prattsbratt

[prattsbratt]

Hello stellargh0ul! Thank you for writing and taking requests! May i ask for a lesson on kissing with Terzo?

he's a great teacher.

-

he cups your cheek gently, tenderly, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your eye. you expect him to lean in immediately to press his lips to your own— after all, kissing was what this lesson was all about and you’re an eager student. and who better to teach you than Papa Emeritus III himself?

except, he just stares down at you for a long moment, his breath ghosting over your skin from how close to you he is. you hold still, afraid of breaking the spell his gaze has cast over you; looking up into his eyes, you feel for a moment that there is only you and him in the world, everything else fading into nothing more than background noise.

Terzo smiles, a kind expression, and you feel as though you have never seen anything more beautiful than the adoration plain on his face.

you wonder if he treats everyone this way— if he truly falls as deeply in love with everyone as he appears to, feeling written plain across his face and heart worn on his sleeve in a way that should have been disastrous for a man in his position.

but Terzo just manages to make it work. and then he’s finally leaning in to kiss you, pressing his lips to yours so sweetly that you can barely feel the pressure. he holds himself there for a long second before slowly deepening the kiss. like he was just making sure he had your attention before continuing.

you don’t know how he could doubt that, when you can’t look anywhere else.

“the key to a good kiss lies in the anticipation,” he says, pulling back from you so that he can look you in the eye. you feel warmth radiating from his body, his arms loose around you as you stand in the secluded cloister. when you’d approached him, shyly asking for lessons in a skill you’d never been confident in, you hadn’t expected him to agree and begin right there and then.

but then, you should have probably had the possibility at least somewhat in the back of your mind— Terzo never seemed to do things by halves.

“anticipation,” you murmur, trying to show that you’re paying attention even as your mind wanders. he nods.

“you want them to be desperate for it before you begin the kiss. drive them mad with need, make them come to you… if you’d like, you can give them a taste of what it could be beforehand, like this—“

he reaches out to take your hand in his own and raises it to his lips, breath warm on your skin as he brushes your knuckles.

“doesn’t that make you curious about what more I could offer? doesn’t that make you want to find out what secrets lie beyond a mere peck on the hand?”

“yes Papa,” you say, somewhat breathless.

“get them worked up enough, and it won’t even matter how good you are at the kiss itself— anything will feel like fireworks.”

[prattsbratt]

Sleeping In

Copia x Reader, about 725 words, no smut, contains cuddles and emotional support (ew gross)

That post about missing the Devil’s Sacrament three times + my own needs today produced this short self-indulgent thing. Might post it to AO3 later but just sharing here for now. Reader is ungendered and undescribed, but hinted at maybe having a chronic health condition or mental health issue.

-

The door creaks open; you know who it is even without looking, even before he speaks. “Tesoro?” It’s his soft voice, his worried voice, and you sigh because you would rather not worry him, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. “Black Mass is half over, and you had not arrived, and I wanted to check on you.”

You look up from the blankets to see Copia standing in your little room. Only a few years ago, he wouldn’t have been here, and if he’d come after Black Mass, he’d be coming to you in his paints and robes. But he is Frater Imperator today just like he is every other day, just his suit and his decorative chains and the dark makeup around his eyes and on his lip.

“I’m all right,” you assure him with a sigh, and rub your eyes. “Am I in trouble for missing?” you ask, trying to joke, but his face is still somber as his eyes search yours.

“Never, tesoro,” he says. “We don’t do that sort of thing here, you know that. But I am…this is the third Mass you’ve missed in as many weeks. You are usually very punctual.”

“I know, I know,” you say. “I’m just…tired.”

“You have been overworking during the week,” he suggests. He takes your hand and kisses it gently. “So you need to rest. I understand.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve been overworking,” you say, and lay your head back down with a sigh. “I feel like I do whatever I can and it’s not enough. And then I get to a day like today and I’m just so fucking tired, you know?”

That’s all you can say, because you don’t know exactly how to say it. Physically tired, yes, but more than that. Body-tired, soul-tired, tired of “being okay” when sometimes you’re very much not okay.

He is quiet for a moment, looks down at your hand still in his. “I have been the one overworking,” he says then. “Neglecting you, yes? A very bad Frater Imperator.”

That gets a smile out of you, and you shake your head. “No, Copia. You have too much on your plate even without worrying about me.”

He looks at you for a moment. “You know it is enough, yes? The things you do, they are always enough and more than enough.” His other hand comes up to smooth over your hair. You could probably use a shower and you try to cringe away, but he doesn’t let you. He strokes your hair, and then pats you on the head, and you can’t help but laugh. “Sometimes…sometimes I am tired, too.” And you know he means it in the same way.

You clutch back at his hand, trying to offer him strength that maybe you don’t have yourself. He gives you a little smile.

“It is not a problem to worry about you, you know. It is—it is part of care. You worry about me, do you not?”

You nod a little. “That’s different.”

“It is no different.” He is quiet for a moment, and then he lets go of your hand and gets up. For a moment your heart sinks. He’s checked on you, but he has things to do, and you know that, but you wish—

Except he does not leave. He comes around the bed, lifts up the blankets, rearranges the tangled sheet a little, and then you feel the bed sinking as he slides in behind you. You’re about to turn to face him, but then his hands are on your waist, keeping you still, before he settles in behind you. His body molds to yours, his arms winding around you. The chains on his suit press into your back, and it’s not comfortable, but he’s warm and he’s here and suddenly you want to cry.

“Copia?” you say instead.

“This is what you need to do today,” he says, “or at least, right now.” And then he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “So this is what I want to do, too.”

Later you might watch a movie together, or cook together. Certainly you’ll laugh together because even at your worst, you can always make each other laugh. And even later you’ll gather your strength, the both of you, and face the world again.

But that’s later. Right now, you’re here.

--

My Fanfiction Masterlist for more.

[prattsbratt]

playing with Copia’s sensitive nipple piercings please? (Or perhaps cock piercings??) thank you I love you 😌

por que no los dos?

(also, I know this isn't the thing in the bottom of my inbox, which is where I usually start when I sit down to write, but the idea I had for this would not leave my brain.)

-

you lean in to press a kiss between his pecs, one hand coming up to gently fondle the golden ring piercing one of his nipples. Copia shivers beneath you as you touch him, arms straining in the bonds you’d so painstakingly wound him in over the past half hour. it had taken some time to get the shibari just so, the blue ropes in his signature color lacing up his skin in neat diamonds.

you were proud of your work, but you had one thing yet to show him— for the first time you were getting to play with him now that his piercings were all healed, you wanted to make sure it would be a memorable experience.

reaching down between his legs, you slide your other hand over the little Prince Albert piercing that sits at the head of his cock. Copia hisses behind his teeth at the unfamiliar feeling of the metal moving against him as you stroke your fingers over it, feeling the way pre oozed out of his tip from around it.

“stop— stop teasing, cara,” he grunts out and you raise one eyebrow, pulling both your hands away. you watch as he just his hips up as if he could encourage you to come back just with the motion alone.

“since when do you make the rules here? i’m not done dressing you up.”

“what? what else is there?”

he frowns at you, looking down at the pentagram harness you’d painstakingly tied across his chest and the ropes that framed the dips of his hipbones. Copia purses his lips and you giggle at his confusion before turning towards the box you had waiting on the side table.

gingerly you lift the golden chain out of its box. it winks in the dim light and his mouth falls slightly agape as you bring it over to him, bending to connect one end to one of his nipple rings. you give it a playful tug and he yelps at the sudden sharp sensation.

you clip the chain to the other nipple ring, connecting the two with the dangling bit of chain. he looks down at himself, taking in the sight of the adornment. you can tell the exact moment when he notices that there’s a third length of chain splitting off from the other two, dangling down between his legs.

“that’s not—“

without giving him time to finish his sentence, you lean in to grab the end and clip it to the Prince Albert piercing on his cock. it’s a tight fit, the chain just slightly too short, and the pressure of you pulling at it tugs at his nipples. Copia’s forced to jut his chest out to try and relieve some of it, arching in his bonds.

you coo at him below you.

“what a pretty little thing you are.”

he whimpers, looking up at you with large, dark, lust-filled eyes. your smile is warm.

“I can make the chain shorter if you’d like. then we’d really watch you squirm.”

[prattsbratt]

ooo requests open! could i request reader worshipping copia's body, please? he deserves all the love, y'know? thank you!

My first ask ever, so naturally, I gotta make it explicit. Thank you @avocado-writing :)

"...fuck, baby, I can't get enough of you..."

...you breathe out, on your knees, as you slide your hands down Copia's soft, naked body. He's seated on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide open, head back in pure bliss, taking in all your words of worship. He catches the carnal spark in your eyes as they, and your hands, make their way to his aching, uncut cock.

"I want to devour every square inch of your perfect body..." you mutter. Copia's brow furrows as he lets out the unholiest of moans, completely captivated by your words and touch.

"Mia bellissima ragazza, what have I done to deserve your worship?" His hands found their way into your hair after your lips finally took in every inch of his cock. You blink up at him, pulling away, and gaze into his stunning eyes.

"Everything."

I am a huge fan of Copia with his legs spread wide open. I am working on a short fic where Frater fucks himself with his legs draped over an armchair. I love the self-indulgence that fanfiction brings.

[prattsbratt]

I make teeny weeny request because overtime is killing me and I maaayy have accidentally stabbed myself in the leg at work with my knife again. To be fair, I blame the box I was trying to open. Anywho~ 🥺 I would love some sweet papa Perpetua love treating you after a rough long day at work.

Also NO MORE MANDATORY OVER TIME! Papa here I come!

A little something to read while you're in line! I hope your ritual is everything you dreamed of!

-

you haven’t told many people in the Ministry about your relationship with Perpetua. it’s just never seemed that important to do before— it doesn’t matter to you what outsiders might think of the partnership you two share. you spend time together when you finish your duties in the warehouse and he’s done rehearsing, but other than that, there’s usually a closed door between the two of you and the rest of the world while you’re together.

but as you relax into the couch at the end of your workday, you’re regretting that decision.

“I just think that Brother Michael would never treat me like this if he knew we were together,” you groan as Perpetua perches on the end of the couch, his sympathetic eyes fixed on your face.

“his performance review is coming up soon. I intend to address some of his working conditions with him in that meeting.”

“if you’re going to force everyone into mandatory overtime, I just think that you might deserve to lose your job.”

you’re grumbling more that anything: the pair of you both know that you prefer to stay private with your relationship, rather than expose yourselves to the scrutiny of every single person in the Ministry.

Perpetua shifts, moving to sit next to you on the couch cushions. he opens his arm, beckoning you to him, and you curl into his side with a long, exhausted sigh. for a moment, he just holds you like that— the rock you can break against at the end of what has been an exhausting week.

he kisses the top of your head, the grazing of his lips featherlight. you wrap your arm around his waist and pull him close and Perpetua chuckles as you use him as something of a teddy bear.

“what would you say to the notion of me having a more personal conversation with Brother Michael?” Papa asks, and you pull back so that you can look him in the eye, trying to read his true intentions in his expression.

it’s no use— he’s good at hiding what he’s feeling when he wants to be, and the half-mask certainly doesn’t help you read his facial features.

“…no, it’s… it’s fine. I don’t want you to fight my battles for me.”

humming in the back of his throat, he leans forward to press another kiss to your forehead.

“I would fight any battle at all for you. wage war upon the bastards in Heaven itself for you. I can certainly handle talking to a priest on a power trip about treating his employees better without mentioning you directly, lamb.”

you scoff, but he tucks his hand beneath your chin so that you cannot look away from him.

“please ask me to fight for you. please ask me to help with your troubles. there is nothing at all I couldn’t do in your name.”

“…it’s a work dispute, not an active war zone.”

despite that, you’re smiling as you listen to him speak. Perpetua always knows just what to say.

[prattsbratt]

Can I get uhh... Copia comforting his s/o (they haven't been intimate yet) who is insecure about their body, especially their bigger thighs and belly?

I'd like it more fluffy than nsfw but maybe it can be fluff and suggestive towards the ending? 👀❤️

Have a nice day!! ✨

I had a wonderful day, thank you for blessing me with one <3

-

you feel his hands slip down your chest, towards your thighs, and instinctively tense. you can’t help the reaction, instinctual as it is to him getting close to the features you hate most about yourself—your too-large stomach and bigger thighs. you know he feels it underneath him and hope he just ignores it the way he usually does, content with the moment without ruining the mood.

except. except he doesn’t just move on. Copia cups your hips in his hands and leans in, using his body weight to push you back onto the bed. you go willingly enough, not realizing what he’s planning until his lips trail from your neck to your chest and then down to your tummy.

he begins to plant kisses along the rolls he finds there, tracing their path across your body with his lips as though he were worshipping a divine being. you feel yourself flush as he moves from one roll of fat to the next, realizing that your partner is intent on drawing attention to the very things about yourself that you wish you could change.

“babe, you can—just move on, okay?” you ask, your voice quiet, but Copia barely looks up at you for a moment before returning to his task. he peppers kisses all across your stomach, his hands cradling your hips as though he’s never touched you before in his life. as though this were the first time you’d let him touch you, let him love you.

perhaps, in a way, it is—you certainly usually shied away from attention towards these areas of your body. maybe he’s just reveling in the first chance you’ve ever given him to worship you properly.

not that you want him to, of course. you feel your cheeks burn as he raises his head from your stomach, looking up the length of your body towards your face.

“cara mia, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice like a prayer. you have to look away, unable to handle the devotion you can see burning behind his gaze. as though you were the only thing in the world, the only thing that mattered to him.

no matter what you looked like.

“i’m too—“

“you’re beautiful,” Copia insists, his voice a little bit louder. he bends his head back to his work, this time kissing a path down your stomach and towards your panties. you have a little thrill, thinking he’s finally going to get down to business and you can forget about his worship of your stomach: until he goes for your thigh instead, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin there.

“ah—“ you exhale, twitching beneath him, and his hands at your hips press you down into the bed so that you can’t try and squirm away from him.

“i’ll get there, don’t worry,” Copia hums against your skin, looking up at you once more. “but first, I need to make sure every part of you has been given the worship it is due.”

[prattsbratt]

May I request Copia trying (and ultimately failing) to keep his shit together while watching his cute little assistant walk around in the shortest skirt he's seen in years.

(She is doing this to seduce him. She is so optimistic with this approach that she has decided to not wear any undergarments today)

That you! Have a nice day! I love you! ❤️

I love you too! <3

-

he’s absolutely sure you’re doing this on purpose.

you have to be— no human being is clumsy enough to drop as many things as you’ve dropped in the past few hours, every single pen, piece of paper, and folder that’s passed through your hands ending up on the floor.

and coupled with the tiny skirt you’re wearing, he’s gotten flashed at least five times today. full eyefuls too, what with the fact that you’ve also decided not to wear any panties. it’s driving Copia insane, having to sit behind his desk while he watches you flounce around, the edges of your skirt swaying as you move to catch his eyes.

tamping down the urge to confront you about your fashion choices has taken everything in him over the course of the day; and as you drop your fourth file folder on the ground directly next to his desk, he feels his resolve break.

you bend over for the umpteenth time, reaching for the folder with your back to him as you give him an eyeful of your perky ass beneath the skirt. Copia rises from his desk chair, making a noise like a deflated balloon as he comes around to where he can face you while he’s talking.

“sorella… you’re doing this on purpose, si?”

he tries not to make his tone harsh, as he has a fairly good idea of where this is going to lead, but it’s hard to keep a slight edge from creeping into his voice after having been teased the entire day.

“why, Father, i’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you murmur, your own voice light as you look up at him with innocent eyes. he’s not buying the act for a second—choosing to come to work in a short skirt and no panties was definitely a deliberate choice.

“you know exactly what i’m talking about. the… the choice of your dress today is…”

“is…?”

Copia makes a frustrated noise, rubbing at his eyes as he looks anywhere but at your face. somehow, facing you like this is almost just as dangerous as looking at you from behind.

“if you—if you wanted my attention, you could have just… said something.”

finally, he sees a little smile creep across your face, the only indication he has that you’re playing some sort of game with him before you’re back to the innocent angelic look he was used to.

“but Father, you’re always so busy… I thought you might just enjoy the show…”

“the show…”

he steps forward and when you don’t shrink away or move to give him space, he bends down to place his lips near your ear.

“I think we’re finished with work for the day. why don't you make yourself a little bit more… comfortable.”

he indicates his desk chair, inhaling deeply to catch the scent of your flowery perfume. you giggle, trailing your fingers along the planes of his chest beneath his shirt.

“I thought you’d never ask, Father… don’t mind if I do.”

[prattsbratt]

and the eerie sound of the monstrance clock

rating: e

words: 5k

pairings: cirrus/reader/cumulus; terzo/reader; dewdrop/reader; primo/reader; secondo/reader; papa emeritus iv/reader; mountain/reader

tags: ritual orgy; spitroasting; oral (m and f receiving); free use; canon-typical silliness; p in v

authors notes: here you go ghesties, it’s the monstrance clock-inspired ritual orgy fic. female reader for this one. I’ve never been to a satanic ritual orgy personally, so I had to take some liberties. the beginning of this also inspired by @library-ghoulette ‘s lovely fic here! also on ao3

“You should join us for the monstrance clock ritual tonight.”

You snort your soda out of your nose and stare at Cirrus through the inevitable coughing fit. She looks back at you with coolness, as if she just recommended you start going to hot yoga with her rather than join in an orgy. Cumulus tuts and passes you a tissue.

“Cirrus, don’t just come out and say it like that. You’ll scare the poor thing,” she sighs, rubbing your back in soothing circles.

Eventually you’re able to breathe properly and squeak out a little, “what?”

“The monstrance clock ritual. You know, the bi-annual one where we all get together and… worship.”

At least you don’t have anything in your mouth when she says it this time. You’re still gobsmacked, though. She can’t help the grin which cracks over her face. Cumulus swats at her.

You like the two ghoulettes. They’d taken you under their wing when you joined the Ministry a few months ago, pointed you in the right direction as you found your feet here. Like tonight, you often find yourself hanging out in their dorm. You might not have been a Sibling for very long but yeah, you’ve heard of the ritual. It sounds… intense, all those people gathering in order to make an offering of their bodies to Him.

You’re kind of intrigued though. You’d be a fool not to be. The idea of it is thrilling. Delicious. 

“Do you… do you two go often?” you ask, trying to sound smooth and utterly failing. Cirrus shrugs.

“Yeah, pretty much every single time. It’s a great way to let off some steam. Fun icebreaker for new members of the church, too.”

She prods you playfully with the toe of her boot. You let your gaze run up her leg and really look at her for a second, her body trapped in all that black. You’d be lying if you said she wasn’t sexy. Cumulus, too. But you can’t just tell your two best friends that they’re hot without feeling… well. A lingering sense of Catholic guilt about the whole thing.

“What’s it like?” you ask quietly. You’re aware Cumulus’s hand is still on your back. It’s warm. You feel your face growing hotter. Are you actually considering this?

“Well, it can be a little overwhelming to start with, but it’s easy to get into. There’s no pressure to do anything. Sometimes people come just to watch and it’s enough for them. If you’re there you’re kinda implying you’re down for anything, but it’s not binding, you can tap out at any time and nobody will mind. Also there’s protein bars and juice boxes if you need a pick-me-up mid session.”

Cirrus lists things on her fingers as she goes, holding eye contact with you. You’re getting hotter. Cumulus is still touching you and you’re excruciatingly aware of it.

“But… but what if…” you trail off. Cumulus puts her finger under your chin.

“Oh, baby. Are you worried nobody is going to want to fuck you?”

You nod, burning under her gaze. She tuts again, softly.

“We’ll bring you with us. We’ll start you off, honey.” Cumulus looks to Cirrus who nods, enthusiastic.

Okay, great, your two very hot ghoul best friends are propositioning you. Cool. Nice. You’re about to burst into flames.

“I don’t think you’ll need to worry. You’ll get a lot of interest, especially because you’re new. The Papas will all want to try you out, as it were,” Cirrus says. “Consider it part of the initiation. I mean, are you really a member of the Ministry if Terzo’s tongue hasn’t been inside you?”

Cumulus laughs at that, but your thoughts have been dragged somewhere you weren’t expecting. The Papas? The idea has you squeezing your legs together, tight. All of them have their allure, of course. Primo is graceful; Secondo severe. Terzo’s a casanova. And Papa Emeritus IV is so sincere in every interaction you’ve ever had with him that you can’t imagine him joining in on a ritual orgy but you’d kinda like to see him in action.

You’d kinda like to see everyone in action.

“Okay,” you squeak. The two ghoulettes look up at you.

“Yeah?” asks Cumulus, softly, her face taking on a wicked smile to match Cirrus’s. You nod.

“Yeah. I wanna do it.”

“Well, you’re gonna wanna go and wash and eat first. It makes the whole thing more pleasant. Wear something easy to take off. And don’t bother with underwear. We’ll pick you up at eleven and head down to the sanctuary,” Cumulus says. You check the time and realise it’s later than you thought - nine pm gives you two hours to get ready. 

“Go on! We’ll see you soon,” Cirrus finishes, shooing you good-naturedly. You practically trip over your habit as you head to the door, heart pounding as you start the walk back to your room.

You do wear something easy to take off. A simple black robe, modest for now, but daring when you know there’s nothing underneath it. You wash your hair, moisturise, put on your best smelling scents. Attempt to look radiant. Stare at yourself in the mirror. Wonder if you’ll be enough. Realise that Cumulus and Cirrus seemed interested in fucking you even when you were in your ordinary habit sprawled out on the bed, and if what they said is true, the very idea of you being something new enough to make you fascinating to everyone else.

“I’ll just do it once, and if it’s bad, I won’t do it again,” you tell your reflection. There’s a knock at the door and you spring up, practically running over to open it.

Cirrus and Cumulus look you up and down, smiling when they see how you’re dressed.

“You look lovely, honey,” Cumulus says, in a voice thick and heavy with desire. You swallow.

“So do you both.”

They do. Black dresses suit them. It leaves nothing to the imagination, and you can’t wait to touch the skin beneath. Yet, when Cirrus reaches out to take your hand, you find that you’re trembling.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says, softly. You swallow down your nerves and shake your head.

“No, I want to. Just… stay with me at first, okay?”

“As if you could stop us,” says Cumulus with a chuckle.

Your hands in theirs, they lead you to the sanctuary. It’s been cleared of pews, the only decorations being hundreds of black candles which light the perimeter of the vast room, a few comfortable leather couches; and the symbols drawn in chalk on the floor. There are dozens of other Siblings here as well as a handful of ghouls; some who you recognise from your time in the Ministry, some of whom are completely new to you. You get a couple of smiles and waves from those you’re more familiar with: a brother who works in the kitchen, a sister who helps Primo in the gardens.

You wonder if you’ll know what they taste like by the end of the evening.

And, of course, there are the Papas. Papa Emeritus IV is standing at the pulpit, the most well-dressed of the crowd in his papal vestments. The previous Papas are wearing simple robes, sporting none of their usual grandeur - but you understand that accessibility is the code of the evening.

Their eyes flick over to you as you make your way into the crowd. You’ve been noticed. A chill runs up your spine and it’s thrilling. You wonder what they have in store. You hope it’s wicked. 

There’s some muttering as you all wait for the ritual to begin, Cumulus and Cirrus squeezing your hands. A few more people join the room before the heavy wooden doors are closed for the evening, sealing you in, as it were - and there is the brassy, loud sound of a clock beginning to strike. You’re not sure from where it tolls, but it reverberates throughout the room.

Here goes nothing.

Papa Emeritus IV begins to read from some old, leather-bound book. Your Latin is not word-perfect but you can pick out some key phrases: Desire. Flesh. Offering. The tension in the room is palpable as he reads, the gathered ritual-goers growing more excited, hands already beginning to wander in anticipation. You’re going to burst, you just can’t take any more, and then—

“In His name, we begin.”

Papa slams the book shut with a resounding clap. You look at Cumulus.

“So, uh, how do we–”

And then she’s kissing you.

Her mouth is soft but insistent on yours, holding your face between her hands. You moan against her and part your lips, making room for her tongue when she swipes it out. Your body responds immediately. It’s like electricity, jumping all over your skin directly from her fingertips, a live wire directly to your cunt. 

Another pair of hands are on your body and you know they’re Cirrus’s. She maps out the shape of your body with her palms, admiring your curves before coming up to squeeze your tits. You squeak into Cumulus’s mouth.

“So eager, hmm?” she purrs in your ear. You break the kiss just long enough to nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah. Yes,” you choke. Cirrus spins you around so she can kiss you and Cumulus is happy to relinquish her hold on you, but only so that she can reach down and start pulling up the hem of your robe. She chuckles when she finds you bare.

“Ahh, you did what we asked. Good pet,” Cumulus says, and you might just come from that, actually. She slowly lifts your robe off of you and you straighten your arms without hesitation so she can undress you properly. For a second you’re worried things are going too quickly, but a little look around the room shows you are far from the only naked one. People have flocked together, bare, kissing and touching and caressing. A few in pairs, wrapped in each other; most in groups passing themselves around. They’re lost in the desire of it all, in this carnal form of worship. You feel yourself getting more aroused from just watching it all.

Then Cirrus slides her hand over your cunt and you almost combust.

“So wet already…” she hums, pausing only so she can undress herself. Her dark grey skin is beautiful in the candlelight. You feel Cumulus doing something similar, her body pressing into yours, and then they’re both touching between your legs. Cirrus keeps her mouth on you as Cumulus litters you with kisses and bites over your shoulders, giggling as you begin to lose yourself in it all.

“Aww, you gonna come, sweetheart?” Cirrus teases. With her fingers on your clit you’re not sure how you can hold back, and when Cumulus shoves your legs just far enough apart to slide hers inside you, your whole body lights up.

You come on their hands, body trembling as you relax into their embrace. They hold you through it, petting your body, running their nails across your hot skin, tweaking your nipples to heighten the experience. You even feel a tongue dart out to lick around your areola and you choke a bit.

“That… that was…” you begin, but you realise another presence has joined you. 

“Hey Dew,” Cirrus says, trailing her knuckles along your arm in sweet possessiveness. “Come to join us, or try your luck with the newbie?”

“If she’ll have me,” he says, cocking his head at his fellow ghouls and a smile at you. You can see he’s already hard, his ghoulish length ridged unlike a human’s, deliciously impressive and bobbing against his stomach. Fuck. Yeah. You’ll have him.

You feel a little bad, about to offer to return the orgasm Cirrus and Cumulus just bestowed upon you, but they push you into Dewdrop’s arms when they see how excited you are.

“You go have fun, honey,” says Cumulus, kissing at Cirrus’s neck.

“And you thought nobody would wanna fuck you…” Cirrus says to you. Dew raises his eyebrows.

“You thought nobody would wanna fuck you, baby? Oh, that’s so sad. You’re gorgeous.”

Your lips are already puffy from the attention of the ghoulettes, but when Dewdrop kisses you, you can’t help but moan into it. His mouth is firmer than Cumulus’s, more insistent, tongue diving against yours when you relax into his chest. He carefully steers you backwards, never breaking contact, and you feel soft leather hit the back of your legs. You collapse into the sofa and let him crawl over you, hands coming to cup your tits, digging his clever fingers into needy flesh. You moan. You can’t say you’ve never admired Dewdrop, the way he can so masterfully play his guitar onstage, it’s fucking mesmerising. Secretly, you’ve wondered what those fingers can do to you. But then…

Your hand reaches out to wrap around him and he chokes into your mouth, groaning as you begin to pump him, feeling every ridge of his strange, demonic cock. He’s warm in your hand, heavy, and you’re suddenly full of curiosity.

“Dew?”

“Mmm?” he mutters against your skin, dropping his mouth to your neck so he can work at the skin there, pressing his teeth over the nibbles Cumulus already gave you. You’ll be a palimpsest of their affections later, of bitemarks and bruises; but you can’t bring yourself to mind.

“Can I suck you off?”

He goes still.

“Fuck, yeah, baby.”

You push him back so you can rearrange yourselves, him sitting on the sofa and you between his legs. He grips the leather arms as you take his cock in your hand, looking up and grinning at him before you run your tongue along the vein on his underside. He tries not to buck.

“Shit, yeah, that’s it…”

You’re glad he seems to be just as swept up in all of this as you are. When your lips close around the tip his eyes roll back and he tangles his fingers in your hair. You begin to sink your mouth down on him, tasting every ridge of his ghoulish sex, surprised to find he tastes slightly sweeter than the humans you’ve been with. Maybe it’s to attract desperate little things to you like him. It’s working.

There are a pair of hands on your hips, gloved - not Dew’s. You stop sucking just long enough to look round.

Angular papal paints, dark hair, a wicked look in his mismatched eyes. Mostly undressed by now, but a billowing shirt still on. Terzo smiles.

“Nice to meet you, tesoro. I’m glad you came down to join us tonight.”

He reaches over to press a kiss on your back and you mewl at it. He leaves an imprint of black lips on your spine, his little mark on your for the evening. 

“I’ve been watching you for a while, now. You’re… intriguing. You already seem to be satisfying our friend here…” he nods up to Dew who’s watching you, wide-eyed and eager to see what you will do to him next. “...so I know your mouth is talented. But I want to know how your cunt tastes. Will you allow me?”

You’re frozen for a moment before you nod so hard you almost give yourself whiplash.

“Yeah. Yes, please, Papa.”

“Please what, tesoro?”

He’s grinning, cheeky. A man who likes to hear explicitly what he’s being asked for.

“Please eat me out.”

He taps your hip, getting you to shift up so he can position himself beneath you before he pulls you cunt-first onto his face. You moan as his tongue finds where you need it most, diving inside you, and Cirrus’s words from earlier ring in your mind.

Are you really a member of the Ministry if Terzo’s tongue hasn’t been inside you?

You are now, you suppose, because you can feel him press it into your pussy, tasting your wetness directly from the source. He knows just how to use his mouth, alternating between kissing at your clit before licking all the way down to the rim of your other hole, making you squeal. 

Still, though, there is the matter of the ghoul in front of you. It would be rude to ignore him, so you try to concentrate on poor Dew, too. You press your lips along the side of his now-weeping cock and he groans, throwing his head back on the sofa.

“There we go, baby. Fuck, you’re so good at this. You like being eaten out by a Papa, huh?” asks the ghoul, cocking a brow. You nod around his dick, taking him as deep into your mouth as you can. He grips the leather so hard he rips it with his claws, cursing in Infernal. You don’t speak it but you’re pan-lingual enough when it comes to sex to know you’re doing a good job. 

You’re going to get lost in the pleasure of this all so you try to ground yourself: everything Terzo does to your cunt you try and replicate on Dew’s cock. Terzo licks a stripe along your pussy, you lick one down Dew’s shaft. Papa plays with your clit, you press your tongue into his slit. You hear Terzo is vocalising enthusiastically under you and you turn for a second to look over your shoulder, only to find another ghoul pressing the third Emeritus’s cock down his throat. Omega - you think that’s his name - winks at you as he notices your attention is now on him, but a hand on your head draws you back to what’s at hand.

“Sweetheart, I’m close… please…” chokes Dew, and you focus your attention on him once again. The pressure in your cunt is building and you press your lips down onto his cock, taking him fully down to the base.

“Fuck!” Dew chokes, coming down your throat in hot jets. You grin around him as Terzo trips you over the edge and you soak his face with your orgasm, a tight spring unwound for the second time tonight. 

Hopefully there will be more. 

Not wanting to crush him with the full weight of your orgasm-weak body - though, knowing Terzo, he might think it’s the best way to go - you climb off of the previous Papa and his mouth is immediately taken up by Omega, the two of them wrapping into an embrace and getting lost in each other. It feels almost too intimate to watch. You’re pulled back into the moment when you realise Dew is stroking your arm affectionately. 

“Those two always find each other in these things,” he hums, pressing his lips to the back of your hand. You reach down and kiss him properly, letting him taste his own release on your tongue, and he groans into your mouth. You’re about to go for round two with him, when suddenly you feel two strong hands on your waist and you’re being hoisted onto someone’s shoulder.

“Eep-!”

“Hey, we were about to—”

“She’ll be back later, Dew.”

It’s Mountain, the tallest ghoul in the pack. Dew scoffs as you’re taken away but someone else soon takes up his attention and empty lap, so you can’t feel too bad about it.

You look down at Mountain with wide eyes as he carries you across the room, floor full of siblings taking their pleasure from each other. 

“M-Mountain?” you manage. Hearing his name from your lips makes him smirk.

“You’ve been asked for,” he says, giving your ass a slap for good measure, his fingers stroking along your wetness. 

“By… by you?”

He chuckles.

“No. We can go later, if you’ll have me,” he says, his timbre low, and you find yourself nodding.

“Yes, yes please.”

“Eager.” It isn’t an insult. He carefully places you down on your feet, gesturing to the sofa behind you. You turn and gasp.

Primo and Secondo are sharing a sister. Secondo’s cock is down her throat, Primo taking long, languid movements of his hips to fuck her. Her eyes are rolling back in her head in a way which sends a lightning bolt straight to your cunt. Totally lost in the haze of being taken by two Papas who know how to drag pleasure out of her body, she can only mewl as she finds her release and they come inside her soon after. Carefully she removes herself from them, wiping her brow, giving them both a little smile and nod as she stands on shaky legs. Despite the cum dripping out from between her thighs they’re both still hard.

“Thank you, Papas,” she says hoarsely, timidly, but with an air of total satisfaction.

“Enjoy your evening, Sister,” Primo says, and then their gazes are on you.

Oh. You realise who you’ve been summoned by.

The sister shoots you an enthusiastic thumbs up as she walks away, tumbling into Mountian’s arms who scoops her up - either to take care of her, or fuck her further, or maybe both - and you’re beckoned to take her place on the sofa. You do, anticipation making you tremble, kneeling on the middle seat.

“Aren’t you a pretty sight, bella?” Primo hums, his long fingers reaching out to stroke the side of your face. You nuzzle into his touch and he caresses your cheek, bringing you down for a kiss which you lean into gratefully. His mouth tastes of cunt - probably the previous sister’s - and it’s so erotic you jolt at the tang. You feel Secondo grab your ass, giving your cheeks an appreciative squeeze, fingers digging into the meat of it before he gives it a slap which has you squealing.

“Such a pretty little cunt, sorella. I can’t believe nobody here has filled it up yet…” he growls, and you’re almost coming there and then. He angles your hips so he can position himself better and then he’s pressing into you, his cock taking up the space throbbing inside you that was desperate to be filled. He groans as he slides in, inch by inch, until his hips finally sit flush with yours.

“Ah, look at you… taking me so well…” he gives a hard thrust and you yelp, hot with the pleasure of it all. Primo’s hand rests in your hair and gently guides you towards his length and you open your mouth like a good little sorella, sucking him up to the base while looking up at him through fluttering eyelashes. Primo hisses in pleasure and comes to cup your jaw so he can feel himself in your throat, then gently encourages you to begin to work up and down his shaft.

You needn’t bother finding a rhythm, because it is then that Secondo starts in earnest. His hips slam into you with such roughness that you’re seeing stars, and as he fucks you, you begin to move up and down on Primo’s cock from the sheer force of it.

“That’s it… take us… ah, bellissima…” Primo hums as you take him as far down your throat as you can. His cock is long but not so thick that your jaw aches, which you’re thankful for, but it does choke you just a delicious amount. Tears form in your eyes from the overstimulation and all you can do is let your body go slack as they use you, bouncing you between them and feeding pleasure into you from it.

Your next orgasm is building. Your cunt is beginning to spasm around Secondo and he can feel it, pushing in and out of you at a punishing pace. You take Primo to the hilt, burying your face in the coarse hair at his base, and his hand slips around your throat. Your release crashes over you like a tsunami hitting a beach, flooding the second Papa completely. He hisses in satisfaction as he comes inside of you and you drip down his cock in return, painting your walls with his spend, and Primo finishes in your mouth.

You collapse into the sofa, and they slowly slide out of you. Your pussy and jaw sting in a delicious way as they retreat and, with a dull amazement, you realise they’re both still hard. You glance up at Primo who chuckles.

“Call it a Satanic gift, sorella. All Papas have similar blessings. Thank you for joining us.”

You turn and see Mountain is back, looming dutifully, a brother now at his side. Their next offering, you suppose - he looks excited and you can’t blame him. You bid the Papas farewell and give the new brother a squeeze on his shoulder of solidarity before Mountain offers you his arm.

“Are you alright?” he asks, gently, and you nod. 

“Yeah. Dizzy. I think I need a snack.”

“Let’s get you to the refreshments.”

You put your hand in the crook of his elbow and let him walk you past the groups of brothers and sisters who have fallen into each other. Though you’ve already come three times, the sight of it all makes you wet again. You can see Terzo on all fours being taken by Omega, the two of them lost in their own world; Cirrus and Cumulus have located Aurora and brought her into their embrace. It’s only when you feel something being pressed into your hand you realise Mountain has given you a protein bar.

“Eat,” he instructs, watching you raptly as you open it and devour it. It might be the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted, but you have just had two loads of jizz in your mouth, so that probably helps. When you’re done he takes the wrapper and passes you a juice box, already impaled with a little plastic straw, which you slurp down greedily. Your poor throat has been through a lot and needs some soothing.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“So do you just like… collect people for the Papas? Or do you like to join in?” you ask, eyes trailing down his thick frame to the heavy cock he’s sporting, rising in interest. He huffs under your gaze, a little shy.

“I participate occasionally. But mostly I like to watch,” he confesses, his dark eyes fixed on you. Oh. You can certainly put on a show if he’s interested, and as your hand goes for another juice box —

Your fingers brush someone else’s.

You withdraw, jumping, and turn to face their owner. It’s Papa Emeritus IV, his smeared papal paints revealing he must have just been with a partner. Partners, perhaps. His eyes are wide as he takes you in - you must be a mess - but the look he gives you is one of appreciation, not judgement.

“Oh! Sister. You have been enjoying yourself, eh?” he asks, with a wink. You feel your face grow hot all over again.

“Yes, Papa, thank you, I am. And yourself?”

“Ah, these rituals are always good fun, hm? They’re great for morale, you know!” he says, as if he’s talking about a damned work retreat. It’s cute. He’s cute. He picks up the juice box you both reached for and offers it to you.

“Oh, that’s very kind, Papa. We could… we could share it, though?” you suggest, and his eyes go wide.

“I’d enjoy that.”

You look over your shoulder to where Mountain remains, an eyebrow cocked at your strange flirtation.

“Can… can Mountain watch?” you ask. Papa swallows thickly and nods.

“Sì. I’d enjoy that, too.”

When he kisses you he tastes of sex. Anonymous partners linger on his tongue and you moan into it, his arms wrapping around you to bring you closer. You cling onto his shoulders as he hefts you up to sit you on the corner of the snack table, his hand reaching between your legs as his hips push them open. 

“Already been used, hm? Fuck, sorella, you didn’t hesitate to jump in…” he hums. You giggle and kiss him again - only taking a break so you can have a sip of your juice. You beckon him forward and open your mouth, swilling it between the two of you and encouraging him to drink. You did say you’d share, after all. He moans in satisfaction at the filth of it and does as you bid.

“I didn’t. But I want you now, Papa. Will you have me?”

His mismatched eyes grow dark with desire as he swipes his thumb over your clit, gleeful in how you keel and moan at his contact. You glance over to Mountain who’s grown hard by this point, cock in his fist as he watches his Papa manoeuvre you so he can slide inside. You gasp at how sensitive you’ve become, your poor pussy practically tingling as he begins to cant his hips. 

“Cazzo… look at you… you were built for this… to be here with us and worship tonight… I’m sure the Old One is watching you…” he rasps, pressing messy kisses down the length of your body, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking hard. You yelp and watch him, admiring the smear of black paint he leaves on you. Marked by the current Papa as well as Terzo, how delicious. You won’t touch it for the rest of the night, you don’t think. 

You lie back, shoving the table clear, letting your Papa and Mountain get a good view of how your tits bounce as you’re fucked. Emeritus groans, slightly obsessed with them, tweaking you until you cry out under the sting of pleasure-pain. His cock hits all the right places, brushing against that sweet spot inside you, and you know you’re going to come again; especially when his hand drops to start roughly fingering your clit.

“Yes-yes-yes-there-there-there—!” you whine, tempted to screw your eyes shut, but preferring to look at Mountain. The ghoul is lost in the two of you, his hand practically a blur as he fucks himself, and as you come all over Emeritus’s cock Mountain spills over his own fist with a bitten-off roar.

Papa pulls out and coats your stomach with his cum, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy. You think the earth might be shaking.

“Fuck,” you breathe, watching as he reaches up from your cunt to rub his own release into your skin, marking you as his. He’s still hard. He doesn’t appear to be interested in moving on yet, grabbing an ankle and kissing up your leg, hot gaze trained on you. 

“Another, sorella?” he asks. 

With that, your mind is made up. 

You’re going to come back next ritual. 

[prattsbratt]

Hiii I have a request :)

Fem Reader was terzos lover and after he died she was very sad (obviously) and kept more to herself during copias era but when perpetua was there he gets interested in her an dedicates excelsis for her to try and comfort her

I hope you know what I mean 😅

tw: non-consensual drugging; loss of a loved one. I don’t really do song fics so took some liberties with this.

He died. He died and it left a fucking hole in your soul.

You’d been there for each other for years — long before he was made Papa, when he was still a cheeky young clergy member causing a ruckus around the Ministry. You’d spend long days in bed together, luxuriating in the feel of the other many times over. When he ascended he asked for your hand in marriage, and you’d wept with him the night they dragged him off of that stage in Sweden.

Your sorrow was his, his was yours. Your life was his, his was yours.

And they killed him.

You fucking hated Copia when they made him head of the Ghost project, though that was probably unfair. Copia was far below the level of any Clergy member making those decisions. Still, it didn’t stop you marching into rehearsal when you heard him on the mic for Square Hammer and slapping him clean across the face, screaming, “that isn’t yours to sing!”

They’d had to have someone tranquillise you and drag you back to your room.

You screamed, you cried, you refused food, you mourned. Oh, how you mourned. You’d touch the place where Terzo used to lay in bed and imagine he was still there with you, holding you in his arms and reassuring you that everything would be alright. Every night you’d fall asleep in tears and every morning you had to face the agony of another day without him in it.

Eventually you left your shared chambers, afraid they’d kick you out if you didn’t start earning your keep again. Then you had to suffer the glances of pity they gave you, the furtive whispers of “Terzo’s poor widow”. It had been abysmal, but you tried to live what was left of your little life.

Those years ached.

And then there was V.

V, with his strange mannerisms and not-quite-human idiosyncrasies. An outsider, an oddity — just like you’d become. His soft words and endless patience in becoming first your friend and then daring to push closer. How he would cradle your face in his hand and press his lips to your kiss-aching mouth. You were nervous; how couldn’t you be, having lost before? You didn’t know if you could do it all. Not again.

Then one night you found him at the piano, his claws tapping on the ivories as he played. He’d moved up on the bench so you could slide in next to him and enjoy the shared warmth of your bodies against the evening cold.

“I’ve written something,” he said. “May I show you?”

“Of course.”

And he had. It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard, and you’d felt hot tears run down your cheeks. When he finished played he turned and kissed them away.

Maybe you were both afraid of eternity. But maybe there was time for you to love once again, too.

[prattsbratt]

Kind of following on from the last ask 👀 which papa would you say is the best at what in the bedroom? (I'm enjoying these papa competition shenanigans far too much)

i did have to think about this for a while and i think I strayed a bit here and there but here goes (under read more for veeeery 18+ themes, all gender-neutral):

Primo: His strength is that he surprises you, really. He has more stamina than you expect, is more intense than you expect, and even if he lets you get on top to be easier on his poor joints he has an easy dominance over you. That control is less by force and more so an energy he just exudes, a respect he commands with nothing more than a look. He is the best at disarming you completely, if you are into letting someone have his way with you for hours, giving up any sort of rational thinking and control, he is ideal for you, and he does not even need to use his canonically huge cock for that, no. That's just the eventual bonus.

Secondo: He makes your dreams come true. Whatever you are into, he makes it happen one way or another. There are few limits with him, really, and those are regarding mostly what he'd let you do to him, but not the other way around. He's proficient at most pracitices because he has a lot of experience but as to more standard things – he's very good at fingering. That is my ultimate HC and you'll melt if you have a thing for hands/gloves (you will never forget the smell of them, he takes very good care of his leather). Before he ever puts his dick inside he'll have you squirming, coming, crying out around his fingers and he's smug about the fact that it doesn't take more than his hands to make you come apart. Also very good at dirty talk, no matter if you prefer praise, degradation, if you like it soft or rough. He's got you covered, as long as you let him do his thing he'll find his pleasure in it.

Terzo: He has insane foreplay skills, absolutely crazy. He has you wet/hard with a kiss and an intense look from underneath his dark eyelashes. His hands fall into reverant worship the moment they touch you, soft and rough in an intoxicating combination that'll catch you off guard, and the act of undressing alone is sensual enough to make your mind black out. He is generally very attentive, always watching for your tells, and therefore also really good at oral of all kind. When he has his mouth on you and looks up with that heavy gaze it takes you apart before anything has really happened and when he gets going you'll be busy for a long time because he doesn't do things half-heartedly. It really is that combination of sensuality, passion and attention that is unbeatable and his intensity only grows the more into you he is.

Copia: He makes you feel SO safe, even when he's mindlessly fucking your brains out. There is something about him, no matter how he acts outwardly, that craves intimacy more than anything. If he can get away with it he'll mumble the sweetest or dirtiest words, makes the lewdest sounds, and yes, I think he is good at talking you through it but not in the classic dirty talk sense but in the way that he's so honest with it and can't hold back what he's thinking in the moment. People can call him a pervert all they want for talking about sex a lot but it's less that he's obsessed in general and more that he's craving that connection and physical release with someone. He's very unfiltered when passion finally takes over and feels it intensely. That's exactly what makes you feel safe and cherished, he is real in that moment. I think he is also very good at oral, no matter if you prefer to be more dominant or submissive in these scenarios, because he gets lost in sensations very easily and adapts to the energy you bring. Lots and lots of cuddles after whatever it is you do because he needs a lot of aftercare and is very good at it.

V: Anything that has to do with pain and sensation play is where he excels, I'd say. It's the trust of it, the deep connection it requires to give your body into the hands of someone else and rely on them to handle it with care. Receiving or giving, both suits him, but having you at his mercy is just so so special. It could be temperature play, it could be blindfolding, being tied up in various ways, it could be biting and marking or any other creative ways to bring new sensations into the mix. He likes it intense and passionate and unfiltered, no matter how messy it gets. And he likes to tease and torture and see just how far he can take it in the safety of what you have in each other. It brings such an intense intimacy, that's what he craves at the end of it all. He also offers very good aftercare because he needs it just as much after that, knowing there is this safety between you.

[prattsbratt]

tell us how each papa would react if they came prematurely (due to being too horned up)

You guys are gonna kill me 😫

Primo: He is very used to happening from time to time, given his age. If you’re yet to cum, he’ll do his due diligence to get you off if that’s what you want or need. While he sometimes might get frustrated by his own bodily function, it’s a compliment to how hot he finds you.

Secondo: Gets a little quiet, tries not to make a big deal out of it. You’re just… incredible. And oh Lucifer he feels like a teenager experiencing his first time again. He’s a soft man under the hard exterior, and so it’s one of the few times you might witness him blush. Let him pleasure you and then he’ll really fuck you proper once he’s hard again.

Terzo: This man is shook but smoothes it over with dirty talk, praise with a voice that wavers, and his mouth between your legs. You both giggle about it becuase this never happens to him, he’s adamant, especially not the shaking that come with it. But Lucifer below, you have him bewitched. He wants you so badly he can barely contain himself.

Copia: Apologises, gets flustered and shy if you try to soothe him. He knows it’s normal, but let him hide his face in your neck for a moment until his face isn’t the same shade as his cassock/jacket. It’s overwhelming for him and his eyes might be a little damp. Don’t mention this or the way he trembles. Depending on the mood you can probably giggle about it. He finds you that hot? He’ll get a bit whiny before you. Even after all the assurances he’ll keep apologising, even when he has his fingers in you or his mouth on you. Just tell him he’s a good boy, stroke his hair and he’ll be hard again in no time.

V: Looks a little spooked and flustered. Apologises but can barely get the words out to tell you that you’re just so beautiful and how much he loves you. You’ve got him under your spell. Trembles a lot, pet his hair and let him hide in your throat and pant. Just let him lay on/under you for a moment to collect himself. Kiss him tenderly and pet his hair.

[prattsbratt]

among the whisperings, the champagne, and the stars | Spencer Reid

— or the one where Spencer takes you home after JJ and Will’s wedding and you spend the night discussing love, finding the one, and (happy) ever-after’s on your balcony. [Spencer Reid x fem!BAU reader]

Word Count: 7.3K. Proof-read.

Content Warning: FLUFF + ANGST (the inner monologue kind). SECOND-PERSON POV. No use of Y/N. Mutual pining, hopelessly romantic idiots in love (not that they’d admit it, but man, they cannot hide it), description-heavy (one day, I will master the art of dialogue, I will!), alcohol consumption, reader wears a dress, reader has a fear of heights (allow me to project for once), space imagery, mentions of God, slight canon deviance (What is Jeid again? Does Evolution really exist? Would Spencer drink post S2? I have opinions!) Let me know of anything else that should be mentioned.

Author’s Note: Woah, almost three months since I have been here! Sorry for that but my WIPs have me locked the fuck in and I want to do them justice. This might be my favourite thing that I have ever written, hence the Gatsby reference in the title! Season 7!Spencer is my favourite thing in the world and I have an extra soft spot for him during the wedding scenes/the finale in general. Might be too romantic and sappy but I am owning it because hopeless romantic!Spencer is canon to me! Hope you guys enjoy, feedback is always appreciated, and I am looking forward to being more active on here 🫶🏻

There’s not much to be said about weddings. Well, not much, not anything, that hasn’t already been said before, at least. That doesn’t mean that people will not continue to say all of it, though. That they won’t still try to find the words to capture the feelings that such a moment inspires in everyone, the happiness that being part of them elicits. No, on the contrary. It will all keep being said, it will all keep being celebrated as if for the first time.

And there’s certainly beauty in it, in seeing two people who love each other celebrating the promise of forever with those closest to them. Those who drown them in gifts and wishes of happiness and health and a life spent adoring one another through thick and thin. Yes, there’s definitely a lot of beauty in all of it.

But there’s also a melancholy that, despite how misplaced it seems in the context of such a wonderful moment, persists and thrives on making itself known, on taking root so deeply inside of you that you cannot possibly outrun it if you tried.

Not through the dancing, not through the drinking, not even through observing Spencer’s delightfully charming magic tricks saved for keeping Henry alert enough to witness his mum and dad getting married.

You tried. Desperately. Didn’t you always, anyway? You were a good sport like that. You’d mastered the art of trying. In more ways than one, time and time again.

You agreed (not without expressing significant reluctance at first) to get up on the “dance floor” which Rossi had set up in his mansion’s ridiculously enormous garden, and ignore the embarrassment you’d undoubtedly feel as you swayed out of sync when Penelope and Emily asked you to. You weren’t that much of a party-pooper, after all. 

You also agreed to slow dance with Spencer when he had walked up to you where you had drifted off walking around the backyard, eyes staring up more at the starlit sky than the ground ahead of you, even when you’d got a little too close to the edge of the pool in your tipsy, melancholic state. As always, he’d found you just in time to prevent an accident which would have left you drenched and feeling much too sorry for yourself for the rest of the night. 

You’d agreed because you’d never been good at denying Spencer anything, especially not when he looked at you with those big, doe, hazel eyes of his, which seemed to shine even brighter under the fairy-lit environment surrounding you, and that signature tight-lipped smile he always seemed to wear when you were around. 

You’d agreed because the mere fact that he’d asked you to dance made your heart flutter like crazy, and gave you a precious excuse to be inches apart from him — your right arm wrapped loosely around his neck, your left hand intertwined with his right one, slightly sweaty from the nervousness he’d fought to approach you with his request — as he twirled you around and guided you with far more technique than you’d imagined him capable of. 

You’d agreed because he’d turned you into a flustered, smiley mess with his jokes and his tidbits and his compliments, and fuck, did it all indulge that stubborn part of you which was hellbent on falling even more in love with your best friend and colleague against all hope and odds.

While the dancing might not have come easy in itself, though, it did the job of keeping you just cheerful enough well. But the drinking was a whole other story. Of course it was. After all, isn’t alcohol almost always a person’s outlet to cope with sadness? You were no exception to the rule tonight. And a good sport as you were, you’d not managed to shut up about Rossi’s champagne and wine collection since the moment you’d arrived to help with the preparations, even beating Spencer for the title of the earliest arrival of the night. 

Frankly, you didn’t care enough to count just how many glasses of champagne you’d indulged in. Not when you had guided Derek, whose eyebrows had remained playfully raised at you the whole way there, to the buffet to help him fix his serving and refill your empty glass. Not when Hotch’s eyes had narrowed slightly as you offered Beth and Jack a far warmer welcome than you usually did. Not even when you had stood up to give your impromptu speech, toasting to the newlyweds with a throwback to those days in New Orleans during a case what seemed too long ago now, when you were still a rookie profiler, and JJ couldn’t have possibly thought she’d be here, with her two favourite boys and the rest of her friends, celebrating what’s made for her. Not even when Rossi had to cut you off eventually because, as he’d said, you are getting too wordy again, you need to leave something for the rest of us to say, too, kiddo, and Spencer had squeezed your forearm gently in an attempt to sweetly coax you into quiet. You’d grumbled as you sat back down in your chair, but still, you were proud of yourself for not messing it all up and making both JJ and Will smile. 

Even if you didn’t care, though, Spencer seemed to do that just enough for the both of you. Because right as you went to reach for yet another glass of the fizzy, sugary liquid, he’d stopped you with nothing more than another gentle squeeze, and a (terribly disguised) amused but concerned whisper of just how much you’d already had. You’ve just had your fourth one. And you really wanted to ignore his looking out for you, but goodness, he was so gentle with you, you might actually cry about it. You both knew better than to think you’d ever admit you actually enjoyed when he actively proved how much he truly cared about you. And so, again, you proved just how much of a good sport you were, and let him have his way with you. You even offered him a teasing eye-roll, alongside one of your typical, not overly bold displays of affection that came with fixing his slightly-crooked bowtie, and smiling — I guess if you think I’m no fun drunk, doc, then I can’t have that happening. ‘m sorry, lovey. It did the job perfectly, tinting his earlobes a light pink colour, as he struggled to get rid of the lump in his throat your touch and your words inevitably caused.

It was when you’d been overlooking Spencer doing a magic trick for Henry, though, when that inexplicable melancholy gnawed at your insides the most, when it was especially impossible to deny it existed. 

You’d been on your way to find them to announce that JJ was all dressed and ready to walk down the aisle when you’d seen it. Spencer, looking as dapper as he ever had in that tuxedo of his, crouching down slightly to be on Henry’s level, who was now sporting a jacket slightly too large for his age, along with a tie identical to Will’s. You’d made it just in time to see Spencer extending his empty palm to Henry, his mouth open in an O shape, as he asked him if he’d seen his mum’s ring. Did you—do you have the ring, Henry? What? No? Where—Hey! Do you have the ring? He’d asked, referring to you then, voice all high-pitched as you blinked, and shook your head, your lips already turning upwards into a poorly disguised smile as you realised what was happening. Reaching behind his ear just when Henry had turned to look at you, he made the ring magically reappear, and you played into the whole thing, gasping as Henry blinked back up at him, clearly confused but still delighted. With Henry erupting into a fit of giggles, Spencer looked between you both, his own smile widening when he saw that you were grinning as much as Henry was. It was impossible not to, seeing him in his element, performing a magic trick for a little boy that he adored, and reminding you just why your stomach filled with butterflies and your heartbeat sped up when you were around him.

The image had still been fresh in your mind as you stood next to Spencer, overlooking Henry holding that same ring out to his mum on a cushion, as his dad put it on her finger, and promised to love her forever until death do them part. You hadn’t been sure which of the two images actually made tears appear in your eyes, or made you shyly glance up at Spencer, who stood inches taller next to you still, even while you wore the most uncomfortably high pair of heels you owned. You’d tried to fight them off, but as always, Spencer was so attuned to you in ways that couldn’t let you hide even if you wanted to. Even in a room full of people, even during a wedding ceremony. 

Hey. You okay? He mouthed when he looked over at you, his expression immediately softening once he took notice of your teary eyes.

I’m alright, lovey. You mouthed back, shaking your head as nonchalantly as possible, before returning your attention to JJ and Will exchanging their vows. 

Still, Spencer’s gaze remained locked on you for a moment longer. When he focused straight ahead, he only did it after his knuckles brushed along the back of your hand. Intentionally yet casually enough, a brief and reserved touch which was still enough to make your breath catch inside your throat. And still, you’d tried your best to ignore the tears, but more so what caused them. 

The realisation that if you ever were to want something akin to forever, if you had imagined yourself finding it, the one person you wanted it with was the one standing next to you.

And that realisation dawning on you was enough to have you drifting towards the buffet as most of the others were either still mid-conversation, dancing, or getting ready to call it a night. You’d promised yourself you’d hail a cab home soon enough, just… Perhaps after you’d indulged in Rossi’s fine champagne collection a little more. Scanning the tables for your any remaining bottles, your nails clinking rhythmically against the tall, empty glass in your hand, you frown when you realise every one of them was empty. Petulantly, you turn around, expecting to spot one of the waiters Rossi’d hired for the night. Instead, you find yourself face to face with the tuxedo-clad man who was the very reason you’d been hoping there was more champagne waiting for you.

“Whoa, whoa—Hey, easy there.” 

“Spencer, thank God! Quick, help me find more champagne, will you? All of the bottles here are empty!” You pat his chest after regaining your balance, desperately trying to ignore the goosebumps creeping up your spine at the feeling of his arm around your waist. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, actually. You’ve already had plenty. Here, maybe we can find you some water—“

“Oh, don’t be a killjoy!” You grumble. “We’re celebrating, I should be able to—Hey, you’ve got some—“ If Spencer was going to stop you from switching your empty glass with his full one (he hadn’t had but one lousy sip of it this past hour), he wasn’t quick enough. “Ugh, see, this? You and your impeccable timing? This is why you’re my hero, doc.“ Spencer sighs as he watches you down most of the champagne, flustered and amused all the same. Luckily, he regains his composure once you’ve emptied your glass, and turn to seek out another one.

“Right, I think that’s enough celebration for you.” He leaves both glasses on the nearest table behind you and gently stops you from reaching out for them again.

When you pout at him, he doesn’t relent, and you let out a tiny groan as you lean against the table. “I’m simply doing Rossi a favour. He wouldn’t want his finest wine collection to go to waste.”

“I’m pretty sure Rossi would agree you’ve more than done your part. His wine collection is not what’s been wasted.”

You roll your eyes, grimacing slightly to avoid appearing entertained by his comment. “Ridiculous,” you tut, looking past his shoulder all coyly, “‘m not wasted.”

Spencer tilts his head and regards you with an amused half-smile. “Right. Would mildly inebriated work better?” You roll your eyes but don’t respond. “No? Well, just tipsy, then.”

You can’t fight the smile your lips finally curve into at that. Not when you make eye contact again and realise he looks as gently amused by you as he sounds. “Fine, I will give you tipsy.” A hint of a late-May evening breeze blows just then. You cross your arms in front of your chest and inwardly curse yourself for not bringing a jacket with you. Spencer notices, and opens his mouth to probably mention your being cold, but you don’t let him. “I’m just being a good sport. I’m celebrating. I’m happy.”

A beat of silence passes where Spencer decides that right now is not the time to probe you with more questions as to what you’re truly thinking about. Not because he doesn’t notice, or even has his own guesses, but because he knows you won’t indulge his efforts. The light banter that defines your relationship — whatever that is — would have to suffice. “I don’t think Rossi’s going to be equally as happy if you end up falling asleep on his couch tonight.”

“Why would I fall asleep on his couch when there are so many guest bedrooms in his mansion?” Spencer chuckles at your attempt to mimic Rossi’s voice and words before a recent briefing at work. “If I were to end up falling asleep here, that is.”

“Which you’re not going to do.” 

“Well… Not unless I have to.”

It seems you both reach that particular point with your back-and-forth where Spencer can’t help but become flustered. Whether it’s what you’re suggesting or what you’re outright asking of him, the result is the same. It’s not like he’d not have offered taking you home, either way. After all, it wasn’t just you who couldn’t deny him anything. 

“Then I guess we better make sure you don’t have to.” He eventually nods, a playful glint still apparent in his eyes, one that’s very similar to the one in yours. He smiles back the moment you preen.

When he tries to fix his fringe from in front of his eyes, you rid both of you of the remaining distance between you and do it for him. From this close, you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing and his breath catching inside his throat, and he can feel the scent of your signature vanilla fragrance and the sweet aftertaste of the champagne you’ve drunk cloud his senses. To his credit, he stops himself from fully leaning into your touch where your lithe fingertips skim his jawline, coiling the stray curl behind his ear. 

“Spencer?” He only blinks when your attention is now on fixing his bowtie. You toy with it for a moment before you leave it as crooked as it was, and hum back at him, “Do you think we could get some ice cream on the way over?”

He doesn’t have to think about it twice, really. Stays by your side as you drown JJ and Will in even warmer well wishes and tries to ignore Derek’s subtle teasing as he waits to do the same. When you’re reluctant to leave Emily’s side where she’s sat between a sleeping Henry and Jack, sensing that she’s holding back on something serious, he only caves when she looks him in the eye as if to say don’t screw this up. 

You’re both still wondering what all that was about when you’re curling up against the worn-out leather of his Volvo’s passenger seat and he’s driving you back to DC. He lets you fiddle with the radio console until you give up on finding something good to listen to and turn to him with your curious questions and harmless gossip the whole drive to the ice-cream shop.

He relents when you loop your arm around his as you exit with your ice cream cup in hand and ask him to walk for a while, even though he knows you’ll barely last in your heels for long. Five minutes later and barely a block away from where he parked, you’re leaning onto him and stifling your pained groans, and he’s holding back on any I-told-you-so’s like he always is with you. Instead, he entertains your trying to name the constellations above you and acting nonchalant as he matches your slowed-down pace back to his car.

Luckily, your place is only a few-minutes drive away.

“You didn’t really have to walk me upstairs.” You leave him to close the door behind him, already leaning against the couch’s armrest, half a spoonful of vanilla ice cream in your mouth as you reach down to unstrap your heels.

“Considering the elevator in your building is out of service and you almost fell flat on your face twice on the way up here, I’d say I really had to.” He chuckles as he munches on his own scoop, choices identical to yours — vanilla and banana split. He knows well enough not to turn on the big light in your living room, settles for the small, antique lamp you’d bought on a thrift shop visit after a case in New Orleans. The warm orange light hits your figure in just the right way as you bend over, tresses delicately falling in front of your eyes, the dark emerald green satin fabric of your dress rising up your calves as you finally free yourself from those unholy shoes (he’ll never understand just why you wear them, even if Derek and Emily had tried to explain it for your sake). 

It’s not inappropriate, the way he looks at you. No, it could never be. After all, he’s mastered the art of defining boundaries well enough in his thirty years alive on this Earth. But it’s also nothing like the way friends are supposed to look at each other. It has been anything but that since he met you and he only realises it more and more with every day he’s known you. 

2047 days and counting. 

And every single one of these days, to Spencer, you’ve always been the closest thing to truly disarming beauty that he has ever known. Everything from the way you trace the outline of your lips with your knuckles, to the deep frown that paints your features when you’re thinking too hard, and the way you always know exactly what to say and when to say it — all of it has made Spencer feel as if he’s only really been alive since the day he met you. He might as well have, for all he knew. It has long felt like what came before you was an indistinguishable blur of events and feelings.

Even though he’s certain he has the words to describe it, he doesn’t think he’s capable of it. There’s adoration and tenderness, a kind of reverent fascination to how he sees you and for what he sees in you, that phrasal combinations  lack the power to translate. 

The only thing Spencer is and has always been certain of is that he wants to know you, all of you. In every way there is to know a person. That’s the truth of it. The truth he tries to fail behind. Successfully or not, he can’t quite say, but God, is he trying.

Like now, when he’s already been too deep in his fondness for the sight of you to realise in time that you’ve mumbled something along the lines of I wasn’t that bad, made it to your kitchen, grabbed a bottle of champagne and two glasses, and were now making your way towards the window to your balcony.

“Wh—Wait—What are you doing?” He almost stumbles over his own feet and chokes on his few leftover ice-cream bites before he makes it by your side. 

You ignore him when he tries to reason with you, already climbing out of the window, and sitting down on one of the small chairs you’d managed to place there when you’d moved to your unit. 

You’re already pouring a glass of champagne for yourself as he huffs your name in that all-familiar high-pitched tone of voice he always takes on when you have a terrible idea or push his buttons all too well. “Oh, come on, doc, don’t be dramatic.” You swing the empty glass back and forth in front of his face, wiggling your eyebrows. “Now, are you going to join me, or am I pouring a second glass for myself?”

And Spencer sighs, because he really can’t say no to you, really doesn’t want to, which means he can only push his lanky frame between the balcony’s window all funny, and feel the metal of the table pinch his side as he tries to sit down opposite you. 

Your poorly suppressed giggles are only met with a narrowing of his eyes and a shaking of his head. You’re impossible. He wipes dust off of his suit jacket and trousers and ignores the half-full glass you’ve pushed in front of him. 

He studies you for a moment, looking across the railing, from the half-empty street below you to the starlit midnight sky above you, back to the bubbling liquid inside your glass. 

Something was off about you, that much was clear now as it had been during the wedding. It wasn’t that you hadn’t been genuinely happy for JJ and Will, hadn’t honestly joined in alongside everyone celebrating. It wasn’t even that your drinking could be classified as excessive, really. He’d seen you drink more than you had tonight during team outings at O’ Koeffe’s — out of happiness, out of misery, out of burn-out. 

But right now, you weren’t any of these things. What clouded your features was not the familiar melancholy he’s known you to succumb to more than a handful of times all these years, it seemed… deeper than that. Similar in a way, but different and deeper than that at the same time.

You’re a universe of your own making and, impossible as it seems, Spencer prides himself in his stubbornness enough to want to unravel you, one law, one piece, one secret at a time. Just as long as you let him.

He moves his chair closer to the centre of the table and goes to bring yours further inside as well. You startle gently, returning to reality from where you’d drifted off inside your head because of the crackly sound. “What—“

“You are afraid of heights.” He interrupts, his tone factual and simple. That one case where you hadn’t gone back to being yourself until an hour later was a painful reminder of that. He’d had to stay behind with you after Derek had seized the unsub, not before he’d dragged you a little too close to the rooftop’s edge, leaving you breathless down on your knees and staring blankly at Spencer as he tried to ease your panic.

“Doesn’t seem to faze me too much right now.”

“Still, I’m not letting you risk it—“ And the way he pulls your chair further away from the railing of the balcony shouldn’t make your stomach flip, swarm with butterflies, but it does, and perhaps you could blame it on the alcohol, but deep down you know it is more than that. You choose to ignore it because haven’t you always done that? Even as the signature sandalwood scent of his cologne fills your senses and makes it harder to keep your eyes open, even as his fingertips skims the bare of your upper back innocently enough and gives you goosebumps. If he chooses to ignore that, so do you. You are, once again, a good sport.

You try to be, at least. As he focuses on perhaps shielding you from crossing the line from tipsy to properly inebriated by going to pull your glass away from you. You stop him before he can do it, holding it away from him. “If you reach for my glass again, I will bite you.”

“Well, that’s a new one.” He laughs. Until you squint seriously, mockingly threatening, and he stops, clearing his throat. “Okay, okay, I won’t.”

You turn to the constellations adorning the night sky then, like you’d done previously during your short-lived walk. “Hey, look!” You point towards an arrangement of stars resembling a cross, clearer from here than they’d been before. “That’s the Cygnus, isn’t it?”

Spencer follows your line of sight and smiles, “That’s the one, yeah.” Your unit was almost at the top floor of your building, meaning the view must have always been breathtaking during clear nights like these. “Seems brighter from up here.” He looks back at you then, his heart skipping a beat at how your eyes seem to sparkle as you connect the stars together, again and again. 

You’d always been fond of them, Spencer knew that well. You’d once spent hours on the phone asking him questions based on the latest copy of The Astronomical Journal that he subscribes to when he’d lent it to you. He’d talked your ear off happily all the way from Las Vegas where he’d been on a visit to his mother, delighted to engage with your questions and your theories.

I’m sorry, I know I get all philosophical about this stuff, but I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.

Don’t be sorry. You know we’ve both been saved more times than we can count because of your thinking deeply.

He’d said, and you’d laughed, flustered enough for him to notice even from the other end of the line, on the other side of the country. What he’d wanted to say, though, was much more than that — Your mind is fascinating, you know? Please, keep talking, because the world is much more interesting through your eyes. I’d listen to you for hours on end every day of my life if you’d only let me.

Even now, Spencer wants to tell you so many things. He wants to ask you so many things. Still, you beat him to it.

“Swans mate for life, don’t they?”

“It’s not a general rule of nature, but yes, they tend to be strictly monogamous as a species. A significant portion of them doesn’t search for a new partner, even after one of them dies, and there are cases where swans have died while mourning their partners in what does resemble a broken heart syndrome.”

Your expression shifts from entranced to thoughtful to dejected by the time that he’s finished talking. “Ah,” You frown at your still untouched glass. “So much for happy ever afters.”

At your words, Spencer softens. Understands much more than you’re letting him in on. “I mean, it is true that it’s the exception, not the rule with them.”

The smile on your lips is self-effacing as you rest your chin on your palm, mulling over your thoughts and feelings alike. It’s always like Spencer to be so… logical. Precise. Honest, perhaps to an unnerving degree. You adore him for it, although there are times when you wished that he’d bend the truth a little. If only for your sake. 

“And—Well, even if it was the rule,” He starts characteristically, not just because he wants to comfort you, but because he sees and understands you. He has always felt like he does, has always hoped you feel the same way. “There’s no rule in life without exceptions.”

He doesn’t look away as you finally take a sip from your champagne, ponders desperately on whether he’s managed to say the wrong thing, at the wrong time. He’s notorious for doing that, after all. When you do respond, he tries not to flinch.

“Does that really matter if most, if not all, rules and their exceptions involve settling?” You’re still only looking at Spencer from the corner of your eye, because you know that you’re past the point of no return when it comes to opening up to him. It’s always like this. He never pries, never says more than he has to (not where you’re concerned), yet sees right through you. Through every layer, every wall you’ve put up for yourself. He challenges everything you’ve ever known just by seeing you. 

It’s no wonder he doesn’t say anything, his eyes flickering between your own almost apologetic. An unsettling kind of understanding. One that’s a quiet declaration. 

Don’t think that I don’t see you because I do. I always have. 

“It’s not like there’s any certainty to the opposite, is it? Happy endings? You could want it, you could try to find it time and time again, but what if there’s no one on your side? Not God, not fate, not… probability. What if all you’re meant to do is settle for something that you’ve never wanted?” Sighing, you sit back against your chair, and shrug. “I don’t know, I just… Seeing JJ and Will tonight, knowing that they have something so real, that they’ve found it and… and held on to it all this time… It’s… I just don’t like that it’s not the rule. Not for everyone.”

It’s what it all comes down to for you, really. You want to find something to say that has not been said before. You want to be the exception to the rule. To find forever. To cultivate it, if nothing else. You want to love someone, and give yourself to them. You want to watch them leave, and fuck, you want to continue to love them because you can, because you choose to.  You’re loyal like that. You’re sure if everyone’s made for something in this life, you’re made for giving yourself completely to the one. Against all odds, against any outcome. Because finding the one is devastatingly true. And how can anything compare to it? How can you just sit there and accept that you might be the exception to every possible rule, that you might not get to find the one, and that you’ll spend the rest of your life settling in more ways than one. 

You aren’t made for that. You just can’t accept that you’re made for that. If it’s a rule of life, a law of nature, you want no part of it. You’ve never been good at being logical, after all. Emotions were your strong suit. Understanding what everything and everyone’s made of and why they’re made like that. 

“I just don’t like when people have to compromise,” you admit finally. And then, even more softly, “I just don’t want to have to compromise.”

Spencer refrains from turning to words of comfort this time. Returns to what he’s always yearning for — to understand you. “Why do you think that you will have to?”

“Because it’s the whole thing, isn’t it? Everyone has to eventually, in one way or another.” 

You say it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Clearly, though, he’s taken aback by your words. He doesn’t know if it’s the fact that you seem to truly believe them to be true or if he deep down also believes them to be true for himself. He considers what brought this topic, this onslaught of feelings, on in the first place, relies once again in his hopeless optimism. “JJ didn’t have to.”

The exception to the rule.

“No, she didn’t. Because she’s JJ and because Will’s Will. Because they deserved not to have to compromise.” It’s only then you turn to look at him, hoping in that inexplicable attunement that exists between you, and forgives you whenever you’re not making sense for the rest of the world. “But you said it yourself. Every rule has its exceptions. That’s how life works. And I… I certainly don’t understand the logistics of it all, but you… you understand everything. It’s your whole thing.”

And Spencer’s eyes sparkle and widen slightly, because he doesn’t understand everything, and he certainly doesn’t understand you. Not you. Not completely. If he did, he’d know what’s made you believe there are no exceptions to every one of life’s rules. If he did, he’d perhaps be able to accept why you’ve made peace with torturing yourself over not deserving to be an exception. If he did, he’d know how to help you understand in return that you’d always been one. To him, you’ll always be one. In all honesty, you’d always been the only exception to every rule in his life. He’d like to think that could mean something to you because he knows that your understanding him means everything to him. More than he could say.

You’re staring up at the Cygnus constellation when Spencer reminds himself that you’re a universe of your own making. You’re made of laws and phenomena that are in few ways clearer to him now than they were when you first met. Spencer knows that all people are exceptional — exceptions — in their own way but he also understands that you can’t be compared to just anyone or everyone. The universal is personal in this life. Well, it’s the truth until it isn’t. It’s enough until it isn’t. And how can he understand you in a way that is enough? He wants to. God, how he wants to. Maybe then you’d be right, maybe then he’d understand everything. 

Until then, though, the only truth he knows and understands would have to suffice. 

“You won’t have to.”

You blink down at him, not expecting that in the slightest. Instinctively, you’re ready to bite, you always are. But there’s something about Spencer turning the tables on you that makes you uncharacteristically vulnerable. Something that makes your only response come in the form of a whispery, “How do you know?”

He’s not even the tiniest bit hesitant when he whispers back, “I just do.”

You’re rendered speechless in a way that burns you up from the inside out, leaves you oblivious to the shiver that a sudden breeze causes you, and to the goosebumps lining your sensitive skin. 

You’re not oblivious to the way that Spencer shrugs his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders, though, and is quick to drape it over yours, his calloused fingertips fixing the strap of your dress from where it’d fallen down your arm. 

For a moment, he stills, and it’s all because in trying to secure the fabric over your body, your hand comes to rest on top of his. He doesn’t move. You don’t move. 

You look at him and see the universe. He looks at you and feels the same. 

It’s the closest you’ve both come to understanding everything that there is to understand in this life.

“Thank you, lovey.” 

His ears take on the same tint of soft pink colour they do every time you’ve called him that. Still, he’s categorised all of them in his mind well enough to know that you’ve never uttered it the way you just have, that it’s never overflowed with as many emotions as it does now.

When you both pull away, reluctantly, Spencer has to take a sip from the glass you’d so kindly poured him when you settled on your balcony. Funnily enough, the starry liquid is exactly what his heart needs to go back to beating normally again. 

It’s short-lived, though, because you call out his name quietly, and he’s back to looking at you and hoping that it’s not painfully transparent you have his heart in your hands.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think you’ll have to, either.”

He doesn’t know what to say, although he’s glad to see the curves of your lips tilting upwards as you curl further into his jacket. As long as you’re back to being you, he thinks that silence might be the greatest gift he could ever be given. Especially the kind that stems from endless understanding, from seeing each other.

You only climb back inside your apartment once the bottle of champagne has been emptied (it only took two separate pours in either one of your glasses), only it’s Spencer who gets in first, and it’s his hand you’re squeezing as you follow his lead.

You’re still clinging onto his jacket when he shuts the window behind him and rises to his usual height. “It’s late, isn’t it?”

Spencer checks his watch, although he doesn’t have to. He knows it’s late, recognises the out you’re giving him for what it is. “Almost half-past midnight.” 12:27, if he chose to be pedantic as per usual. He decides not to.

You stay put where you stand by the window, half-nodding as he wipes his palms on his suit trousers, and doesn’t make an effort to take his jacket back or walk away from you.

“Uh—I—“ This is where you’re thinking over your options, cursing yourself for not being bold enough to tell him you really want him to stay tonight. Because you don’t want to be alone, because he doesn’t have to leave, because he’s everything. But the weather is perfect and there’s practically no traffic at such an hour. The half-empty glasses sitting atop of your tiny balcony table almost wink at you just then, have you looking up at him again. “It’s not a good idea to drive after you’ve drunk, right?”

In the almost complete darkness of your living room’s corner, you’re glad you can somehow and rather poorly hide from him. 

You notice his bowtie looks extra crooked right then. You reach out to fix it and hope he won’t feel how much you are burning, even as your fingers brush against the curls on the nape of his neck. 

If he does, he doesn’t mention it. He’s pretty sure he’s warming up just because of your proximity and the sight of you in his jacket as you touch him, anyway. “Oh, no. It’s, uh… Strongly advised against. Whatever the alcohol intake.”

You don’t pull away, even if you’ve finished fixing his bowtie to its usual perfect crookedness, and you are sure his eyes have never looked prettier than they do right now, aglow by the moonlight bathing you both where you stand by the window.

“You can… Well, you can stay the night.” It’s certainly a proposal. It definitely sounds like one. At least to you, it does. You’d know about it, surely. You’d tiptoed the tightrope that was your friendship with him, navigated through the blurred lines that had your heart skipping several beats as it clung to the presence of the equally hopeless and hopeful what-ifs, long enough to have mastered the way you phrase things. Always open, never imposing. Often suggestive, circumstantially bold. Constantly present to remind him that you’d always try to resemble comfort and truth for him. And although the haziness brought upon you by the excessive amount of champagne you’d drunk tonight was adamant in trying to cloud your judgement, still, by the colour creeping on Spencer’s features, you think that’s how he takes it, too. Thankfully.

Breathe, blink. Still here, still a gorgeous, looming (sans jacket) tuxedo-clad beauty with doe hazel eyes and a smile that was more so a pure-intentioned invitation than anything else in front of you. 

You wish you knew what he thought. You wish you could wrap your arms around him and press your face against his chest and have no reason to pull away in case you blur the lines so devastatingly that there is no turning back from. You wish that he’d want you to do that, not just settle for it, but want that. Want you like you want him.

Little do you know that he does, that he always has and always will, that he’d be yours if only you’d just ask him. If only he could find the courage to just ask you. It’s all that he thinks of. Well, perhaps that’s a hyperbole, but it is always constant, always vastly looming over each other overpowering thought — statistics of potential serial killers at large in the tristate area, the Riemann’s Hypothesis solution draft that he’d been working on all day yesterday, the quotes of Brontë’s poetry he’d meant to ask you your opinion on, whether JJ and Will will like his present. 

All of it was always overshadowed by the thought of you — the thought of wanting you.

I could stay forever, Spencer thinks. Fleeting enough, he could blame it on the champagne, although his intake was barely enough to constitute him light-headed. He could blame it on how enticing your voice is now that it has dropped more than an octave and taken on that soft, whispery tone. That would be more fitting a reason — except the choice to stay had been the only option for him before, when your cadence was as usually vibrant as ever. Then again, it had also been the only option for him when he’d seen you mad — furious, even — with the world, with yourself, with Hotch for not trusting you enough during the latest interrogation. He could blame it on the constellations lining up the sky and how the dark midnight blue of it brought out that indescribable desire (or need would be a more astute description, since he had no control over it) to be vulnerable with you. To open up to you, to keep opening up to you, to the point where he can barely think of what more there is to say. That’s when you’d roll your eyes in that characteristic way of yours, that ever-so-curious glint appearing in your eyes, as you tell him that there will always be more to say, more to know, more to understand. About the world, about each other, about what matters. And he’d agree, not only because you’re right, but because he doesn’t think he could ever have enough of getting to know you, to understand you.

Maybe it was the wedding which made him lean towards the option of blaming it on all this talk about happy endings. About rules and the exceptions to them, about finding the one, about wishing for forever. Probability, fate, divine intervention, choice — just what exactly, he couldn’t possibly make his mind upon, isn’t sure he understands what there is to understand about it, except for the fact that he wanted it just as much as you seemed to. Both of you did. Craved it. Hoped for it. Seeing JJ and Will celebrate their love just made it clearer to you both, opening your heart to each other like you had tonight solidified it. So yes, that’s what he blames it on. That’s how he explains just why exactly you have taken on the living embodiment of what he’s always dreamed of yet never had the courage to ask for.

He steals a small glance to his left, to the empty bottle of champagne and the glasses sitting upon your balcony table. Then, he looks towards the end of the hallway, towards the door to your office space he’d help you set up a few years back, where he knows you keep an extra wardrobe. 

You still don’t move as he pads through your apartment, like he’s done time and time again, knowing every corner of it like the back of his hand.

“Are your spare pillows and blanket still in the second drawer to the left?” He asks over his shoulder once he is behind the half-ajar door and over the sound of the wooden drawers cracking open slightly, not really waiting for an answer.

Because he already knows what it is.

[prattsbratt]

Fic request: reader x perpetua and reader has a competency kink (I am a musician and V is very good at his craft AWOOGA)

I fully agree with you there! Here's some 800 words about how much it turns you on and how into you he is in return.

Definitely NSFW.

there’s a monitor in the green room where you can see the stage, like there is at every venue. for the stagehands trying to take a break before the next set change, or the musicians who aren’t needed onstage that very moment to monitor the show and make sure they aren’t late for their entrances.

for you, however, it’s your window into the beautiful, intricate world that your Papa crafts onstage. you watch at every venue, every single night, as he entrances the crowd with his voice, his mannerisms, his singing- it all adds up to a show that you can never forget, night after night.

and night after night, it ends with your fingers buried inside yourself, your thumb pressed on your clit as you watch. imagining that his voice is singing only to you in that moment, Perpetua’s words whispered promises of what he’ll do to you once he gets offstage.

what he always does when he finds you fingering yourself to his performances in the green room.

as he takes his bows onstage with the rest of the ghouls, you shift the blanket in your lap and sit up from where you’d thrown yourself haphazardly on the couch.

no one used the green rooms, you’d learned, if you put a sign on the door that said out of order. giving you a private, front row seat to the magic.

there’s anticipation in your gut as you hear the soft knock on the door that always heralds his arrival. he’s always so hopped up on energy after a show, lost in the throes of the passion and lust that drive him forward, and yet with you, he forces himself to be gentle.

at least, until you both really get into it.

but you rise to answer the door in only your panties, allowing him to catch a glimpse of the sweet curves you’re offering, before you shut it quickly in his face again.

you hear a dark chuckle under his breath and another soft knock comes to the door.

“little one…” he murmurs against the wood and just the words alone make you shiver. “is this the game we’re playing tonight?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tell him and you can’t stop yourself from giggling. you can hear the smile in his voice, the one that promises you a punishment if you don’t let him in the room to join you.

you keep the door closed.

“did I not perform well enough? were you not impressed by the show tonight?”

he has to know that’s not the case, has to know exactly what kind of state he’s put you in. what kind of state his performances always put you in.

“you were wonderful.”

“then let me in so that I may take my reward.”

his voice is low, ensuring that the whispered words that float through the door are for you and you alone. “hm…”

you feign thinking for a few moments before wrapping your hand around the doorknob. as you turn it, a gloved hand reaches between the doorframe and the door, catching the edge so that you cannot easily close it in his face again.

his mask appears around the door, a wicked smile playing across his lips as he catches a better glimpse of you in all of your undressed glory.

“what were you going to do if it wasn’t me at the door, little one?” he asks as he enters, gently closing it behind him. you hear the click of the lock above your heartbeat, thundering in your ears like a promise.

“but it was.”

he reaches out for you and playfully, you flounce back just out of his reach. his claw catches just a bit of the skin on your hip, the point sharp for but a moment before he seems to regain control of himself and it returns to being just a normal finger.

the momentary sensation makes your chest flutter: you love when he traces patterns into your skin with those claws. his true nature, reserved for you alone.

“you need to be more careful,” he tells you as he sheds his coat and begins to unbutton his shirt. your eyes follow the movements of his hands like a starving person, wetness between your legs at the memory of what those hands can do.

unbidden, the memory of his gestures onstage rises to the forefront of your mind. you collapse back onto the couch as you watch him undress, knees knocking to either side so that the wet patch on your panties is on full display.

he’s looking- you know that.

“shameless,” Perpetua scolds, but there’s hunger in his eyes, in his voice.

“yes,” you say with an innocent smile. “are you going to come take your reward?”

he advances on you without a word, the edge in his glances enough to make you shiver.

it had been a good show- it’s promising to be an even better night.

[prattsbratt]

the second most employee of the month awards

notes: this is so fucking silly. petty office bitches scenario. thank you to @grumsens who helped me plan this and came up with 80% of the funny stuff they're doing to each other. the story where reader has the first most employee of the month awards and copia hates it.

rating: m (suggestive)

words: 1.8k

pairing: copia x reader

Copia is glaring across the table at you, and if he cared more about your opinion, he would probably try and get himself to stop.

It’s your mugs, he thinks. Your mugs are the most irritating thing about you. Not the air of superiority you bring to every meeting, not the way siblings scuttle after you at your every beck and call, but the receptacle you use for your coffee whenever you’re in the same room as him.

It’s way too big for you to reasonably finish all of your drink from, but it’s that size on purpose to show off the image you have printed on it: the photo of you and Papa Nihil shaking hands at the latest employee of the month awards. You had won. Again. And now Copia has cottoned on to how you angle it towards him, always making sure to sit across the table from him, you and that fucking mug in his eyeline every single time.

He thinks about all the little digs you’ve made at each other over the years. Him making your americano so strong one day that you did a spit-take over Terzo. You emptying the stapler before you knew he had to sit down and organise some paperwork. Him unspooling all of your paper clips one day. Tiny acts of warfare across the battlefield which is upper management.

You’ve realised he’s staring. You give him a smug little smile, lifting your mug to your lips and drinking. The printed photo stares out at him and Copia worries he is going to shatter his teeth from how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

Again. 

Sister Imperator hadn’t much liked shelling out the money for him to get that crown; he probably shouldn’t allow a repeat of the situation. He also thinks that if you knew you were the cause of his recent dental distress you’d probably have a fucking field day over it.

“...and that about brings us to the end of today’s itinerary. Anything else anyone needs to raise?” Sister Imperator asks, looking around the table. It’s the usual lot: her and Nihil - though he’s barely present - the three former Papas, himself, and you. You stare at him hard as you clear your throat, quickly plastering on a sweet little smile before turning to Sister.

“I just wanted to say thank you for awarding me with the employee of the month award again, Sister. I’ve been working very hard on the plans for the monastery’s extension, and it means the world to me that it’s been noticed.”

Sister beams at you and Copia is almost sick in his mouth. Nobody else around the table actually cares about this, the Papas’ attention already wandering. No, this is aimed at him and only him.

“Of course. And we thank you for all the work you’re doing for us. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“I know,” you say, softly, and wink at Copia. He tightens his fist and snaps the pen he’s holding clean in half. Luckily the meeting is being called to an end and everyone is anxious to leave the room, none of them really having the stamina for bureaucratic meetings like this. Sister turns to him.

“Copia, hang back with me a second. We need to discuss some things about the upcoming tour.”

He nods, painfully aware that you haven’t left the room yet. You’re packing up deliberately slowly, watching Copia try and mop up the ink stain he has just created. As Sister turns to grab some paperwork from the filing cupboard behind her, you speak up.

“I’m sorry you lost out on Employee of the Month again, Copia,” you say, cocking your head to the side, acting the innocent. He glares, seething.

“No, you’re not.” 

“No, I’m not! Better luck next time,” you say, flourishing that grin at him like you’re wielding a sword. 

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under. 

He’s lucky that, day-to-day, he doesn’t have to interact with you much. His time is usually eaten up with his taking over of the Ghost project. He remembers that one stung for you, especially because of what a big deal was made over him not being part of the Bloodline - how your mouth had puckered like you were sucking a lemon, glowering as Sister had congratulated him. He’d kept that picture of you in his head, returned to his room and pleasured himself to it in the shower that evening. The bitterness plastered all over your face, the intensity with which you’d stared, how your lips would feel around his cock rather than his own hand…

Admittedly the scenario had run away with him a little.

He blocks it out, instead focussing back on Sister and the things she needs to run over in anticipation of his tour. There’s a lot to discuss but he’s excited about it, nervous perhaps, but excited nonetheless. For a little while he is able to put you out of his head, until Sister brings you screeching back into it again, like some horrible yet inevitable car crash.

“Oh, and, as we’re finishing up, looks like our dear sibling left some of their papers here. Can you bring it to their office? You go that way anyway, yes?”

Copia doesn’t know how he missed that you left them. It had to have been on purpose, knowing that he would be the one asked to return them to you. He wants to be petulant, but he likes Sister - most of the time, anyway - and telling her no isn’t going to get him any closer to this month’s award.

“Eh, yes, okie dokie. I can do that, Sister.”

She smiles, passing him the papers as she sees him out. He tries not to crumple them in his fist as he makes the walk, feeling like his doom is impeding as he closes the gap to your office. It takes him a full minute to gather the effort to knock on the door with one of his leather gloves.

“Come in!”

He opens the door to find you hunched over at your computer. Your posture is bad, you shouldn’t really be arching your back like that. You’re also entirely too close to your monitor, though he tries to push any semblance of concern towards the fact you’re a human being to the back of his mind, because he has to remember you are his enemy first and a person second.

When you realise it’s him you straighten up, affecting a more formal posture, cupping your face in your hand as a predatory smile crosses your face.

“Ah, Copia, it’s you. Can’t get me out of your mind, huh?”

He gives you a withering look.

“You know you forgot your stuff. Sister asked me to bring it over… after we were done talking about the tour, hm?”

He sees your eyelid flicker in annoyance just a little and he’s pettily proud. You turn back to your computer.

“Just go and put them over there. In front of my trophy shelf.”

You nod towards the corner, and for the first time Copia’s eyes are drawn there. A towering cabinet takes up a whole section of your office, and inside it, every single certificate for Employee of the Month you’ve ever been awarded in their little frames, as well as the tchotchkes they gave you along with them. Commemorative pens, tacky plastic trophies, a fucking used Applebees gift card. It’s a completely pointless decorative display… but it’s a completely pointless decorative display designed to piss him off.

He wonders, briefly, just how much of your respective days are used up thinking about each other.

When Copia turns back from depositing your papers messily on a side table, you’re grinning. Then you take a sip out of that fucking mug again, putting it down on the edge of your desk, on top of a copy of Impera you’re using as a coaster.

Copia crosses the room, standing near enough to you that he can see the glossiness of your lips as they part. He sticks out a hand and, like a cat, knocks your mug off the side of the desk and onto the stone floor where it shatters in a mix of ceramic and coffee. You stare at him, agog.

You recover too quickly.

“I had, like, nine more of those printed,” you shrug.

That’s it.

He will do anything in that moment to silence you, stop you running your fucking mouth for five seconds. A hand falls on either arm of your chair, caging you in, and he crushes his lips against yours.

You squeak for just a second, palms coming to rest on his shoulders - he’s worried you’re going to slap him - but then you’re kissing him back. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he wraps his arms around you properly, tugging you to your feet so he can swing you round and perch you on the edge of your desk. You open your legs, allowing him to pull himself between them, changing his hold so he can grab you by the thighs and drag you in closer. You groan at the feeling of how tight your bodies are and he swallows the sound down like honey.

“Fuck, Copia…” you mutter into the kiss and he goes a little bit dizzy. Your hands are exploring, raking across his cassock, desperate to feel every inch of him as his tongue sweeps over your bottom lip. You open your mouth so he can taste you properly. You’re minty. He wonders if you’ve been chewing gum prior to this.

He wonders how many times you’ve tried to lure him to your office so he’d finally break.

“There were easier ways to get my attention, eh?” he growls, biting at your lip. You gasp. When you open your eyes, they’re blown black.

“None of the others were quite as fun,” you reply, and then your tongue is on his again and he doesn’t really care to argue.

Eventually he has to drag himself back to his work, but he can still taste your kiss on his mouth as he sits down at his computer, the shape of your body he was able to map out with his hands. He wonders if anything will change, and then considers if he wants it to. The truth of the matter is that he likes this nonsense you both perform. Maybe he wouldn’t mind it if you kept being mean to each other. It’s fun. It’s a ritual. It’s flirting.

He has an email. It’s from you.

From: employee-of-the-month@theministry.com

To: CardinalC@theministry.com

Subject: follow-up

Cardinal,

Thank you for bringing me my paperwork. It was most appreciated. I’d like to follow up about matters tomorrow, if you’re available at around 3pm. I’ve set up a calendar invite for you.

Regards,

The footer at the bottom signs off your email. Copia tries to decipher if you’ve just scheduled in another make-out session on the ministry’s internal system… and how the hell you were able to get your hands on that fucking email address.

[prattsbratt]

A Vampire's Heart Pt. 1: Running Away (Spike x reader)

Summary: A runaway priestess hides from her coven in Sunnydale. She seeks refuge in the care of Buffy and her gang. Choosing to stay on her own, Spike takes an interest in her. His head is swirling with feelings, and he can't stop making a fool of himself. How will his feelings be received?

TW: None

Requested: Nope. Just my new multi chapter fic.

Word count: 1.2k

Masterlist | Chapt 2

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

Fall weather took ahold of the environment. The small town rejoiced in the cooler weather. The time was right for spooky happenings and autumn joy. The sun set with much glee to welcome the moon into the sky.

You find yourself running, fast paced, down the street. You were no longer who you were a couple of days ago. You had built a new life in Sunnydale but it always felt like someone was around the corner waiting for you. You see The Magic Shop in the distance. You’re quick to take shelter.

As you enter several heads turn to take you in

 You’re self-conscious. You scan the small group for your friend. 

“Y/n! You made it!” A voice nearby chimes in.

Your attention is redirected to the red head that stands up and reaches for a hug. You’re quick to reciprocate. 

“Willow! It’s been so long.”

“I’m glad you could make it. Let me introduce you to the gang.”

She proceeds to name each person sitting around the table. You notice that a blonde man emerges from the back of the room. Vampire. You instantly knew. You waited to see the others’ reaction. No one moved. You were shocked and on edge. Willow doesn’t introduce the blonde man. 

“So, who’s that?” You ask about him.

Willow turns to acknowledge him. “Oh, that’s just Spike. He’s not important.”

You grimace at their nonchalant demeanor towards the vampire.

Spike nearly misses the hint of apprehension towards him as he is engulfed in your presence. Everything from the lush of your hair to the shine in your eyes. You were a beauty to behold, and he be damned if he didn’t get a chance to hold you. .

“Anyway, guys, this is y/n, she’s a witch.” Willow announces. 

You turn to her in surprise. How could she be so cavalier in announcing you like that? You turn to the crowd in fear of their reaction. No one makes a move. No one reacts. 

“Another one, eh?” Spike speaks.

The rest of the gang simply shrugs at the admission of your skills. You’re confused and on edge. You decide to turn the attention away from you.  

You embolden yourself, “Why is there a vampire here?”

Everyone turns to look at Spike and then back at you.

“He’s harmless.” Buffy says. 

“Yeah, you know, neutered.” Xander explains. 

You’re still confused. A harmless vampire? 

“He has a chip in his head that stops him from acting in evil ways. No more of the teeth and blood.” Willow chimes in.

You turn back to perceive the blonde. A vampire that can’t be a vampire. What an odd thing to encounter. 

“So, are you here to help Willow with her magic?” Giles asks. 

“Um, more like seeking refuge. I was a high priestess of a coven and somethings went awry and I had to leave.” You answer.

“You’re a wanted criminal.” Anya says matter of fact. 

“Not quite. Some of the coven members are quite disgruntled with me for leaving. I wouldn’t put it past them to seek me out.”

Everyone nods in understanding. 

“We don’t play babysitter. If you stay you have to pull your weight.” Buffy says.

“What does that mean?” You look confused.

“Oh! Buffy is the slayer. We help out. I guess that means you too. If you wanted to, that is.” Willow adds on.

You ponder on it for a bit. “I’m not looking to be taken care of. I just need to lay low until things cool of. I’m not interested in being part of your groupies.” You bite back.

Buffy makes up her mind about you and decides she’s not a fan. Spike smiles at your sass. 

“So… what now?” Willow awkwardly asks. 

“I’m thankful for the introduction to the group. I’ll just stick to myself for now. You know where I live, Willow. If you need anything come find me.” You wave to everyone and exit the Magic Shop. 

You were dismayed at the group’s energy. You were actually looking for some asylum but you knew you wouldn’t it find it with them. Being a full-time vampire and demon hunter did not seem like your thing. Your goal was to use as less magic as possible to avoid detection. You were back to the drawing board on this one. 

As you walk down the street you feel someone following you. You wonder if it’s the members of your coven. How could’ve they have found you this quickly? You turn around to face whoever was on your trail. You catch a glimpse of blonde hair and black clothing dipping into an alleyway. 

“Spike?” You call to him. 

He reluctantly comes out, a smile on his face. 

“Hello, pet” 

“Don’t call me that. What do you want, vampire?”

“Vampire? How informal.

Spike slinks by closer to you. He walks around you, taking you in, taunting you. You feel irritated by his presence and closeness. He smells of cigarettes and dirt. 

“What a pretty thing you are” he stops right in front of you making eye contact. 

You make a face, turn around and start walking away from him. He follows you and keeps up the pace with you. You halt suddenly and turn to him. 

“Is this the plan? To stalk me?” You asked irritated. 

He smiles, “maybe.” 

“Vampire, leave me alone before I stake you.”

“Do you have the guts to do so?” He leans close. 

As you lean away from him, he steps close to you. You decide to stand your ground. You lift your head up to him in defiance. He drinks you in. What a sight to see, he thinks.

“Well?” You egg him on.

At that point in time Spike becomes shy. He didn’t have a plan on how he was going to ask you out. He went with his gut and now he is face to face with you and nothing to say. He didn’t know how he was going to get a date with you let alone a kiss. He stammers. Clears his throat. He searches for the right words. Why was he being such an idiot?

“Thought so.” You snark back and turn to walk away from him.

Spike stands there bereft and stupid. What just happened? He has never had a problem professing his interest or love to women. Why did he fail this time? He keeps pondering what he could’ve done differently. Maybe be less impulsive? No, that was his style. Fast and brash. He continued to think of what went wrong until he looks up to see you are gone. He panics. He needs to know where you live, maybe even try to redeem himself. He jogs down the street until he sees you take a turn. He decides that, for tonight, he will give you space. He bombed once, he doesn’t want to do it again. He is more careful as he follows you to your house.

You can tell that Spike is still tailing you. You already made a fool of him. Why doesn’t he leave you alone? You hurry to get into your house. You’re upset that he now knows where you live, but you take solace in knowing he can’t come in without an invitation.

Spike sees you enter your home. He memorizes the house number. He identifies places where he can hide and observe you from a  distance. He feels like a fool in love but he can’t help himself. There was something alluring about you. Something that beckoned him to know more. To want more. And by god, he was going to have it even if it killed him.

[prattsbratt]

kiss 26 for reader x Copia please? :)

26. kiss as an apology

The air was heavy, uncertainty hanging there like a looming thunder. You tried your best at keeping your gaze on the book you were reading - or at least tried to read. It was hard not to steal glances at Copia every once in a while, though.

He was clearly tense, gripping the pen in his hand hard as he wrote something down onto the paper beside the keyboard. The clicks of the mouse were sharper than usual, too, almost echoing in the otherwise quiet office.

You wanted to go to him but just couldn't. The mixed feelings within were still fresh, the hurt still present in your heart. Last night had escalated due to all the stress and there had been a few nasty words said between you two. Nothing too drastic but it had hurt and still did, anyway.

The quiet continued on between you but eventually you could see Copia growing restless and then he got up, coming straight to you, gently taking the book away from you and setting it aside.

"Love..." he started as you still refused to look at him. His hand came to rest on your thigh, near the knee, hesitantly, and you blinked away the tears that were threatening to come.

Copia let out a frustrated sigh, his other hand taking a hold of your chin, gently forcing you to look at him. When your eyes met his, the tears flowed free. The sadness in Copia's gaze was enough to make your heart hurt even more and in the next blink of an eye Copia's lips pressed against yours.

It was so sweet, so delicate, spoke for the words he couldn't find. But you knew. It was an apology, and while it didn't fully erase the hurt, you were starting to feel better.

A little sliver of warmth blossomed in your heart as you kissed him back, your hand now cupping his cheek. Copia sighed into the kiss, his tension bleeding off of him, making him lean towards you more. More tears fell from your eyes and when you parted, you couldn’t help but smile at Copia.

He looked so relieved, eyes shining again a bit brighter, and you knew it all would be okay.

send me a ship and a number and i will write a kiss

[prattsbratt]

Ghost band headcanons

Terzo ~ Sfw

Terzo listens to early 2000s pop when he's alone in his office, he's a Katy Perry and lady Gaga stan.

Terzo likes to stare people down when he knows it unnerves them.

~ Nsfw

Terzo completely forgets english when he cums, he'll start to quietly ramble in Italian.

Copia ~ Sfw

Copia uses Duolingo in hopes of understanding english slang.

Copia has a collection of EVERYTHING he's gotten from fans, he feels bad getting rid of things, so they stay in a large box in the corner if his room.

~ Nsfw

While copia isn't very experienced, he knows how to use his mouth, and well, he'll have you coming apart in less than 5 minutes.