sharing a nervous glance with Bucky.

“We’ll be careful. You be safe too, okay?” He asks, and Sam smiles. “Hey, I’m not the one with a damn metal arm, for Christ’s sake.”

Bucky tries not to flinch, Steve takes his hand, and Sam notices. “You two take care of each other now.” He says, a not-so-subtle smirk tugging at his lips. Steve, for some reason, blushes. As they leave the market, Bucky’s mind lingers on it because what the hell was that?

- - - - - - - - -

It’s a long walk back to their hut: Bucky chose a pretty secluded spot deep in the woods, which is a little inconvenient for trips to and from the market, but it’s rather protected. They have plenty of time before the soldiers get there. Nevertheless, Steve and Bucky begin preparations. There have been raids in the past, usually lawless flash mobs with torches and pitchforks. Not much danger if one knows a simple concealing spell. But the king's royal army would be a much more formidable force. Their armor is constructed to see through enchantments and their blades are sharpened to slice through any conjured barriers. No, against this foe, Bucky and Steve have but three options: they can either stay and pretend to be nothing more than simple peasants (difficult, considering they’re a fair distance from the nearest village and Bucky has a solid metal arm), they can abandon their home and flee into the woods until the guards move on (problem is, neither of them wants to leave), or they can split up, with Bucky hiding in the woods and Steve staying behind to watch the house (no way in hell). After too much time spent deliberating, Bucky finally sighs.

“Steve, there's nothing for it. We're gonna have to jump ship.”

“Buck, we can't just leave. Our lives are here, we have to stay and fight.” Steve, unsurprisingly, is being stubborn, but Bucky’s made up his mind.

“No, Steve, listen. I can hide the magic stuff. We can pack a bag each, fill ‘em with what we can’t leave behind, and we can go.” Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Bucky presses on, reaching out and gripping his arm.

“Steve, Stevie listen to me. We can leave the house. The house doesn't matter, what matters is that we don't lose each other again, okay? That's what's important.”

And well, Steve can’t seem to argue against that.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky’s in the middle of transfiguring the cauldron when a rough thunk-thunk-thunk sounds at the door. Bucky knows that noise. It’s armor on wood. It’s the royal guard, hours early. Some bastard must’ve let slip about the witch in the woods, and now the royal army is seconds away from knocking down Bucky’s front door and he’s not ready, they aren’t supposed to be here yet, why are they here-

“Breathe,” Steve’s voice cuts through Bucky’s panicked spiraling, and he blinks, suddenly staring into Stevie’s blue blue eyes.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay. We need to go, Buck,” He says, calm and sweet as molasses candy on a Sunday morning. “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Come on Buck, that’s it. One foot in front of the other.” Steve gently leads Bucky over to the back door, snagging both their bags as he goes and quietly turns the handle, slipping out into the wild as the soldiers finally break down the front door.

- - - - - - - - -

There’s a tree hollow that they’ve hidden in before. When the nightmares were too much, when the walls were closing in, when Bucky found himself awake at night, he’d make his way out to the little tree hollow and let nature lull him to sleep. Crickets and frogs drowned out the venomous spells that slithered around in his mind, and he could finally close his eyes peacefully. He often awoke in Steve’s arms, the blonde curled protectively around him even in sleep.

That tree hollow is where Steve and Bucky hide, trusting good old-fashioned vines and leaves to artfully hide the entrance from view. They crouch there for what feels like hours, still as stone and hardly daring to breathe as soldiers clomp and stomp and yell and grumble, searching the undergrowth for the duo, at times mere inches from the witches in question. And when the soldiers finally, finally leave, the heavens open wide and dump the heaviest rainstorm of the season. Safe to say, Steve and Bucky aren’t going anywhere.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky keeps pale blue eyes fixed on the deluge outside, hugging his knees to his chest and leaning his head on Steve’s solid shoulder. He knows Steve well enough to know that the blonde is very nervous about the sound of hammering raindrops against wood. They’re both more cautious of rain nowadays. Bucky doesn’t know what to do to help though, so he drops his soft brown head on Steve’s shoulder and breathes.

“You know I’m shit at emotions and stuff, but I’m here, okay Stevie? I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve sighs but relaxes minutely and rests his head on top of Bucky’s.

“I know. Thanks, Buck,”

- - - - - - - - -

Two days later, the house is more or less completely fixed, the royal army has moved on to bully some other witch, and Steve and Bucky are finally getting back to some semblance of normal. Then Bucky remembers the lucky charm he was supposed to make for the traveler and groans.

“Steve, do you remember if we stored that yarrow?”

- - - - - - - - -

“Buck, could you grab the crushed buttercup for me?”

“Stevie, pass the hare fur.”

“Sweetheart, I needed oregano, not mint.”

“Ooh, hand me the goldenrod, doll,”

- - - - - - - - -

Miraculously, they brew the potion, soak the charm, and have the package ready in time for the traveler to pick it up.

Honestly, Bucky doesn't know how they did it. But hey, the traveler paid up generously (enough money for Bucky to get a nice new pack of paints for Stevie’s birthday), so Bucky wasn't about to complain over a job well done.

After the whole soldier fiasco is over and the potion is delivered, Bucky decides to be productive and make a little hidey-hole in the cellar. When Steve comes down with a drink, a cool rag, and a few questions, he gives answers.

“Don’t like seeing you scared. We can just hide down here next time bad guy come a-knocking.” Bucky mentions flippantly, wiping dirt off his forehead.

Steve feels a tender warmth welling up in his chest, and he can’t contain a smile. “I love you, Buck.”

They both freeze.

It's the first time it’s been said out loud.

Bucky’s heart is pounding too loudly in his throat, and he coughs, trying to dislodge it from where it’s very stubbornly hanging out by his vocal cords.

“Wait, you- you love me?” He asks, his voice hoarse and crackly, scarcely believing what he’s hearing.

Steve swallows, and for a terrifying moment, he can’t speak. Everything freezes, his lungs seize up and his mouth won’t move. Bucky’s face shifts. He suddenly looks… frightened. Scared. No, terrified. It’s that heart-wrenching look that snaps Steve out of his frozen trance. He has to say something, anything to get that awful expression off Bucky’s face. “I- yes. God yes. Of course I love you, Buck. I always have.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, a blinding smile illuminates Bucky’s face. It's one of those rare, precious smiles that Steve treasures, hoards like valuable gold. Bucky’s sky-light eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips curl up, his skin turns a lovely shade of pink, and he smiles, brighter than the sun, moon, and all the stars in the sky.

Steve would kill to keep seeing that smile.

Bucky strides forward and grasps Steve’s head between his two hands, one flesh one metal, and presses their foreheads together. Steve closes his eyes, breathing in the orangy smell of Bucky’s soap, the slight tang of iron from his arm, the mildewy odor of the basement, and the woody, earthy scent of his magic that seeps from his being. Bucky’s flesh hand grazes against Steve’s jaw, and the blonde half-opens his eyes to find Bucky gazing at him, open, curious, hesitant, eager. He gently tugs Steve’s chin just a hair closer, then stops.

Steve glances down at Bucky’s lips, red as an apple skin and half-parted. A most tempting invitation; one that Steve cannot find a single reason to refuse.

- - - - - - - - -

A few truths of the universe:

One: Bucky Barnes has been, is, and will always be weak for Steve Rogers.

Two: Steve Rogers has been, is, and always will be weak for Bucky Barnes.

And three: strengths and weaknesses are often one and the same when it comes to Bucky and Steve.

- - - - - - - - -

Soon, the walls of Steve’s art studio are covered with Bucky’s face, in acrylic, in watercolor, in pencil, in charcoal, pale blue and chestnut, lashes, lips, eyes and a little quirk of a smile.

Steve is in Bucky’s arms, and in Bucky’s bed and in Bucky’s heart.

And he stays there.

- - - - - - - - -

Thank you for reading!

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g0atmama · 9 months ago

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Flufftober 13 - Attic, Cellar, Hidden Room; Vexing Spark

Dreadwing you turned into a cameo this is mostly a convo between Windshear and Viv. Also!!! featuring @bugsband's Windshear. Gonna write some more of him and Vivienne being friends

Vivienne was a surprisingly easy human to get along with. Even the insecticon enjoyed her company. It was him that carried her down to this mine- the first lieutenant already inside when they arrived. He first heard the chatter. Talking about things that seemed inane to him, but clearly… Weren’t. Not to them. He didn’t make it a habit to listen in.

It was Windshear he heard first.

“-- Spiders. You’re scared of spiders.”

“If they’re small or far away, I’m fine.”

“... So Arachnid.”

“Fuck off.”

They come into the room as Windshear snorts a laugh. Knock Out is waiting in another room- Dreadwing dismisses him after Vivienne is handed to him. She’s so fragile. So small in his servo- sitting in the center of it.

He watches as the insecticon leaves. His brow furrows as he looks down at her.

“Spiders?”

She doesn’t answer. She just hums a bit, leaning back against the ridges of his servo as he carries her through the mine. As much as he hates being so far below the ground (as any flier does), being around her… Somehow, makes it bearable.

And he hates it.

#windshear #vivienne mercer #vexing spark #flufftober #twisted the prompt for this one it takes place in a “”cellar“” shush

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annaofthenorthernlights · 9 months ago

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Hidden and forbidden - to reach for the incomprehensible

batb1991 fanfic for

@flufftober 2024 - day 13 - Attic, Cellar, Hidden room @fictober-event 2024 - day 13 - "that´s not the point"

Rating: G Words: 972

Belle knows she can't go to the West Wing. The Beast has made it clear, and she's not stubborn enough to risk another bout of his wrath. But he's never said anything about the East Tower.

Read on AO3

#flufftober 2024 #day 13 #prompt Attic - Cellar - Hidden Room #fictober24 #prompt “That´s not the point”#fandom: Beauty & The Beast 1991 #belle & beast #fanfic #canon divergent #fluff #developing friendship #batb1991

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quarterlifekitty · 6 months ago

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Something something bear!hybrid!Price something something breeding you full of his cubs…please?

I’m gonna do some RECYCLING here

Imagine Grizzly!Price introducing himself on the day you move in. And he’s never seen a bear like you before. You’re a bear for certain— the fluffy ears and tail, the scent of fruit and honey, it pulls out instincts he’d long forgotten about.

But you’re so little. And you have that funny little ring of fur around your neck. And that long tongue. And you can’t stand the cold. No hibernation instincts whatsoever.

A sun bear.

And he feels this tremendous itch when winter comes. He always feels this sort of dull ache— sleep is calling him. But he’s the kind of man who can’t help but keep an eye on everything going on around him. And you’re not prepping at all. Where are your crates of groceries? Your house has a cellar for God’s sake and he hasn’t seen anything go in there. Each time he sees you through your window, just enjoying yourself and ambling around the house— it’s like dry kindling is being tossed onto the embers around his heart.

He always felt this hard drive to nurture, to provide, to nest— he can’t stand seeing you so vulnerable and unprepared. And you’re so small! What’s going to happen once you get snowed in and you barely have enough to last you a week and a half?

Which is why he keeps coming around. Bringing his own things, preserves, jerky, canned goods— all under the guise of having “made too much”. Proving he has what it takes to care for you. You don’t really get it, he can tell from the look on your face, but you appreciate the treats.

He can’t get the image of you licking into a nearly empty jar of blueberry compote with your too long tongue out of his head. Of course his girl wouldn’t be wasteful.

Price only gets broodier as the dead of winter approaches. A blizzard is forecasted— and he all but demands that you stay at his place. He has a generator, firewood, a full larder— you don’t. You follow easily, like a dog rolling over to have its belly rub. What’s to protest?

He insists you sleep in his bed. Why waste the body heat when you could share? He barely has to prompt you before you’re rolling around, playing in his sheets, rubbing your scent everywhere. Sun bears mate year round, so you always smell just a little ripe and juicy— and it drives him crazy.

Having you in his bed, keeping you warm, feeding you…. It pushes him into that state of mind. You’re not in a man’s house anymore, you’re in a bear’s den, and his body knows what comes in spring, even if yours doesn’t.

He grinds up against you in his half-asleep daze, his nose buried in your neck as he mutters about what you’ll look like all fat and happy from overwintering with his cubs inside you. You might be a bit too small to take his cock at first, and it might be a bit of struggle to carry his brood, but you’ll have him to get you ready. He’ll look after you every step of the way, so just don’t worry your pretty head about it, ok?

#writing #cod fanfic #cod #john price x reader #captain john price #john price #hybrid au #hybrids #sunbear!reader #bear!price

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reidrum · 1 year ago

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wine or wine not | s.r

spencer reid x bau!reader

a/n: i think i love writing buildup to smut than actual smut, but i hope you guys like this lmk what you think. this was requested with the prompts "look at me when you come on my fingers" and "muttering compliments kissing down their body" and it was so much fun to write aaaaahh, my requests are open so please send more!!! guidelines in pinned <3

summary: you're hopelessly pining after spencer at a rossi party, and when you run into him in the kitchen when you're getting a refill and he asks if you want to explore the mansion with him, who are you to say no?

cw: 18+ minors dni pls, fingering, p in v, nipple play, soft!dom!spence, spencer being ridiculously hot its criminal, ooc penelope but it was for the plot, pining idiots, wine cellar sex wine cellar sex wine cellar sex, public sex, morgan and prentiss being dumb, rossi being a smug lil shit, a dumb ass title sorry i didn't know what else to name it lol

wc: 4.1k

★・・・・★・・・・★・・・・★・・・・★

these days rossi was always finding some reason to throw a party at his mansion. you’re not exactly sure what it was tonight, a birthday? an anniversary? regardless, you and the team appreciated the excuse to unwind, dress up, and have non murder related fun.

the sun is setting over the rolling hills the mansion is perched on, and you’re sat at a table with the girls— penelope, jj, and emily discussing penelope’s latest dating escapade. you’re trying hard to pay attention, you really are, but it proves to be difficult when you’re focused on the man showing magic tricks to the kids across the room.

you look on yearnfully as spencer pulls a coin from jack’s ear, all the kids are laughing and cheering and he has the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.

“hellooo?” penelope waves a hand in front of you dramatically, “i’m getting to the good part and you’re off in space!”

you jolt back to the present, “sorry pen, i’m listening i promise. so he shows up to your door with maple syrup and feathers?”

“YES, anyways so then he’s like i have a proposition for you…” penelope continues her story but you can’t help but zone out again. your eyes drift back to boy genius as he finishes another trick for little henry before rising up to his full height. it’s in that moment his eyes meet yours and softens as he offers you a small wave.

you return the gesture back which causes the girls at your table to look in the same direction and they come to a glaring conclusion too quickly.

“ah, that’s why you’re not paying attention. too busy ogling mr. houdini over there.” jj remarks.

“i am not!” you scoff.

“oh you so are,” emily says, “when are you going to let yourself feel your heart’s full content.”

“first of all, i can’t stand you. second of all, it’s not worth it. he would never feel the same about me.” you say as emily rolls her eyes.

this time penelope interjected, “oh don’t be so cynical. you haven’t even tried how could you even know?”

but you did know. it’s not that spencer didn’t like you, he treated you the same as any team member, but that was just it. you wanted him to see you as more. during cases you would try to impress him or make breakthroughs in the hopes he would tell you ‘good job’. a couple times you brought him coffee when you got yours, just to hear him say your name and thanks. work conversations rarely seemed to move past small talk, but you’re a little sure that’s on your part because he just made you so nervous. and like, he’s a profiler. so you’re sure to some degree he knows how you feel, and it just makes you regress into your safe hole even further because you think he’s being nice by not acknowledging it and saving you the embarrassment.

the girls knew about your harbored crush for a month now, since the last bau drinks night you got a little too truthful during truth or dare. you were much younger in comparison to your colleagues, so they offered their sympathies at your unrequited love and tried to get you to come out more and let loose.

which is one of the reasons you’re sitting in rossi’s living room, wine glass in hand, as morgan recounts the craziest date hes ever been on. the other reason, which you wouldn’t admit to anyone, was so you could admire your (not) lover from an acceptable distance and not risk embarrassing yourself.

so here you are, two glasses deep, rising up from your spot on the floor telling everyone you’re going to get a refill. your heels click against the hardwood floors all the way to the kitchen where you just so luckily run into the (your) man of the hour.

“hi.”

you were looking down at your feet as you walked to the kitchen, your head snapping up to meet the voice, “hi spencer.” you said softly.

“if you’re looking for more wine, i think emily just grabbed the last bottle,” you must have outwardly deflated as he continued, “that bad out there?”

“only so much wine can get me through penelope’s sexcapades and derek’s crazy one night stands.” you joke.

he chuckles back, “oh i know, why do you think i’m hiding out in here?”

you laugh again before an uncomfortable yet strangely comfortable silence falls between you both. unknowingly you both take turns gazing at each other, indexing the others features as if this moment would be the only chance you got.

you’re about to take your loss and leave when spencer speaks up again, “you know, i wouldn’t put it past rossi to have a secret wine cellar somewhere.”

“honestly, you’re probably right. what kind of italian just runs out of wine.”

spencer pauses slightly before saying, “do you want to see if we can find it?”

you look at his eyes again and catch a glint of mischief? concern that you’re wine-less? whatever it is, you take the bait.

“i’m game.”

—

rossi’s mansion was humongous. it was well known that he was loaded from his years in the bureau and multiple book deals, but holy shit, the rooms just seemed never ending, and none of them were a wine cellar.

“i don’t know spence, i'm starting to lose hope, and debating to revoke rossi’s italian card.”

you’re both in one of the many studies and are about to leave to find another room, when spencer notices a smaller door next to the study. he slowly opens it and peaks inside to find a descending wooden staircase. he looks at you with a smirk, “i think we just found it.”

he holds the door open and gestures you to enter first, following shortly behind you as he shuts the door. he makes sure to check that it’ll still open even after it’s shut, and you both relax a little seeing it still unlock. you move down the stairs, gripping the handrail and praying you don’t trip over your heels and fall to an embarrassing demise.

spencer descends a step behind you, trying so hard not to let his eyes wander down your bare back to the curve of your hips. once he steps off you both go in opposite directions to explore. you take in the vast amount of shelves and wine racks, taking note of how it seems to be separated by year and by type. running your fingers over the labels, you’re intrigued by a shelf with the year you were born, and pause in front of it. you reach up to a shelf that is just a smidge taller than you, hoping to grab the neck of an old wine bottle.

even in your heels you’re struggling, attempting little hops to try and reach. you’re about to give up when you feel a warm hand on your right hip, while an outstretched arm on your left seamlessly grabs the bottle and brings it down to you, “careful sweetheart, don’t wanna break that pretty head of yours.” spencer says lowly.

excuse me, what the fuck did he just say.

you inspect the bottle he so kindly brought down for you, but it’s a futile effort. you can’t even remember why you wanted to see it. all you can think about is your hands clamming up, sending threats to the wine bottle it’s holding. your mind is fogging up fast, and you’re trying to order your brain to say something instead of going mute while he’s still an inch behind you. with his hand on your hip still.

“oh god,” you start shakily, “you scared me spence.” you angle your body to the left so you can attempt to show how unbothered you are and look at his face.

good save (not).

he’s staring down at you with a hint of a smirk on his lips, like he’s keeping a secret from you. his eyes are intently focused on you when he speaks again, “just didn’t want you to get hurt. s’all.”

with his close proximity, you’re sure he can hear your heart beating through both of your chests, hell it was so loud they could probably hear it upstairs. he’s still got you caged in front of him when he continues, “any particular reason for this bottle?”

“yeah no, i just, wanted to see what bottles of wine he had from the year i was born.” you answer, watching as spencer moves back to give you space when you turn to face him.

he nods, “did you know that wine is associated with the greek god dionysus?”

“no i didn’t, actually.”

“it’s really interesting,” he moves forward a tiny inch, “they call him the patron god of wine, but a lot of people often forget that he’s also the god of fertility and ecstasy.”

oh. “ecstasy?” you whisper confusingly.

“yes, he believes when you drink wine it gives you emotional and physical pleasure.”

“how does that even work?” you nervously laugh.

spencer reaches his arm above your head, never breaking eye contact, and grabs two wine glasses by their stems, “you wanna find out?”

with only so many words, you give another nod. he uncorks the bottle with ease and pours out two glasses, with his having a little less than yours, most likely due to his slow but steady return to drinking casually. clinking your glasses, you take a big gulp hoping it’ll satiate the building nerves. but you’re watching the way his fingers wrap around the glass, his veiny hand showing prominently and you’re unable to focus on anything else.

“you know, i’ve been running something of an observation the last few months.”

you take another small sip, starting to feel less nervous, “oh yeah, what about?”

“you.”

it took everything in you not to spit your drink out all over his suit.

“me?”

he nods after another sip, “i’ve been watching you, and not in a creepy way i swear. but i’ve been keeping track of your habits; how you take your coffee, your tells when a case gets too much, things like that,”

that didn’t seem overtly terrible to you, you knew spencer was an observer of his environment, always seeking out patterns to aid his predictions. you’re about to speak when he cuts you off.

“i’ve also been noticing how you seem to change, when i’m in your presence.”

you feel like the sweat and nerves are just oozing out of you at this point, and he continues his verbal taunt.

“i’ve seen your breathing rate get faster,” he moves a step forward, “how your cheeks rise with the faintest red, kind of like right now,” another step forward, “and how you try to avoid looking directly at me because you think i’ll find out everything if you do.”

the room has to be at least a thousand degrees at this point, heart beating so fast it’s probably gone to the moon, and your brain just unable to have any coherent thoughts at the realization that maybe you weren’t as subtle as you thought.

he takes one final step to close the gap between you and delicately places two fingers on the pulse point of your neck, “i couldn’t figure out your heart rate from afar,” he pauses to count, “but now that i know it, i can come to my conclusion.”

the air in your lungs has all but escaped, nowhere to be found. “and wh- what is your conclusion d- doctor reid?” your voice betraying you by dripping with anticipation.

“that i make you nervous. do you agree? do i make you nervous?” he says while you feel the hot breath of his whispers ghosting on your lips.

your mouth opens to say something and then shuts, because what the hell are you supposed to say? any and all logic has left the room, but the last working neuron works to make an unthinkable conclusion of your own. there is no way.

spencer moves his fingers to grip your chin between them, guiding your face to look directly into his copper eyes, “i asked you a question angel, do i make you nervous?”

you’re cornered, “y- yes.”

“why’s that?”

“spencer..”

“is it because you’re thinking of me the same way i think i about you?” his thumb starts tracing the outline of your lower jaw. he’s pressed right up against your chest, his other arm covertly moving to snake around your waist. the way you lean in subconsciously towards him, paired with your silence is all the confirmation he needs.

the pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, dragging it downwards a little. there’s a hitch in his breath when his eyes flicker from your lips back up to meet your eyes again. he quietly mumbles, “can i?”

your eyes widen slightly, relishing in the way his arms are holding you firm and steady. this was about to really happen. you’d been pining after him all this time, believing you were destined for unrequited love. but as spencer stands in front of you, looking at you as if he’d been poisoned and the only antidote is your lips, you can’t help but wonder if there’s been a similar weight on his side that’s been holding him back too.

so you nod once again, and trust your voice this time,

“yes.”

you’re fully expecting him to go into it full force, and kiss you like a man starved. but he lets the premonition bubble for a little longer as he so agonizingly leans down and closes the gap, teasing you with the ghost of his lips on yours without making contact. he waits a moment, and just as he predicted your subconscious betrays you again and you impatiently lean up in an attempt to meet your lips together. spencer can’t help but smile before he softly pressed himself against you.

the feeling of his mouth on yours is something you can only describe as cosmic, like a star exploding into a supernova, emitting a powerful and luminous show of energy. it’s all consuming, the light reaching every neuronal end of your body and electrifying it ten times over. your hands reach up to tangle in his curly hair and he lets out the faintest whimper, spurring you on to grab it more earnestly.

spencer loses all restraint. his hands begin furiously mapping out your body, running up and down your back, reaching down to grasp a handful of your ass. he moves his hands down further to grip your thighs, effortlessly lifting you to sit on the counter behind you. spencer slots himself between your legs and continues kissing you, his mouth marking a hot trail to your neck as he mutters between, “is this okay?”

“please don’t stop.” you moan softly.

his fingers move to deftly slide the straps of your dress off your shoulder, mirroring the movement on the other side while continuing to work his down your neck. he slides the dress far enough down to expose your chest, immediately taking the swollen nub into mouth and running circles around it with his tongue. you let out a sharp gasp at the sudden warmth, whimpers leaving your throat. he repeats the motion to the other one as you cradle his head closer in an attempt to keep him there, as if spencer had any plans of leaving.

he moves his mouth back up to meet yours again, in a lust filled attack sending shock waves straight to your core. you move your fingers to work the buttons of his dress shirt and spencer moves his hand further south and under the hem of your dress, something you don’t notice until his thumbs are rubbing circles onto the plush of your inner thighs. it makes you falter on his last button as he pushes your legs farther apart, inches closer to where you desperately need him.

spencer looks directly into your eyes as his thumbs reach up to hook onto the side of your panties and slowly move them down your legs. he groans outwardly at the resistance caused by your slickness, “all this for me, baby?”

you’re rendered speechless watching spencer and his ministrations but he continues, “you are so goddamn beautiful, you know that?” his fingers are less than an inch away from your cunt, “i see you walk around the office in those tight pants, your hair and makeup all done, and those blouses jesus,” he reaches your entrance and dives in to collect your wetness, you brokenly moan as he begins to spread it all over. “couldn’t tell if you hated me for the longest time.”

“c- could never hate you.” you whine.

“i know baby,” he slides his middle finger into your hole, “just imagine the fun we could’ve had if we figured this out earlier. but it’s okay, we have all the time now.” he sets a steady rhythm before inserting his ring finger, actively working you towards a barreling orgasm.

“spencer, fuck, oh god.”

“you’re so fucking wet, bet you’re gonna come soon, right? gonna make a mess on my hand?” he baited.

you’re in shambles, one hand deathly squeezing onto one shoulder the other turning white from the grip you held on the counter. the moans won’t stop falling out of you, he works his fingers so skillfully within you it’s impossible to hold any resolve when he curves upwards and hits that spot.

your head tilts back, reeling from the intense pressure coil building inside you, the peak about to hit you any moment now. spencer uses his free hand to move your head back down, “look at me when you come on my fingers.”

that was all it took for the white hot to ravage through you, engulfing every sense and leaving you breathless. he continues moving his fingers through your orgasm, watching as you come back down to him. you don’t waste a second reaching for his belt to unfasten it, slipping your hand down to palm him through his boxers. he moans in your ear as he feels you slip inside, your small hand moving up and down, and getting impossibly harder when you take your hand back up to spit on it to then return to your movements.

you take the moment to lean into his neck and leave bites of your own, finding his sweet spot right behind his ear and sucking hard. spencer’s hands have taken a spot on your lower back beneath your dress, pressing so hard with his fingertips you know there’ll be evidence of this night tomorrow.

“spence..” you mutter in the crook in the neck.

“yeah baby?” he whispers back.

“can you fuck me now?”

he preens at your boldness, and wastes no time pulling his pants and boxers down enough to fully free himself. he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter before pulling his length out and giving it a few strokes. he lets it glide between your folds, gathering your wetness as lubricant as it hits your clit. both of you are panting hard realizing the anticipation has led to this moment. spencer positions himself at your entrance, never breaking eye contact with you, and watches your face drop into a perfect ‘oh’ as he pushes in.

spencer is absolutely wrecked as he hears your breathing pick up, reveling in the vice grip your cunt has on him. you’re no better above him as you’ve broken eye contact to stare at where the two of you connect, watching as he disappears into you and the feeling of being so full overtakes you and you’re letting out soft expletives. he bottoms out and stalls for a minute, waiting for you to signal that you’re okay for him to move. in the time he’s waiting, he takes a moment to really look at your face, how absolutely ruined you look, your cheeks are deeply flushed, hair flying in every direction, and he can’t help but tell you, “you look so pretty.”

your eyes soften as you gaze back at him and nod slightly, and he pulls back all the way to ease in again experimentally. once he hears you moan out loud at the movement, and feels you tighten even more around his cock, he loses any and all restraint he’d been holding onto this entire night.

his hips pick up the pace in harsh snaps to your core, sending ripples of pleasure all over you. your arms are wrapped around his neck attempting to pull him impossibly closer to you, “spencer…fuck…” you drawl with a whine.

“i got you baby, gonna take good care of you, promise,” he says back in between grunts. the sentiment causes you to squeeze on his cock again as he attempts to continue, “if you keep…fuck…keep squeezing me like that i’m n- not gonna last long.”

one hand in his hair and the other leaving dark red scratches on his back, you feel your second orgasm of the night hastily creep up on you. he can tell you’re close and quickens his pace as he thumbs your clit. you moan his name out once more before reaching your peak, feeling like your body is on fire as he continues to fuck you through it.

spencer feels his own release building up, “wh- where should i..?”

“inside, i’m on the pill just please come inside me.”

it was more than enough for spencer’s movements to stutter as he released his hot load in you, groaning out loud as he finished.

he slows to a half, still hilted inside of you but softening post orgasm. you’re both breathing heavily as you look up at each other and take in the other’s fucked out faces. spencer presses a chaste kiss to your forehead before resting his own on it, “that was..”

“intense,” he quirks his eyebrows at you, “in a really really good way.” you add quickly.

he smiles down at you, “i wasn’t kidding, what i said earlier. i think about you an embarrassingly high amount each day. i’d love to take you out and make this a real thing.”

“yeah?” you gape incredulously, “thought i was the one embarrassing myself if you were able to notice all those things i did when you were near me.”

he laughs, “no, no it was endearing, definitely made it easier to be as forward as i was tonight knowing you wouldn’t freak out.”

you’re about to respond when you hear the door to the cellar open, you’re both hidden from view but know it’s only a matter of seconds before someone catches you. you both look at each other in panic as spencer pulls out of you, tucking himself back in and zipping up his pants. you grab your panties from the floor and begin to pull them up your legs when he notices his come dripping down your thighs. he swiftly gathers the release on his fingers and shoves it back inside you, causing you to let out a near pornographic moan as he pulls up your underwear all the way.

“did you guys hear that?” a voice sounding like emily said.

“see this is why i don’t do big houses like this, too many creepy ass noises.” morgan.

“mansion,” rossi corrects, “and for a couple of profilers, you both are stupid if you don’t know what that sound was.”

your eyes widen to match spencer’s, you’ve been caught.

“was it a mouse or something?”

“no more like, bunnies,” he joked with an innuendo, “come on, i found the bottle i was looking for, let the bunnies do their thing so they can leave and go home to do whatever it is bunnies do.”

“you’re a weird old man david…” emily muttered.

the door closes and you both let out a big breath, and burst into a fit of laughter, “how the hell are we gonna show our faces to him on monday?” you whine.

“that is a monday us problem,” he starts, “but right now, i think it’s time for me to take you home.” he winks.

two stuffed bunnies show up on yours and spencer’s desk on monday. you’re both redder than a tomato as rossi chuckles when he walks by. prentiss and morgan are still confused.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fanfiction #bau team #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #matthew gray gubler #mgg

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cosmopoliturtle · 3 months ago

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Fakemon #191-192-193 - Powergill, Pilediver, Carcharazer

Thanks to @cellar-whales for the prompt!

#fakemon #pokemon #steel type #ground type #sharks #fakemon dex

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mrs-weasley-reid · 11 months ago

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MADE HIS MARK

Spencer Reid x bau!reader

Synopsis: a shivery trip to a liquor cellar turned into a steamy secret between friends and a not-so-subtle reveal between a small herd of colleagues. Word Count: 5k+ WARNING: SMUT. please, please, MDNI !!! penetration (piv). unprotected sex (but fr wrap it up!!!). fingering (a lil bit). obsessed!spencer (bc why not?). ex friends with benefits to lovers. a pinch of angst if you squint. cursing. troublemaker spencer reid and reader. not proofread!! A/N: heavily influenced by the song Dress by Taylor Swift. I love me a TS song. I'm obsessed, and I saw the opportunity. Also, this is my first Spencer Reid smut fic. Be nice, and tell me what you think!

The sharp brush of spring and little kisses from the evening air prompt you to savor the shivery feeling on your skin.

You take a deep breath before sliding your heels off, dangling them in your hand as you trail down the maze of a hallway in Rossi’s lavish home. Your dress is now a product of a shoddy decision.

All you knew was how presentable and wedding-appropriate it was, but you never realized why you would wear such a dress barely sewn for the crisp evening weather in May.

“Hiding from everyone?”

A smile instantly layers over your painted lips before you can even raise your gaze ahead. There’s this tickle of warmth that sparks inside of you the moment you hear his voice. Hands shaking in an intense subconscious buzz of excitement. Thrilling.

No other than Dr. Spencer Reid is ten feet away from you, standing lazily against the wall. His hair is messy from all the magic tricks he tore out to Jack and Henry and, funnily enough, Penelope, too.

Bright gleam shines on your face, flashing a saccharine smile you can only muster when the receiver is him. You shake your head.

"Are you?"

One hand in his pocket. Spencer shyly nods, “I ran out of magic tricks, and Jack figured out one of my tricks halfway through my little show.” He explains without persuasion, staring into space with playful horrid written all over his face.

You steal the half-full glass from his other hand, cringing at the taste of sparkling cider. “One sip won’t kill you, you know…” You say, shoving the glass back into his hand.

Spencer laughs, “You’d love to see me drunk, don’t you?” He quips, a sheepish smile growing with each syllable.

“Very much so,” You nod, making a beeline to the kitchen to find some kind of beverage that’ll knock you out ‘til the next day.

He follows you like a tail. Your senses feel his warmth, his breath fanning against your exposed back. The feeling of his tall presence behind leaves your breath hitching between inhales and exhales, and you’d love more than his figure on your trail. You ache for something more than the image of him in your wake. You need him merged with your soul, his body tightly pressed against yours. You crave something harsh.

It’s wishful thinking.

“What took you so long? Did you not notice I was gone?” He wonders.

Or is it?

“It’s cold out here, you know,” Spencer pouts in your peripheral.

You want your lips to wipe them off, then turn them into an O.

“Aww, does pretty boy genius feel lonely?” You tease over your shoulder, tapping his chest with the back of your hand. Your brows jump, twisting on your heels to face him. “I’ll be damned,” You exclaim, pushing your palm against his pec with more pressure.

It's been so long since you touched him with more than an accidental brush of your fingertips. His body stiffens under your light squeeze. And the thirst for more slowly dries the circumference of his throat.

“Reid, when’d you get this fit? No wonder women are all over you.” Genuine curiosity takes over, looking up at him with fluttering lashes.

Spencer scoffs, leaning down eye to eye with you, “I’ve always been hot.” He retorts with a straight face. The confidence radiates, and it does something in the pit of your stomach.

A brief silence whooshes between your bodies, and the next thing you know, both of you are laughing ‘til your cores cramp.

You gasp for air, head against his sternum, hand still placed over his pec. “Don’t ever say that in front of Morgan. He might get a stroke.” You begin walking once more, turning your back to him.

“I am! Don’t you agree?” You do. He banters a few feet away, keeping a safe distance—or so help the impulsive thoughts that are whirling around his mind. A playful grin works his facial muscles out, only hoping that you didn’t notice the way he takes in your scent like a bait set out for him.

Spencer didn’t even need to run to catch up with you. His strides are five times longer than yours.

You feel a soft fabric cover your shoulders, accompanied by a heavy arm that burns your skin in pure reflexive need. “I thought you were cold?” You ask, glancing to your left, where Spencer walks beside you.

Spencer shrugs, “Rather feeling cold than you getting a cold tomorrow morning. The chances of me getting sick from being cold tonight versus you sneezing on me like a troll is 15 to 85 percent.” He replies calmly, earning a light smack from your hand.

You roll your eyes, but your smile never travels far. It only happened once. And you both swore once was enough.

The two of you became friends during your time in the Academy. You’ll never forget the first time you met him. The urge to shove a sock inside his yapping mouth over the repercussions of shaking someone’s hand. Most people say the two of you are best friends. Somehow, his intelligence didn’t set you apart. You tolerated his constant rambles, and he tolerated your random bursts of sass.

It's more than that though. The entanglement was more than two friends. More than innocent study sessions. More than a trip to the nearest shooting range.

As two twenty-one-year-olds who's never felt the most sensual touch before, one minute of forced proximity and all hell broke loose. What seemed so platonic was sexually intimate behind closed doors.

However, in lieu of staying attached to the hip, the two of you went your separate ways after graduation. You went to pursue each respective interest. You both said no hard feelings. And both believed things would never work anyway, because no one was willing to put in the work.

The two of you reconnected when you joined the BAU team almost a year ago. Meeting him once again was nerve-wracking. With unresolved fallout and nonexistent communication, it scared you a bit. But you should’ve known Spencer Reid has always been different—good, different. The bond you had didn’t seem too damaged. If anything, it was merely locked in a vault and became stronger than ever before. You managed to be civil—become friends.

And since then, you never ran out of ways to be in each other’s vicinity. Or he just always succeeded in keeping you interested in his antics. Or you’re just addicted to him more than you’d like to admit.

But friends don't shake from mere self-control. Friends don't choke on breaths when the other touches them. Friends don't—

“What percentage of alcohol will you get from Rossi’s cellar?” He curiously asks, his warmth keeping you from shivering.

The damned dress.

And his damned loose tie.

You chuckle shakily, “You’d love to see me drunk, don’t you?” You mimic, throwing back the same antic he used not a few minutes ago. He rolls his eyes, and you open the door to the cellar. “I was tasked to choose the best whiskey ever made.” You announce, sinking deeper into confinement.

“So you lost a bet.” Spencer laughs, following behind. He shakes his head when you nod yours. “You don’t even drink whiskey.” He smirks.

“Go back out there, then,” You shoo him away, waving your hands. “I didn’t ask you to join me on my quest.” You add in a giggle, tying your hair up in a messy ponytail after setting your shoes on the table in the middle of the room.

You don’t see the way he swallows at the sight of your nape. The same way you hadn't notice his self-restraint for the past year, for the entire evening, dipping his hands in his pockets to hide his clenched fists. Because if he doesn't, they just might crave the feeling of your skin against the texture of his palm.

“And what if you can’t reach the best whiskey?”

“I’m a federal agent, too, Reid. I’m smart enough to figure that out.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re similar to a hobbit.”

The brows on your face lift over your forehead. "Excuse me?" Your mouth fall agape in disbelief, scoffing.

Spencer shrugs, "You're excused."

Amusement twitch the ends of your lips. "You sure you're not drunk?" Your eyes narrow, scanning him from head to toe.

"I'm not." He defends. Scarlet skin glows underneath the soft light. Spencer averts his eyes, stealing a mouthful of a sigh from the chilly air. Okay, maybe he stole one glass of scotch from the unit chief, took a sip, and felt his body on fire, so now he's settled down for ciders the entire evening.

You smirk, "Then, why are you being so clingy?" Arms cross over your chest. You raise a brow in question.

Spencer rolls his eyes, silently clearing his throat. "Why not? There's no harm in hanging out with you." His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek.

"There is when said friend is acting like a clingy boyfriend." You say, skimming through the shelves of liquor adorning the walls from ceiling to floor.

“Right,” Spencer states blandly, finding himself a seat. “I’m just a friend. I can’t act any other way. I can’t even give you any affection, huh?” He deadpans, tracing the wood patterns on the table.

Your eyebrows crease in the middle of reaching for a bottle. You slowly go up behind him and smack the back of his head without warning.

“Ow!” He hisses. “What was that for?” Spencer complains, face scrunching in temporary pain.

“For being weirder than usual.” You say, hitting his shoulder. “Stop it.” You scold, finger-pointing over his chest.

Spencer is not one to be petty. Never petty over the boys you mingle with for a short period. Never be petty over your tendencies to somehow land on the worst species of men. Since the two of you reconnected as colleagues, he's minded his business. Why now? And why the hell is your heart pounding obnoxiously?

He theatrically rolls his eyes, “Am I wrong? Aren’t I just your friend?” There is something in his tone that you can't distinguish. His face is awkward and reserved, as always, but something is different.

You know. You just love lying to yourself.

“What else are you going to be?!” Even you are surprised at the volume of your voice.

The creak of the small open window fills the room. None of you dares to say a word. No one dares to breathe within each other's personal bubble.

You break eye contact first, stepping away, but Spencer has other plans. His hands land on your waist, gripping the flesh to keep you between his legs.

“That’s a question I’ve been asking myself,” The luminescence of his eyes turns a shade darker. Chocolate hazel eyes gradients to deep earthy irises. Or it may have been the dim lighting in the room and the glass of wine in your system.

You swallow—roughly like a ball of sandpaper rows down your throat. Fingers lace above his textured ones, wrapping over the long digits to get their bruises off your skin.

“It’s a simple question. There’s no reason to dread it.” You almost stumble on your words, taking well-needed pauses to huff a small breath. You try to break his grip on you, but they don’t budge one bit.

The more you attempt to remove his hold, the more they tighten against the little fabric over your skin.

Your brows knit. A sigh of defeat escapes your lips as your gaze travels back to him. “Spencer, stop—” Your spine shivers when he starts to lazily move his thumbs in slow, firm strokes.

Spencer stands in silence, staring at you like you are a doe he preyed on. His eyes start to make your legs melt, and your heart races wildly.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His gaze flickers over your lips, “Why don’t you answer the question for me? Since you’re so smart, it seems.” A tone of clear mockery spills from his lips. Spencer smirks under his signature smile—smug and utterly amused by the sound of your small, hitched breaths.

“Can you stop kidding around?” You prattle. A peel of awkward laughter shoots straight down your bones. It was all you could do to relieve the growing tension between your thighs. Or else you’d jump on him like a desperate psychopath.

"Who says I'm kidding around?" Spencer narrows his eyes. "I never kid around." He squeezes your sides once more and grins when a soft gasp rattles out of you. He hasn't done that in so long, and the nostalgia and buzz spark something in his chest.

Thick, airy gulp forces itself down your throat. You know why he does it. The same pattern of movements you knew so well in your younger days. The days you spent with him.

"We can't." It is almost inaudible, but he catches it. You lightly shake your head, backing away, "I-it's not— We can't."

Spencer raises his brows. "What are you so afraid of?" He reads your features for a moment. The gentle touch of his gaze along your searing skin is electrifying.

You nibble at the corner of your lip, "Let go of me, Reid." And it seems you love lying to him, too. Because you don't want him to let go. Desperate for his touch. The soft trail of his thumb. The primal clutch of his fingers, like they were claws. It was all too intoxicating to ever want him to let go.

“Answer the question first.” He flashes the smirk he’s been trying to hide like a villain, exposing his true colors. “I dare you.” Spencer challenges.

“You know the answer.” Your chest feels like exploding.

“Say it out loud, then.”

“Why should I?”

“Because we’re not leaving this position until you do.” His voice sparks fire in your core. Spencer doesn’t let his eyes stray from your moving lips. If anything, he makes a point that he is, in fact, staring at them like a starving lion, ready to pounce at any given moment.

Oh.

Well, isn't he such a sweetheart to feed you just what you crave? You don't know where it comes from, nor do you care, but there's at least four liquid cubic centimeters of boldness that flows through your veins.

Your laughter echoes in the cellar. “Please, or what?” You relax in his hold, convinced that he's just the same lanky guy you've always known. “You going to fuck me like a slut? Not exactly your M.O., pretty boy.” You tease, playfully tapping on his shoulders.

A low, hoarse chuckle vibrates across his chest. With lust-filled gaze and a thin, mischievous smile, Spencer shifts his eyes to look straight into yours.

“Exactly.”

Your eyes grow the widest they have ever been your entire life. “What—” Before you can stop him, his lips are already clashing against yours.

Spencer holds onto you as if he is falling off a cliff, and you are a branch about to snap any second. He kisses you aggressively, pulling you so tight, like he needs you glued to him.

You try to push him, but it doesn't take long until you give in. Until you kissed back.

You kissed him back.

You fucking kissed Spencer back.

The hands that recently danced on his shoulders begin to tug on the soft curls over his nape. The weight of his lips is starting to make your legs wobble.

Every scrape of his teeth against your stinging lips feels new. It isn't what you're familiar with. Your mind recalls his gentle touches and gentle words as if you'd break if he held you too tight. But the one kissing you isn't. The slice of his tongue over your lips is primal. He's not the Spencer you once knew. He's the Spencer you've been craving, so much so that the mere thought of bruises caused by his grip has been contaminating your mind since you started in the BAU.

His kisses deepened, warmth enveloping the two of you despite the chilly breeze inside the cellar. With breathless and plump lips, a new strike of desire courses throughout your body the longer you kiss.

Spencer breathes you in like oxygen, starving for more, never satisfied with just one gentle breath. It's new. And you love it.

Heaving, you and Spencer pull away, lips detaching and reattaching like magnets ’til distance is too far to push back. His lips are a darker shade of pink, swollen, and adorned with smeared lipstick. You don’t doubt the effect of making out with him gives you any more leverage, imagining your lipstick thickly outlines all over the rims of your mouth.

Judging by how Spencer stares at you like a satisfied drunken man, you presume he's loving every second more than he's prepared to admit. Most will wonder if his eagerness is merely a product of lost inhibitions. But a simple educated guess tells you that none of his actions are driven by alcohol. He's as sober as an ice cold water splashed over one's face.

Spencer lifts you on the table, standing between your thighs. The fabric of his pants scrapes against your skin, and your aching cunt throbs at the feeling. He cups your face into his large hands, reattaching your lips once more like it’s an unforgivable sin to keep them apart.

He pulls away after air fails him, resting his forehead over yours. “I want to be the only one who gets to fuck you like a slut, or so God help me—” Spencer closes his eyes agonizingly slow, “—No man near you will ever see daylight again.”

Your heart pounds against your chest, and you mentally beg Spencer to do so too—pound against your hips like you’re banned from ever walking again. The pressure of his voice and hot breath fanning against the land of your skin is ecstatically satisfying.

Spencer's hand drives up the slit of your dress, and at that moment, you know exactly why you chose to wear such an article of unfriendly clothing amidst your intolerance to the cold wind.

You wanted him to take it off of you.

You needed Spencer to take the dress off of you and fuck you hard.

The tickle of his lips trailing from your jaw to the spot underneath your earlobe has your back arching almost a hundred and eighty degrees. Ever the opportunist, Spencer takes it as his chance to pull you closer, squeezing your thigh with his palm.

You throw your head back, giving him access to more eager-to-be-touched skin. Legs wrap around his middle in utter pleasure, “Spencer…” You whine breathily, eyes fluttering close at the way he holds your flesh with both hunger and caress.

His mouth falls agape. Your voice. His name. It’s addicting. His world stops in a millisecond, reveling in the joy of your mouth, uttering his name with the intense pleasure he provides.

“We’re barely starting,” Spencer whispers against your clavicle, snaking his hand under your dress to the lining of your underwear. He swipes over your clothed clit.

You twitch under his touch. A total puppet wrapped around his finger while his literal thumb begins to toy with your clit. The pace makes you painfully and deliciously squirm.

Spencer loves the image before him, especially the rise of your chest as he plunges a finger, then two, inside your needy cunt. It’s the first time he’s ever heard your moans so... needy and begging and desperate and sweet and hot and something he knows you’ve never reached the volume before with other men, and he’s hooked—addicted.

“You have no idea what your dress did to me the whole night.” He muffles on your neck. Wet kisses echo at the touch of his lips. Spencer buries himself in your scent, one hand unzipping your dress. “No idea how much I wanted to take it off of you.” He whispers next to your ear.

A hum spills at the ring of his words. His kisses start to sting, and burning hues form on your skin. Spencer marks you with his tongue and teeth.

It's euphoric. His hunger. His need. And you want nothing else but to give him whatever he wants, the same way he gives you everything you need.

The sound of his fly distorting in the air makes your skin tingle, nipples perk, and cunt quiver. You whine when he pulls away, already missing his heat.

Spencer’s eyes soften, “Are you sure you want this to continue? When we were friends with benefits things didn't work—”

“Shut up, take my dress off, and fuck me, Spencer.” You heave, or beg, or whichever fits the way you eagerly undo his tie and unbutton his shirt while kissing the soft spot on his neck, marking him yours.

The vibration of his chuckles sent delicious throbs down to your cunt, drooling to be filled by him.

“Aren't you needy—” Spencer lifts his arms in defense, “—alright, shutting up now.”

The cold is nowhere else but the back of your mind. You feel wetness on the peak of his boxers. Spencer's hard erection suffocates him, and you're eager to relieve him in every possible way.

He immediately sighs when your dress droops down your waist. Spencer takes you in as if you're the most prized art in a museum. He takes every line, scars, birthmarks, or as simple as the crease of your breast into memory.

“So, so beautiful…” Spencer murmurs in sheer adoration and awe. He looks up as if God has listened to his prayers as if he’s a passionate believer. Thankful to have you within his reach.

Warmth coats you with every sweep of his hand on every curve and slope of your body. He’s memorizing each soft plush and perfect flaw. The sentiment alone heightens your arousal like you’ve been touch-starved for years.

A yelp comes out of you when he unexpectedly spreads the wetness on your folds, touching where you need him most. “Spencer, please…” It’s a plea. A begging need.

He circles on your clit with more pressure than the first. “You ready for me?” A vigorous nod responds to him while you bite your moans to keep them at bay.

Spencer pulls you closer by the small of your back. Your ass is almost falling off the edge of the table. The lacey cloth stretched on the side of your entrance. He aligns his slobbering tip with your equally desperate cunt.

Unsatisfied by your response, Spencer grabs your chin with so much force your bitten lips set free. “I need a verbal answer, sweetheart. I need to hear your voice say the words.” He’s begging, too, aching to slam just about all of him in one push.

The anticipation is frustrating. "I wa—" With a mere echo jumping out of your throat, Spencer takes it enough confirmation and thrusts his hips to meet yours.

Temporary pain and electrifying pleasure cause your body to shake, followed by a pornographic moan that Spencer muffles with his hand over half of your face.

Your mind spins around in endless bliss as his cock throbs at the pressure of your hold. Spencer doesn't move an inch, waiting for your signal.

“Please… move. Now.” Your voice is caught in the middle of your throat, dragging into a lovely gasp when he pulls back slowly.

With the tip of his cock the sole filler inside your cunt, Spencer thrusts back so fast, so good. He keeps a steady pace that leaves both of you a moaning mess.

Spencer pins your hips on the table, making sure he satisfies you with every force. He sucks a breath in, dizzy at the sight of your breast bouncing on his beat.

Can he surpass the knowledge that other guys have seen you undone like this? Never. Will he clash heaven and hell for the sake of pleasing you? The almighty and the merciless needn’t make yet another bet because they know Spencer will drag anything, anyone, to kneel before you.

Because Spencer needs you undone like you have never been before. He craves to be the first to fuck you like it's the last thing you’ll ever do.

You're addicting. An influence he freely lets himself get sucked in. Spencer wishes he could brand himself with your name, eager to be yours. He's desperate to be called yours.

Spencer adorns your skin with red and purple hues, beaming at the sight of his marks with every echo of his lips popping yet another possessive tattoo.

The pleasure he gives sends you beyond time and space. Euphoric daze fogs up your brain. Vision locked inside your skull, eyes permanently rolled into sensual darkness.

“Spence…”

Fuck. The nickname drips perfectly off your lips. You and only you can make his cock even harder just by saying his name. He doesn’t try to keep his head from spiraling into desires, desperately imagining all the ways he can own you.

You gasp shakily, feeling the knot in your abdomen begin to tighten. One, two—five more strokes and you enter a void filled with sparkling stars and mind-numbing pleasure.

Spencer doesn't stop, just as you wish, through broken moans and nails digging into the thin layer of his skin. Not a single pace slower or faster. And it is fucking blissful.

Your moans drool off your lips, clenching around his cock. He rides your high like a limited experience that he will never get to try again. Though, you're sure there’ll be more clandestine rendezvous than you both are willing to admit. You both know this isn't the last you’ll ever get a taste of him. And it is not the last time he’ll crave you like oxygen.

A hand reaches out for his nape, carding your nails at the tangles of his hair. You begin to comb between his curly strands, massaging the scalp beneath. Spencer spits out a tasteful curse dedicated to the pleasure the sensation of your touch has given him.

“I keep up with my pill. I’m on a good window.” You assure him, breath hitching. “Fill me up, Spence.” You implore greedily, wanting nothing but all traces of him engraved inside and outside of you.

His mouth slacks open, burying his cock in the deepest part of you. “Fuck, you’re too good to me,” He hisses in utter bliss. Spencer jolts at the ecstasy that vibrates out of him, emptying himself through the depths of your walls.

Spencer rests his forehead against yours, whispering praises like you suddenly became his goddess. His senses tingle. And he doesn’t want time to continue.

Your ragged breaths sync with his and soon turn even. Years of yearning are fulfilled in one evening. The prick of his bites floods your senses.

“What was the question again?” You giggle out, still, a bit out of breath, breaking the silence.

Spencer playfully rolls his eyes, zipping up the back of your dress with a kiss on your shoulder. “I basically asked, ‘What are we’ like a typical chick in a movie.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.” Your sweet laughter follows while Spencer covers you once more with his jacket despite the clear indication of sweat glistening over your forehead that you’re not nearly as cold anymore. "That many?"

Pride surges across his chest, beaming. "Like a canvas drenched with paint." He softly bites his lower lip, satisfied by the work he has done.

You glance down, gasping at the sheath of love bites. "More like a slab of beaten up flesh." Your head lifts up to look at him in disbelief. Spencer painted every inch of your skin, no space left untouched. You don't even recognize your skin anymore.

"Maybe this will help," He reaches on the back of your head, tugging on the band. Your hair drapes over your neck.

"No, Reid. It does not help at all." Blinking, you slap his arm lightly, earning a shrug and a peck on your lips. He simply fastens the buttons of his jacket on you, covering everything the fabric can.

He hunches down to pick up the tie you discarded on the floor. When he stands back up, he says, “We can keep this between us for now while we figure things out if you’d like. But we have to agree on one thing.” He tucks in a wild strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m yours, and you don’t have a choice. Sounds good?”

You giddily smile, nodding as you dangle your weak legs over the table. “What about me? Can’t I be yours?” You coax, fixing his tie.

"Do you want to be? Because I'm content with just pleasing you every chance I get. I'm not in a rush."

"Spencer," You take his face in your hands. "Do you really want to just be friends with benefits?"

He swipes his tongue over his lower lip. "No..." Spencer squeaks under his breath.

You nod, humming. "Good, because I don't want you like a best friend either." You flatten the crease on his shoulders.

"So?" Spencer chases your eyes, hoping he can read your mind.

"So, you're mine, and I'm yours. Sounds better, don't you think?"

"Sounds great." He simpers, helping you get back on your feet.

The two of you come back to the others with the worst whiskey in the cellar. Your hair is neat, and your lipstick is replenished. His tie sits presentably on his chest and hides the smallest purple mark on the base of his neck. Intricate measures for intricate people.

Derek complains. Penelope agrees. Rossi objects. Hotch sips his drink with no care. Emily laughs hysterically. JJ shrugs.

No one knows. Or no one cares. But the secret remain as is.

Perks of being seen as the most platonic friends. More so than the great Derek Morgan and Penelope Garcia. What they know nothing about won’t hurt them, right? And it’s not like it’ll be any worse if they did.

Yet the absence of suspicion brews boredom and discontent. How come the others are suspicious enough, but not you and him? What's so dull in the air between you and Spencer that no one dares to wonder if romance ever crossed your minds?

Spencer drags his fingers on your thigh under the table. And no one suspects why you never take off his jacket despite dancing the night away.

And as the night deepens, like any other gathering, the group disperses into different areas and smaller groups.

“So?” JJ starts, wiggling her eyebrows.

“What?” You chuckle into the wine in your glass.

JJ rolls her eyes, “Did you give the photographer your number?”

Oh, yeah. You’d forgotten about the entire thing, glancing at the photographer who happens to have his lens on you. He smiles shyly, but you swear in your life that your shy boy is a lot more charming.

“Because if not, I think Will’s cousin has his eye on you, too,” JJ adds with a mischievous smile. The most supportive friend you’ll have. How will she react when she finds out?

You smile, looking far ahead at the pair of brown eyes.

Spencer returns the smile, Hotch’s voice muffling in the background.

“Like I said, it’s quite a little paperwork, but if you want to try things out and date, I have no problem with helping you out,” Hotch advises between sips of warm whiskey, talking about that one agent who approached Spencer at the bullpen thrice. What will he think when he finds out two of his agents are participating in fraternization?

They have no idea. Not an inkling of doubt whatsoever.

The naivete. It bores you and Spencer. It’s prosaic. It’s unglamorous.

From one end to another, the same words echo.

“I’ll have another drink.”

The two of you stand from each end, meeting over the table with vast choices of alcohol. You pick up a glass as Spencer stands next to you.

“Take it off?”

“Take it off.”

And you went separate ways.

JJ’s eyes widen at the small hint of marks on your chest, jacket slightly drooping over your shoulder.

Hotch doesn’t say a word when he notices the hickey on Spencer’s neck when the younger agent loosens his tie and undoes one button—and Hotch quotes—because of the heat. His peripheral catches JJ, Emily, and Penelope hovering around you like a group of crows scavenging for some sort of fleshy information he thinks he knows what’s about.

“A simple no would’ve suffice,” Hotch says evenly. “But you’re still filling out paperwork. Am I clear?”

Spencer stifles a smug smirk, looking down on his drink. “Clear.”

reid masterlist | masterlist

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scealaiscoite · 25 days ago

Text

‧₊˚ 🏞️ ✩ 200 setting prompts

¹⁾ an er waiting room

²⁾ a funeral home car park

³⁾ a dimly lit alleyway

⁴⁾ a cramped holding cell

⁵⁾ an empty museum exhibit

⁶⁾ a dusty wine cellar

⁷⁾ an ex’s spare room

⁸⁾ a disused garden shed

⁹⁾ a seedy, cheap motel room

¹⁰⁾ a 24/7 diner

¹¹⁾ a strip club dressing room

¹²⁾ a half-flooded basement

¹³⁾ a dark classroom

¹⁴⁾ a sparsely-stocked walk-in fridge

¹⁵⁾ a crumbling mausoleum

¹⁶⁾ an aquarium’s shark habitat

¹⁷⁾ a draughty bus stop

¹⁸⁾ a posh hotel lobby

¹⁹⁾ a quiet bakery

²⁰⁾ a department store dressing room

²¹⁾ a sold-out stadium

²²⁾ a lofty airplane hangar

²³⁾ a murky riverbank

²⁴⁾ a mostly-empty cinema

²⁵⁾ a clearing amidst a dense forest

²⁶⁾ a bar’s service well

²⁷⁾ a mechanic’s office

²⁸⁾ a 31st birthday party

²⁹⁾ a ship’s brig

³⁰⁾ a sacristy

³¹⁾ an amusement park

³²⁾ a garish costume shop

³³⁾ a mens’ bathroom

³⁴⁾ a restaurant kitchen right before service

³⁵⁾ an f1 marshal’s outpost

³⁶⁾ a yacht’s bow

³⁷⁾ a drive-thru chapel

³⁸⁾ a stranger’s hotel room

³⁹⁾ a dark evidence archibe

⁴⁰⁾ a loud hair salon

⁴¹⁾ a failing coffee shop

⁴²⁾ a retirement home’s staff lounge

⁴³⁾ an office building’s 12th floor

⁴⁴⁾ a dying retail chain’s last store

⁴⁵⁾ an upscale casino

⁴⁶⁾ a ranch’s bunkhouse

⁴⁷⁾ the deck of a dilapidated fishing trawler

⁴⁸⁾ an away team’s dressing room

⁴⁹⁾ a mortuary waiting room

⁵⁰⁾ a long-disused storage locker

⁵¹⁾ a phlebotomy lab

⁵²⁾ a run-down stash house

⁵³⁾ a tense conference room

⁵⁴⁾ a humid greenhouse

⁵⁵⁾ a jazz club

⁵⁶⁾ a well-stocked storm cellar

⁵⁷⁾ a decommissioned sanitorium

⁵⁸⁾ an embassy under attack

⁵⁹⁾ a marathon aid station

⁶⁰⁾ a luxury car dealership

⁶¹⁾ a coastal holiday home

⁶²⁾ the underside of a bridge

⁶³⁾ a two-person tent

⁶⁴⁾ a draughty coal shed

⁶⁵⁾ a labyrinthine warehouse

⁶⁶⁾ a half-rotted apricot grove

⁶⁷⁾ an off-the-books laboratory

⁶⁸⁾ a disturbing shrine

⁶⁹⁾ a circus tent

⁷⁰⁾ a freezing cold lake

⁷¹⁾ an actor’s dressing room

⁷²⁾ a news studio

⁷³⁾ a broken-down elevator

⁷⁴⁾ an office’s copier room

⁷⁵⁾ a library archive

⁷⁶⁾ a bustling betting shop

⁷⁷⁾ a peruvian food truck

⁷⁸⁾ a city bus depot

⁷⁹⁾ a preschool play room

⁸⁰⁾ a marina’s creaking dock

⁸¹⁾ an army recruiter’s office

⁸²⁾ a butcher’s cold storage

⁸³⁾ an abandoned storage mill

⁸⁴⁾ a perfumer’s store

⁸⁵⁾ a high-security prison perimeter tower

⁸⁶⁾ a cordoned-off crime scene

⁸⁷⁾ a fire station simmering with tension

⁸⁸⁾ a creepy furniture outlet

⁸⁹⁾ a boudoir photographer’s set

⁹⁰⁾ a maternity ward

⁹¹⁾ a muddy farmyard at dawn

⁹²⁾ a ballet company’s rehearsal space

⁹³⁾ a dusty record shop

⁹⁴⁾ an isolated, rural cabin

⁹⁵⁾ a detectives’ breakroom

⁹⁶⁾ a bridal boutique dressing room

⁹⁷⁾ the back row of seats in a cinema

⁹⁸⁾ a bustling dockyard

⁹⁹⁾ a cheap massage parlour

¹⁰⁰⁾ an empty dormitory

¹⁰¹⁾ a stiflingly tense courtroom

¹⁰²⁾ a conspiracy theorist’s doomsday bunker

¹⁰³⁾ a cobweb-littered attic

¹⁰⁴⁾ a crumbling remote farmhouse

¹⁰⁵⁾ an arcade at close

¹⁰⁶⁾ a snowy chalet

¹⁰⁷⁾ an out-of-use abbatoir

¹⁰⁸⁾ a bougie art exhibition

¹⁰⁹⁾ a neighbourhood paletería

¹¹⁰⁾ a headmaster’s office

¹¹¹⁾ a liquor store at midday

¹¹²⁾ a gold-for-cash outlet

¹¹³⁾ a train station restroom

¹¹⁴⁾ a country club tennis court

¹¹⁵⁾ an acupuncturist’s office

¹¹⁶⁾ a mansion’s guest bathroom

¹¹⁷⁾ an overwhelmed military outpost

¹¹⁸⁾ a disused santa’s grotto

¹¹⁹⁾ an ambulance bay

¹²⁰⁾ a whiskey distillery

¹²¹⁾ a submarine command center

¹²²⁾ a lesbian bar

¹²³⁾ the boot of a parked car

¹²⁴⁾ a bachelorette party

¹²⁵⁾ an oncologist’s office

¹²⁶⁾ a penthouse apartment

¹²⁷⁾ a coastal cave at low tide

¹²⁸⁾ the passenger seat of a humvee

¹²⁹⁾ a private plane at 40,000 feet

¹³⁰⁾ a murder-mystery party

¹³¹⁾ an outdoor beach shower

¹³²⁾ a sushi restaurant

¹³³⁾ a trashed pawn shop

¹³⁴⁾ a divorce lawyer’s office

¹³⁵⁾ an opium den

¹³⁶⁾ a kids’ ball pit

¹³⁷⁾ a silversmith’s workshop

¹³⁸⁾ an unassuming safehouse

¹³⁹⁾ a turkish embassy

¹⁴⁰⁾ a grimy sewer

¹⁴¹⁾ a federal evidence storehouse

¹⁴²⁾ a loud public park

¹⁴³⁾ a busy cocktail bar

¹⁴⁴⁾ an army mess hall

¹⁴⁵⁾ an empty stable

¹⁴⁶⁾ a private investigator’s office

¹⁴⁷⁾ a dog pound

¹⁴⁸⁾ a hayfield

¹⁴⁹⁾ a drive-in movie screening

¹⁵⁰⁾ an apartment’s fire escape

¹⁵¹⁾ a shipping container

¹⁵²⁾ a yoga retreat

¹⁵³⁾ a duplex in a state of disarray

¹⁵⁴⁾ an ice hockey rink

¹⁵⁵⁾ a shooting range

¹⁵⁶⁾ a blood drive

¹⁵⁷⁾ a timber quarry

¹⁵⁸⁾ a niche publishing house

¹⁵⁹⁾ a private arts college

¹⁶⁰⁾ a fairground in the dead of night

¹⁶¹⁾ a last-chance rehab clinic

¹⁶²⁾ an advertising agency

¹⁶³⁾ a theater on opening night

¹⁶⁴⁾ a hectic rave

¹⁶⁵⁾ a suburban pharmacy

¹⁶⁶⁾ a green, sprawling valley

¹⁶⁷⁾ a veterinary clinic

¹⁶⁸⁾ a retirement community compex

¹⁶⁹⁾ a hastily-emptied apartment

¹⁷⁰⁾ a nightclub bathroom

¹⁷¹⁾ a lush rose garden

¹⁷²⁾ a childhood bedroom

¹⁷³⁾ a military blacksite

¹⁷⁴⁾ an airport lounge

¹⁷⁵⁾ a television show set

¹⁷⁶⁾ the 46th floor of a skyscraper

¹⁷⁷⁾ a backpackers’ hostel

¹⁷⁸⁾ an italian deli

¹⁷⁹⁾ a failing hair salon

¹⁸⁰⁾ a sensationalised haunted house

¹⁸¹⁾ an off-grid commune

¹⁸²⁾ a makeshift soccer pitch

¹⁸³⁾ a landscaper’s toolshed

¹⁸⁴⁾ a cruiseship’s engine room

¹⁸⁵⁾ a photographer’s set

¹⁸⁶⁾ a brightly-coloured daycare

¹⁸⁷⁾ a neglected playground

¹⁸⁸⁾ a hardware store

¹⁸⁹⁾ a nurses’ station

¹⁹⁰⁾ a tobacconist’s

¹⁹¹⁾ a biker clubhouse

¹⁹²⁾ a hunting club

¹⁹³⁾ a newsstand

¹⁹⁴⁾ a sinking speedboat

¹⁹⁵⁾ a monastery

¹⁹⁶⁾ a medical examiner’s mortuary

¹⁹⁷⁾ a grafftied phone booth

¹⁹⁸⁾ a soup kitchen

¹⁹⁹⁾ a speakeasy hidden beneath a florists

²⁰⁰⁾ a pumpkin patch in july

#ok so not the 300 i was aiming for but i feel like these are mostly all of a similar quality and i fear if i'dve tried for another 100 #it would have gone shitty lol. enjoy!!!!#prompts #prompt list #setting prompts #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #aesthetic prompts #settings

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ohisms · 1 year ago

Text

↪ 𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , updated . ( a collection of various settings meant to inspire drabbles or be used as prompts . )

001. the seaside , as the sun is setting .

002. a cabin in the middle of the woods .

003. a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .

004. a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .

005. a private jet miles high in the sky .

006. a funhouse’s room of mirrors .

007. an office building , bustling and busy .

008. the back row of an empty movie theater .

009. a run - down motel room .

010. a loud house party on a suburban street .

011. a university lecture hall during a class .

012. the rooftop of a very tall building .

013. a great ballroom during an elegant party .

014. the back of a wailing ambulance .

015. the wine cellar of a large mansion .

016. behind the school’s gymnasium .

017. a boisterous bonfire at the lakeside .

018. an otherwise empty parking lot .

019. the shady bar of a noisy , dark club .

020. the grounds of an empty summer camp .

021. a large hedge maze , easy to get lost in .

022. a neglected or derelict treehouse .

023. a spacious , light-filled meadow .

024. an underground illegal fighting club .

025. an abandoned scrapyard .

026. a large penthouse overlooking the city .

027. an apple orchard in the middle of spring .

028. an empty playground with squeaky swings .

029. an extravagant greenhouse .

030. the base of a large waterfall .

031. a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .

032. a solemnly quiet hospital room .

033. the dark depths of an abandoned mine .

034. the deck of a fishing boat at night .

035. the thick crowd of an audience at a show .

036. a long , winding road .

037. the scene of a violent crime .

038. a fork in a hiking trail deep in the wilderness .

039. a cramped dressing room .

040. a dusty antiques shop full of relics .

041. the street of an unfamiliar city at night .

042. between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .

043. a building abandoned during construction .

044. a house without power or running water .

045. a mysterious trail found in the woods .

046. the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .

047. the inside of an elevator that won’t move .

048. fairgrounds during a large event (or after hours) .

049. a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .

050. a childhood home or bedroom .

+ 30 more setting prompts : 1 / 3 / 2024

051. the site of a horrible accident .

052. a closed pool , after everyone has left .

053. a home holding horrific memories .

054. by the side of a dangerously quick river .

055. a private hotel room .

056. a police station in the middle of the night .

057. a ferris wheel carriage under a sky of fireworks .

058. a lavish , invite - only party .

059. a public transit stop as rain is pouring down .

060. the back of a taxi going in the wrong direction .

061. the underworld .

062. a dusty , forgotten attic .

063. on the set of a television show or movie .

064. a lighthouse overlooking the raging sea .

065. in a post - apocalyptic bunker .

066. on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast .

067. on the rooftop of a perilously tall building .

068. a tent pitched in the middle of the woods .

069. a crowded stadium during a football game .

070. the morgue during an identification .

071. an otherwise empty library during a late study session .

072. a place that feels familiar , yet you've never been here before .

073. a long hallway that seems to stretch on forever .

074. a signpost at the start of a hiking trail .

075. a bar or tavern bustling with life .

076. the dance floor of a masquerade ball .

077. inside of a car parked in a secluded area .

078. at the edge of a cliff overlooking a large lake .

079. inside a very old house with very old haunts .

080. the antiseptic interior of a space station .

#i'll add more eventually #just had to repost this time cos the old post wasn't in beta :/#inbox prompts #setting prompts #rp prompts #rp memes #inbox memes

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endless-ineffabilities · 10 months ago

Text

Chemical Override (bonus chapter 4) - Above The Gods Eye

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I had envisioned bonus chapters as not too integral to the main plot (as in, you will be able to follow the story without reading them), but this one... this one might just count.

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

A series of moments from the vault, occurring in part eight of the story, now yours to enjoy. 🤍

The one with the second sons…

The photoshoot has wrapped, and the cast of House of the Dragon has drifted into all corners of the set, exchanging laughs in between much-needed sips of caffeine. The next item on Entertainment Weekly’s agenda is the video segment recordings, pairing cast members for various games and interviews.

Fabien and Freddie finished their narrative recap of season 2, with more jokes than actual informative recaps. Harry and Bethany played a game where they guessed whether the line is from House of the Dragon or Game of Thrones. Tom and Emma played a ‘which sibling' game, leaning into the dynamic between Aegon and Rhaenyra that clearly should have been explored in previous seasons.

As it happens, Matt and Ewan are paired up for an Aemond or Daemon game, meant to give the audiences a glimpse of what to look forward to. Their notorious rivalry, culminating in a battle that will be their last.

The two film their segment in Studio E, the set consisting of the great cellar of the Red Keep where Balerion’s massive skull looms on a pedestal. The dozens of candles surrounding it have been lit, casting dramatic shadows as they take their seats, facing each other in what could easily be mistaken for the start of a duel.

“My name is Ewan Mitchell and I play Aemond Targaryen,” Ewan starts.

“And I’m Matt and I play the Daemon Targaryen,” Matt follows. “And we’re about to play Second Sons: Aemond vs Daemon.”

“Let’s go,” Ewan rolls his shoulders, his sense of competitiveness all fired up, intensified by the fact that the man in front of him potentially could become his rival off-screen. That is, when it concerns the battle for your affections.

He can still hear it ringing in his ears, the sound of your laughter in the background, distracting him during the photoshoot. That laugh, so addictive, so yours, was a melody he could listen to forever - except when it’s Matt Smith who’s the culprit.

The lads take their cue to read the first prompt displayed on a screen above the camera. The game begins.

“Who is the better swordsman?” Matt reads aloud with a smirk. “Well, that’s obviously Daemon, mate. He’s older - ”

“Age doesn’t always mean better,” Ewan counters smoothly.

“Ah, but he’s battle-tested. He fought in the Stepstones, and was the Commander of the City Watch, for heaven’s sake. What’s Aemond got?”

“Aemond spent years and years training with Criston Cole in the Red Keep yard, honing his skill,” Ewan argues. “He clearly has the dedication. He’s disciplined.”

“Training,” Matt scoffs, turning to the camera as if sharing an inside joke. “Put Aemond out there in a real battle, then we’ll talk.”

“Alright, alright,” Ewan concedes, biting his cheek to keep from saying more. “Next one. Who’s the better dancer at the royal ball?”

Matt can’t help but chuckle, “Neither of us are inclined to - ”

“Yeah, I don’t know.”

“But if we had to pick, then I'd say Daemon. We saw him dancing in the first season, didn’t we?”

“I don’t think Aemond would be much of a dancer,” Ewan says, before adding with a smirk to the camera, “unless it’s with Vhagar.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt asks him. “Short of dancing partners, is he? Can’t say I’ve got that problem. I’ve got Rhaenyra, I’ve got my daughters, and of course, the lovely Alyna.” His voice drops at the mention of your character, and he notices a telling flicker in Ewan’s expression. The younger boy latches on to it, hook, line and sinker.

Ewan’s brows scrunch, not missing the bait. “Oh, she wouldn’t dance with you,” flies out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

“Alyna wouldn’t?” Matt tilts his head, feigning hurt.

“She’s… she’s too busy fighting the war,” Ewan quickly musters. “She’s got better things to do.”

“Mate, I think we all are. But that wasn’t the question.”

“I just don’t think she - ”

“She’ll dance with Daemon,” Matt says confidently. “Once she realises how good he is, then it’s game over.”

“I disagree,” Ewan easily says to the camera, willing the viewers to side with him.

“Next,” Matt continues, “Who’s more likely to get into a fight at the tavern? Is this… so far, it's been all Daemon! This one too.”

Ewan nods, but adds slyly, “Aemond’s not one to waste his time at the tavern, no.” His answer is an apparent concession to Daemon, until he adds, “which is why Alyna would prefer to spend her time with him. He’s calmer… more reliable… no unnecessary tavern brawls or anything…”

“Calmer, mate?” Matt rolls his eyes, chuckling to himself. “Come off it, yeah?”

“Compared to Daemon, he clearly is.”

“He killed Luke and Rhaenys!”

“That was an accident,” Ewan shrugs. “He feels bad for it.”

“Alyna better steer clear,” Matt points to the camera, making his point.

Ewan shakes his head in protest, “I don’t agree.”

“So, for this one, again, it’s Daemon,” Matt finishes.

Ewan lets it go, the Alyna comment lingering in the back of his mind. It didn’t seem like an Alyna reference; it felt like a message to you. His stomach twists, suspicious of the other game Matt seems to be playing at. Turning to the prompter, Ewan reads, “Who’s got… the better hair care routine? Oh wow.”

“Daemon’s been at some dingy castle,” Matt says, “clearly no showers there. Forget it.”

“Aemond’s got this locked down,” Ewan grins.

“Has he? Alright then,” Matt responds, amused. “He does have that pin-straight hair, doesn’t he? It’s almost like… well it’s almost like it’s a bloody wig!” He laughs, and some of the onlookers behind the camera mirror the sentiment.

“I did read somewhere about Aemond having a 20-step hair care routine… ”

“20 steps? Blimey, mate. I’m surprised he even makes it out the door,” Matt says. “Would you say he’s got better hair than the women on the show? Than Alicent or Alyna maybe?”

“Oh,” Ewan leans back, mulling it over. How to one-up Matt without making it seem too obvious? He’s about to respond, when he hears some soft giggling in the corner. It appears that you’ve made your way into Studio E with Phia and Liv. The sound came from Phia, who gives him a thumbs up when she notices his diverted attention.

Matt notices your presence too, and when the director waves a hand for them to carry on, he answers for Ewan, “We could say Aemond has the better hair. Alyna’s way too busy training with Daemon anyway. We do tend to get into that rough and tumble during our sword fights.”

“Mmm,” Ewan narrows his eyes. He then ignores or conveniently forgets the fact that it’s Matt's turn to read the next question. “Who’s more likely to fight a dragon for their lover?”

The two men lock eyes, the air between them charged, more so due to your appearance. If a rivalry is what the viewers expect, then that is what they’ll get.

Matt puts a hand up. “I think Daemon’s the one with the guts to fight a bloody dragon. Daemon will stand against anything and anyone. Without a doubt.”

“It’s different with him, though, isn’t it?” Ewan responds. “Daemon would be doing it for the glory. He’d be doing it for himself. Whereas Aemond… he’d be doing it out of pure devotion.”

“Are you talking about the same devotion he had for his brother? I’d say he’s more likely to burn his lover to a crisp, than fight a dragon for her.”

“There is a completely different dynamic with his brother,” Ewan explains. “I think that when Aemond falls in love, there is nothing at all that he wouldn’t do for them. In season 2, we already kind of saw him leaning into this reputation of being the most wanted man in the realm. So… he’d fight anything for his lover, that’s for sure. He’d burn the seven kingdoms down if necessary.” He turns to look at the camera, but he catches your eye instead. You’re shaking your head slightly at his answer, but the small smile that graces your lips tells him that you enjoyed it.

He simpers at your apparent show of approval, but Matt cuts the shared moment short.

“I think Aemond’s a young buck,” Matt says, “who’s desperate to make his mark. He wouldn’t know the first thing about devotion. But Daemon… that’s been his internal struggle this whole time. He’s proven that he stands behind his brother and Rhaenyra, no matter how much he tries to act to the contrary. But yeah, we’re going a bit off track here. What was the question? Who’d fight a dragon… ”

“For their lover,” Ewan finishes. “I would still say Aemond. Daemon is too unpredictable.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Matt wags his eyebrows at him. “But I’m standing by my answer. We clearly saw Daemon basically pledge himself to Rhaenyra in the last episode. What more proof do you need?”

“Aemond’s got something up his sleeve,” Ewan says. “He just wants to be loved, that’s it, and when he finds that, there’ll be no question of what he’s capable of doing for Al - ” He catches himself at the last second, before he fully lets slip your character’s name. “I mean - ”

Matt’s eyes light up, sensing an opportunity. “For Alys, you mean?” To the camera, he adds, “spoiler alert, everyone.”

“Right,” Ewan lets out a breath, “Of course.”

“Can’t be anyone else,” Matt challenges him.

“I don’t know for now,” Ewan tries to keep up.

“You currently have a bit of a lack in the lover department,” Matt smirks.

Ewan narrows his eyes at the apparent insinuation. He better be referring to the show. “Fine, then, we can give this one to Daemon. But as to their real-life counterparts,” he locks eyes with you again, “who’s to say? I bet I have this in the bag.”

Matt follows his line of sight, pleased when your attention switches to him. “I think that’s yet to be decided.”

“Alright, we’ve got some more,” Ewan quickly says, in an attempt to divert Matt’s gaze from you.

Matt reads, “Who’s more likely to maintain a good social media presence? Oh, bloody hell, we’re crossing over into uncharted territory with this one.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I’ve never touched it myself,” Matt shrugs. “I’m not on anything, only Facebook for a moment ages ago, but I did not have any desire in going back. Oh wait, we’re meant to answer for our characters. Apologies.”

“Hmm,” Ewan nods. “I don’t know if Aemond would be on social media, no.”

“Yeah, this is a weird question,” Matt says. “Maybe Daemon then? But only to post pictures of Caraxes or something. What do you think?”

“Yeah, Daemon can take this one,” Ewan replies. “Personally, I’m not on social media too much - ”

“But didn’t you jump into the fray recently? With… which one was it?”

“Instagram? Yeah, yeah, that was something.” His mind flashes back to the pictures he had up, both attesting to his love for you. But you had asked him to take the latest one down, which led him to deactivate the account altogether. Temporarily. If the fans assumed that the action was meant to symbolise an end of his involvement with you, then now would be the perfect opportunity to prove them wrong. “I did have to take a step back, because it was kind of overwhelming. I just needed to take some proper time off.”

“Oh really? I wouldn’t know,” Matt says. “Did you actually share some photos there?”

Ewan smiles, pleased at being able to answer this question. “Yeah, I shared a few of my most treasured ones. They were some great pictures, but I’ve got loads more of the same in my phone, and I - ” He throws a warning glance to the camera “ - I think I’ll be keeping those to myself for now.”

Matt, oblivious as to what he’s hinting at, reads the next one. “Who’s the better brother?”

“Aemond for sure.”

“Clearly Daemon.”

And so the banter continues for a couple more prompts, sharp yet flowing naturally, foreshadowing the frenzied fan reactions when the segment is shared online for all to see.

The one where Ewan needs his cowgirl…

Ewan paces around his dressing room, settling into his outfit, awaiting his cue from set. The outfit is a bold mix of traditional Western elements and high fashion: a tailored deep brown leather jacket with intricate embroidery, a crisp white shirt with ruffled cuffs, fitted trousers, and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. His boots click against the wooden floor as he moves. He’s nervous but determined to impress you, even though it’s always been you with a knack for making his heart race.

After a while, he makes his way out of the dressing room and into the bustling set. The set is decked out to the theme. The director and crew are scattered all around, but Ewan focuses solely on finding you.

When he finally does, his world seems to slow down. You are standing near a vintage saddle, dressed in your own Western-inspired attire. Your smile is radiant as you speak to your assistant, and the way your eyes light up when you see him makes his heart skip a beat. No, it never gets old, he realises, you will always have a maddening effect on him.

He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and saunters over with as much swagger as he could muster. “Howdy, darling,” he greets in his best cowboy lilt.

You look him up and down with a smile. “Why, hello, good sir,” you say, even doing a playful curtsy.

“Ready to give them a show?” he asks, gesturing to the expanse of the set. Ready to be my cowgirl, darling? He wants to ask instead.

You hum a response. “As I’ll ever be. I’d say you’re a natural at this whole cowboy thing.”

“Oh, darling,” he smirks, “you’d be surprised by what I can do with my lasso.”

“Down, Mitchell.”

“Whatever you want, my cowgirl.”

The atmosphere is electric throughout the shoot, with Ewan constantly leaning down to whisper suggestive lines in your ear.

He finds himself getting lost in the intensity of the shoot, but his focus remains on you. It isn’t as if you are making it easy on him, with your lingering touches and flirtatious remarks.

The camera's shutter clicks away, and Ewan and you pose for one perfect shot after another. The set is alive with activity, but he only sees you, the lighting casting a warm glow on your rouge-stained cheeks. Forgetting where he is for a moment, his hand reaches up to caress your face, and he leans in slightly.

You pose accordingly, likely thinking that he’s just giving the shoot what it demands.

“What was that you were saying about a lasso?” you smirk, in an attempt to diffuse the tension, but it only spurs him on.

“Care for a demonstration?” he shoots back.

“Why not?” you reply easily, adjusting your stance.

“We may need a more intimate setting for that, darling.”

“More intimate than this?” you laugh breathlessly, the warmth of it fanning his face. He’s close enough that the tip of his nose brushes against yours.

He smiles, deaf to the low warning that escapes your lips when he leans in for a kiss on instinct.

Just as his lips are about to graze yours, the director’s voice cuts through the charged silence.

“Cut! Break, everyone!”

The spell is broken instantly. Ewan pulls back, his expression shifting from one of intense concentration to surprise and a hint of frustration.

You stand facing each other, flustered and left wanting. Ewan wants nothing more than to just reach for you and pull you in a closet, and show just how well he can use that bloody lasso. If you want him to. But he forces himself to croak, “To be continued, darling?”

You mirror his heated gaze, nodding once, before turning on your heel and heading to the break room.

When the set is mostly emptied, Ewan picks up the hefty lasso that’s been put aside. With a determined look on his face, he swings it expertly through the air, causing a resounding thwack. The movement is deliberate, a release of his frustrations about you. About Matt. About everything.

But it doesn’t quite bring him the relief he needs, because only you can offer that.

It’s only ever been you.

The one with the first date…

You glance at your phone to check the time, heart fluttering with anticipation. Matt had promised to pick you up at 2, and it is only a minute past, but you’re already standing nervously in your living room. Not a moment too soon, your buzzer alerts you of his arrival, and you press the button to allow him upstairs.

You sneak one more glance at the mirror, smoothing a hand over your t-shirt and jeans. You opted for a casual look, dressed up with some jewelry and heeled boots.

Finally, there’s a knock at the door and you grab your purse as you walk up to meet your awaited visitor.

There he is, standing in the doorway, as impossibly charming as ever. Matt’s dressed in a perfectly fitted black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, paired with staple dark jeans. His tousled hair looks like he ran a hand through it on his way over, and his signature mischievous grin plays at the corners of his mouth as he takes you in.

“Hello there,” he greets cheerfully.

“Hey, Smithy,” you blush under his gaze.

“You look absolutely incredible,” he says, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over you, “As can be expected. You are my Alyna, after all.”

“Thanks,” you manage to say, your voice soft, almost breathless. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Glad to hear it. I was worried I’d underdressed,” he teases, though the way he carries himself shows that he knows exactly how good he looks. He steps a little closer, his hand lightly grazing your arm as he does.

“You ready to go?” he asks, his voice just a shade deeper, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that still catches you off guard, no matter how exposed you have been to his charms.

“Yeah,” you nod, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, the air between you thick with tension. “Let’s do this.”

The late afternoon air is crisp as you walk with Matt down a quiet street near Hyde Park. The anticipation from earlier has settled into something more relaxed, yet there’s still an undercurrent of excitement, an unspoken awareness of the new territory you’re both navigating.

Matt leads you to a small café tucked away from the bustle of the city. It’s quaint, with ivy creeping up the walls and soft lights glowing through the windows. As you step inside, the rich aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries envelops you, and you can’t help but smile. The interior is just as charming as the exterior, and a few patrons sit scattered throughout, each absorbed in their own worlds. Too absorbed to notice two somewhat renowned actors entering the premises.

“Pick a spot,” Matt says, his hand gently brushing the small of your back. The touch is fleeting, but it’s enough to send a warm tingle up your spine.

You choose the table with a view of the park just beyond the glass. Ever the gentleman, Matt pulls out a chair for you before settling into the one across from you.

“Hope you like this place,” he says, his tone easy and genuine. “It’s one of my favourites. Feels like a bit of an escape from everything, you know?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, taking in the cozy atmosphere. “I can see why you come here.”

A waitress comes over to take your order, and Matt gives you his recommendations which you happily go along with. The familiar way with which she addresses him as Mr. Smith confirms his frequent visits. Once she leaves, you lean back in your chair, letting yourself relax into the moment, though you are aware of his eyes watching you the entire time.

“So, how are you finding the city? It’s different from set life, that’s for sure.” Matt asks, his eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and something deeper. Something you can’t pinpoint just yet, though it’s not unfamiliar. You’ve seen that look before. From Ewan. The sudden thought of him drives a wedge in your focus, and you have to shake it off before you answer.

“It’s been great,” you say, smiling. “It’s nice to be able to explore it more this time around, since I've got some downtime. And, of course, the company’s been pretty good too.” You add the last part with a playful tone, which makes him chuckle.

“Oh, I’m sure it has,” he replies, a teasing glint in his eye. “But don’t let Ewan monopolise all your time. I’m around if you ever need a break from him.”

The mention of Ewan brings a subtle shift in the conversation. It’s light, but there’s a hint of something more - an awareness of the connection you share with Ewan that both complicates what you have, or what you could have, with Matt.

“You’re a good friend, Matt,” you say, your tone still light but more sincere. “I appreciate that.”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “Friend, sure,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “But, just so you know… I’m here, if you ever want more than that.”

It’s a simple statement, but the weight of it hangs in the air between you. He’s not pressing, not trying to make you uncomfortable, but it’s clear that he’s laying his cards on the table. Matt’s always had a way of being direct without being pushy, and this moment is no different.

You meet his gaze, feeling the sincerity behind his words. There’s a part of you that’s tempted, drawn in by the way he makes you laugh and feel seen. But there’s something - someone - holding you back.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, smiling softly.

Matt nods again, his smile resurfaces, as sure as the sun rising. “That’s all I ask.”

The waitress returns with your coffee and pastries, breaking the tension with the clink of cups and the sweet scent of buttery croissants.

After a moment, Matt takes a sip from his own cup and raises an eyebrow. “You know, I heard that drinking coffee in a café like this can increase your charm significantly. I think it’s working, do you?”

You play along, pretending to consider this. “Hmm, I don’t think you need help in that department. But… I’ll still be careful. Just in case you charm me into agreeing to a second date.”

Matt leans closer with a grin. “Second date? Love, if I’m being honest, I’m already planning our third date.”

The conversation shifts back to lighter topics - your favourite places in the city, funny stories from the set, and his many revealing anecdotes about Fabien. Like the one where he got properly sloshed after a night out at the pub, so much so that he stuck some croissants in his washing machine thinking it was the oven.

“To his defense,” Matt exclaims as you giggle uncontrollably, “the two appliances are similarly shaped!”

As the date progresses, you feel undeniably warm and comfortable in Matt’s presence, but you also can’t ignore the lingering thoughts of Ewan. Your phone had buzzed at some point, and when you snuck a glance at the screen, it lit up to reveal three missed calls from Ewan One-Eye. He knows you’re on a date, so he must be interrupting on purpose. Thankfully, Matt’s enthusiastic regaling keeps you from lingering on Ewan - from worrying about him, missing him… from wishing that he could freely allow himself to take you on a date just like this.

As you and Matt stroll back to your apartment, the city lights cast a warm glow on the pavement, creating a magical backdrop for the end of your evening. His arm around your shoulders brings you a sense of ease, and you no longer feel that nervous flush as earlier.

He walks with you inside your building, and when you reach the door to your apartment, Matt pauses by the entrance, turning to face you with a gentle smile. “Well, this has been quite the evening,” he says. “I’m really glad we got to do this.”

You return his smile. “Me too. It’s been a lovely night.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, a shared look that speaks volumes without words.

“Well, I - ” you swallow, your nerves returning, “I better head inside.”

As you reach for your keys, Matt’s hand gently wraps around yours, causing a jolt of electricity to travel up your arm. “Before you do,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to do all night.”

You look up at him. Screw your newfound sense of ease. Your heartbeat now pounds in your ears like an erratic drum. “Oh? And what’s that?” But something tells you that you know just what he means.

Without breaking eye contact, Matt leans in slowly, his face drifting closer.

“This,” he mumbles the word as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. And then his lips touch yours.

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Some notes in the margins...

This poll caused quite the stir amongst yous, I see. Consider me amused. Since part 9 isn't out yet, and my mind isn't set either - if you've got something to let off your chest, some supporting arguments, you've got one more chance to let me know below (or let each other know) 😉 I always read all your opinions, and they are properly taken into account. What did you think of Matty after this?

When Ewan called her at the end of part eight, do you think she had company? Anyway, something sweet is coming in part nine with Ewan and his darling!

To those who are seriously worried about the outcome, note that is and always has been a Ewan x reader fic. I am a Ewan girl just like yous. Hold fast and have fun on the wild ride, darlings 💙

#chemical override #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell imagine #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #matt smith #matt smith x reader #daemon targaryen

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pretty-little-mind33 · 11 months ago

Text

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: James "helps" you organize your old belongings to move them to the cellar.

Prompt: friends to lovers ~ "don't bite your lip, bite mine."

@moonlightspencie for you, my lovely!

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

BLURB MASTERLIST

James promised to help you organize and move all your childhood belongings into your cellar. Only, you should have known he wouldn't be much help at all.

You're sitting in the middle of your bedroom, the carpet covered in various nick-knacks and memories as James lays on his stomach on your bed and flips through some old muggle teenage magazine.

"Who's John Lennon and why is this muggle magazine obsessed with him?"

You blow some hair away from your eyes. "A singer. He was in a band." You throw a pair of old sneakers in the discard pile and groan. "Jamie, you're being no help!"

James throws the magazine onto your bed and scrunches his nose as he rests his chin on his hands. "He's not even cute, y'know, muggle birds have shit taste."

"Never said John Lennon was cute, James," you say, glaring at him, "Now, can you come help look through that box for me?" you point to the box near your hip that's labeled postcards/letters.

James jumps down from the bed and sits crisscross next to you, his legs bouncing uncontrollably. He's unable to keep still for even a minute sometimes. You know this and so you just let him do his thing.

"Why do you keep all these?" he asks absentmindedly as he rummages inside the box, making sure everything inside corresponds to the label, occasionally discarding trash, trinkets, and even a pair of thankfully clean socks.

"Because they're to and from people I care about," you whisper, folding an old sweaters to donate. "They're memories."

James hums, clearly reading something and you turn your head, seeing him fully reading one of your letters. You snatch it from him and glare at him again. "You're being a pain," you say, your tone lacking in malice.

"You never sent that one," he points to the letter and looks down at it, your breath leaving you when you see the name written on the front of the folded paper you hadn't even put in an envelope.

James F. Potter.

The letter is addressed to him.

A sense of dread creeps in on you and you have an awful feeling in your stomach that means you remember exactly which letter it is. You throw it in the box again, shrugging as your voice trembles, "Must not have been important."

James's gaze stays on you and he tilts his head in question. "Is it still true? You're in love with me."

Your chest tightens and you freeze, letting his words sink in. He'd read it. "How fast can you read?" you joke nervously, avoiding looking at him. This wasn't supposed to happen.

James laughs. He laughs and you feel like sobbing so you do the next best thing which is hold in your tears as you sink your teeth into your lip, hard enough to hurt and distract you.

"Woah," James's voice interrupts your self-loathing as he sits up on his knees and holds your chin. He uses his thumb to pull your lip from your teeth. "Hey, darling, don't do that," he whispers sternly and uses his other hand to push some hair away from your forehead and then he tucks some of the strands behind your ear.

"Can you look at me?"

You feel so embarrassed that he'd read your confession. A confession you'd written almost a year ago and that you'd never sent in fear of ruining the best friendship you've ever had.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Hey," James mumbles and his hand rests against your cheek, his thumb still close to your lips. "Did you mean it? Do you still mean it?"

What point is there lying now?

You nod and your eyes open as you try and chew on your lip, a nervous habit you've always had and James stops you again with his thumb on your lip again and he frowns.

"Don't you bite your lip, if anything bite mine," he says as if it's the most normal thing in the world. He looks completely serious too and your heart leaps.

James's signature smirk curls his lips and he grips your chin, pulling you in. "Like this," he says, his breath warm on your lips, and then he's kissing you.

It's hesitant and unfamiliar for few seconds until you relax and your arms find his neck, pulling yourself in even closer as you deepen the kiss.

You feel like you're in a cloud and all you can feel is James's arms wrapping themselves around your waist. You smile into his mouth and tilt your head, your teeth sinking into his lip like he'd wanted.

From the passion, your bodies accidentally slip and as you fall over James, his elbow accidentally hits the box and sends all the contents spilling on the floor.

"Oops," he pipes up, his voice breathless as he looks up at you, your hands beside his head as you look down at him. His hands remain on your hips and his lip is a little crimson and swollen from your bite.

His grin only widens.

"See, much better than when you bite yours," he chuckles.

You echo his laughter and then lean down, pressing another kiss to his lips.

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merakiui · 23 days ago

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somehow thinking of skully always results in the most deranged of thoughts, which is why tenth prompt immediately brought him to mind. he just seems like the kind of guy to engage easily and with little remorse in the most taboo things. feeding you a part of himself to ensure you are trapped in his timeline? well, that's simply what you do when you love somebody very much. no, he isn't getting off to this.

which is to say that, if it's not too much bother, i'd love to request some disgusting dead dove skully for prompt 10 (though 4 is also sorta similar?)

>:) disgusting dead dove Skully...... my favorite flavor!!!!! I changed the prompt sentence just slightly,,, ;;;

(cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, female reader, captivity, dead dove, reader is treated like a rag doll in skully's pursuit of having a jack x sally esque romance, delusion, obsession, gore, non-con dissection, drugging, mutilation, skully's freak levels are criminal and absolutely deranged)

(monstrously yandere prompts)

"Good morning, my darling!"

Beaming from ear to ear, your cheerful kidnapper wheels a metal cart into the brick cell he's calling a bedroom. Your roommates are rats and spiders and whatever other monsters dwell in the darkness down here. This is where he lives, too, apparently. This strange boy who hides away in a mad scientist's stone cellar... It's patently absurd, a horrific tale fit for the shelves, and yet it's your reality.

He claims he's saved you from the cruel and callous Dr. Ashengrotto and his terrible, terrible needles. You'd be nothing but a lab rat kept awake on a cocktail of fatal flora, and your death would be by the doctor's design. It's all miserable business anyhow, or so Skully says with a casual wave of his hand. You're in better hands down here. Because this is Skully's domain, and he has you all to himself.

Dr. Ashengrotto will never step foot down here because it is here where all of his abandoned creations lurk, and many of them cannot wait to sink their serrated maws into the throat of the man who left them to rot.

That's why Skully, this odd boy who feasts on rats and allows spiders to spin their webs between the valley of his fingers, is more than happy to have you here with him. He swiped you right from Dr. Ashengrotto's operating table, and he's quite proud of it. Deadly nightshade is a glorious poison, or so he'll boast. He's so pleased he learned the distinctions to better knock out the doctor. It's not his intention to kill Dr. Ashengrotto—although he very well could.

Rather, he just wants his specimen. That's why he's done well to keep you safe down here.

But is it truly any better?

"Did you know," he continues, disregarding your silence and the way you squish yourself into the corner to get away from him, "the brain prevents you from biting off the tip of your tongue? A very curious example of animalistic instincts. We are wired for self-inflicted violence, and yet our brain refuses to allow the body to entertain that."

You eye him warily. Something glints on the tray. A blade... A big blade, actually. Dread pools in the pits of your stomach. Bile is already scraping at your throat. You want to run, but he snipped the tendons in your legs and so now you're no better than a baby bird. You could crawl, but he'd easily catch up.

"If I'm to call myself yours, much like Lord Jack did with his dear Sally, it's only fair we look the part, no?" Spidery digits fall away from the cart, and he bends down to peer at you. Those peculiar spiral eyes blink one at a time. You wonder if he's ever gone outside. He's less human and more...creature. Does he even know how to be human? "So where shall we begin? If you try hard enough and perish every self-preservation instinct, your teeth could snip off the tip of your tongue. I can do the same with mine and we can swap them!" But he's quick to fluster, and his hands fly up to hide his glowing cheeks. "A-Ah... But perhaps that's too forward of me. Forgive me. It was wildly uncouth to suggest such blatant intimacy so early into our courtship."

You've never known kidnapping to be courtship. You're beginning to think Dr. Ashengrotto and his terrible, terrible needles would be better than this madness.

"We can do this instead." He lifts a cleaver from the cart and runs his finger along the blade. A bead of blood pools at his fingertip. "This shall do nicely." Turning to you with a smile, he rests his arm on the stone tablet positioned just beside the tray of surgical equipment. "It's only proper if I go first. A gentleman must always escort and reassure his lady. Oh, but I must hurry. Dr. Ashengrotto will wake soon, and I will know quite the tongue lashing if his tools are missing." He squeezes his eyes shut and winces at the memory, as if Dr. Ashengrotto is somehow more terrifying than the blade he's poised above his wrist.

Skully lifts his arm and then—

"Oh!"

He sets the blade down. You breathe a relieved sigh that soon sticks in your throat. "I almost forgot." He lifts a murky beaker from the table. "Please drink this. It will take all the shivers away. I promise. Don't be scared." He leans in close and brings the glass to your mouth, but that only serves to make you struggle with more force. Skully sighs, pouting in disappointment, and grabs hold of your chin to force the foul-tasting potion down your throat. You cough and grab at your neck. There's nothing you can do. You drank it.

"W-What was..."

"Fret not, my dear. This will melt away your nerves. You won't even know the concept of fear soon."

With that, he picks the cleaver up.

You watch, eyes wide and mouth gaping, as he raises his arm high. You see the dotted lines he's drawn on his wrist. And before you can scream he's brought the cleaver down to cleanly sever his hand from his arm.

It must be painful. It has to be!

So then how is he humming? Why isn't he crying and screaming, holding his now handless arm in agony? How can he casually fashion a tourniquet for his weeping wound, the blood so thick and sticky it spills onto the cart and drips on the floor in little puddles?!

"Soon, our bodies shall be wed. Isn't this exciting? We'll be husband and wife!" He swipes his finger through the blood pooling on the surface of the cart, doodling a crooked heart.

You feel sick, but nothing will come up. Your stomach churns. Something is scratching at your eyes. You feel heavy, as if the weight of the world is pressing down on your shoulders. There's so. much. blood.

You shut your eyes for a moment, but when you wake it's to the foul stench of gore and the prick of pain as the needle works through your flesh.

Skully sews his hand onto the stump where yours once was and, in return, yours replaces the empty space on his arm.

He cradles your cheek with his—your—bloodied hand. It's cold. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, his thumb rubbing just beneath your eyes, cherishing your cheekbones. "I've never known such agonizing happiness. Aah, it's like Cupid is stirring my heart into soup, stabbing it over and over with his arrows. You're lovely, an absolute scream."

You can hardly move, but your eyes manage to slide down the length of your limp arm to find the hand that's now surgically attached. His hand. The hand that has never belonged to you.

You give a choked sob. Skully smiles and leans in to lick your tears away.

- - -

He wants to open you up and rifle around in your insides. "If only I could give you my heart," he laments. "I don't deserve this organ. Not when I have such beastly thoughts!"

You think, if it were possible, he'd wrap your intestines around his neck like they're a feather boa, a grotesque treasure. But he doesn't want to kill you, even though sometimes he tells you you'd be such a pretty corpse, so he never allows his knife to touch your stomach.

That's why he's decided to give you the next best thing.

The needle is so close to your eye. You can't move. He's given you something, so all you can do is lie rigidly still like the dead. Again, Skully hums a haunting melody.

"Please..." you beg. "Please don't do this."

He blinks down at you with one eye. The other is sitting preserved in a glass jar, from when he plucked it out himself and cut away the pesky optic nerves, all while rambling about how fantastic this is. You wonder if he's immune to pain. Is he even alive? There's a bandage wrapped around his head, concealing his empty eye socket. Soon, you won't be able to move your mouth to voice any pleas. Silent tears crawl down your cheeks instead.

When you look at him, scrawny boy with his strange, toothy grin and his bedraggled hair, you wonder if he's one of Dr. Ashengrotto's long-forgotten experiments.

"I'll be gentle," he promises.

You spend those next few hours in indescribable torment.

You pass out just before you lose the sight in your left eye.

When you wake, Skully is holding you in his arms, brushing a hand through your hair to soothe you. He hums a sweet lullaby, his sharp, curled nails sticking at every knot in your hair. He yanks through them, undeterred.

"Are you awake?" He peers down at you. "Oh, what a relief! It's been days since you shut your eyes. I was beginning to worry I'd hurt you..."

His frown quickly quirks up into a bright smile. "But not to worry! You're still alive. I'm so pleased!"

He feels around in the dimly lit space for something. When you open your eyes, you see yourself. The vision in your left eye is blurred. Skully props you up so you can get a better look at yourself in the fractured glass.

You're looking back with an orange eye.

And yours is nestled snugly in his socket. A perfect fit.

"Isn't it wonderful?" he says, ignoring your wheezing, hyperventilating cries and the blood that trickles from your ruined socket. "My most important parts are inside you—my hand and my eye and patches of my flesh—and yours are here within me. I shall be a temple that cherishes your pieces. With this, you'll be mine forevermore."

He gathers you in his lanky arms and squeezes you in a hug that robs you of your air.

"And when you perish, I shall take your heart and sew it in next to mine. Then we'll never be apart."

#twisted chit chat #yandere twst

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