#even ignoring The Ending And What That Implies

[kuntprodukt]

CELEBRITY SKIN

Leon Kennedy x female reader | MDNI!! 18+ | dead dove do not eat, incest, dad-daughter incest, rape/noncon sex, female reader, Leon is washed up rockstar, implied heavily and A LOT drug abuse/alcoholism, intoxication, vaginal sex, fingering, unsafe sex, creampie, anal play(brief attempt), piss(reader pisses herself), overstimulation, puke (mentioned, not sexual), deadbeat dad, he is icky, degradation.

summary: Hate is too strong, love is locked in the little box under your bed with keys you threw out - doesn’t mean it is absent. He is cool, not enough to deserve real love. Something tells you he doesn’t understand it too. “What do you love, Leon?” Alcohol, substances, music, strings etching into his calluses and a good pussy - his answer is not about love, but preferences. That’s what he likes. You don’t like your dad. That's the right way to say it.  

notes: no way im going to proofread all those 6k words and pray to see every mistake.... same rule: if you see mistakes then you are wrong and ignore them, + english isnt my first language. i feel like this is a little bit incosistent mess, but!!! whatever! also quoted "softer, softest" by hole. reblogs, asks or comments and any kind of interractions are really appreciated!

tags: @melanchol1cs

You remember the cold floor against your knees, still aching after falling off your bicycle a day before, even the light brown bandage is not able to stick to your skin - a bad habit, scratching it behind your mom’s gaze. Your eyes are full of interest studying vinyl covers and CDs - in both of them your dad is staring at you. Mostly your mom hoarded those, different posters with his bandmates from old magazines, but Leon always stood out. You remember your dad pinching your cheeks, crouching down and the bitter smell with acidic hints coming from him. He reeked with something your nose hated, wrinkling up, trying to push him back just to meet his irritated expression. His fingers were rough after years of playing guitar, calloused and lacking softness in them. You should have been grateful, your mom scolded you, dad didn’t have much free time. 

You remember your mom’s laps, sitting there as her fingers gently open the cd case, a light crack from the plastic and the smell of it. The reflection of you both on the disc, before she placed it in the slit of the recorder, disappearing in the squared black item you were so afraid to play with; too many buttons, too scary to mess with. She told you she is lucky to even be with him, to share a place with him even if it is empty with a cold bed waiting for him most of the time. Your mom was the biggest groupie, at least among the ones you knew - your classmates were crazy about Leon too, but it was a fleeting crush before disappointment hit them. 

Rockstar. Dad rockstar, not the most famous fact weirdly enough. Paparazzi have never bothered you and your mom, nor has he tried to appear with you in public. On billboards, on the magazines wherever you go there was him. Blue eyes following yours in the shops, with big striking red words: “LEON KENNEDY BARES HIS SOUL!!! What women can catch his heart?” or "New rock king, Leon Kennedy strikes again: who is that woman in red?". At some point, you saw your dad more on the glistening unpacked magazines in kiosks, on the screen of old TV illuminating with blue light your fascinated face late at night, one of main reasons you slept bad, trying to get more about your own dad or the posters in your room, but rarely ever in person. 

It comes with some sort of privilege, not expensive jewelry or good vacations in some cool hotel next to the ocean, but without any questions being able to walk backstage to see your dad was enough for you. Usually he knew about that in advance - a day or week before. Spreading a smile at your sight and your mom. You remember glancing through the gap of the door, that night you got away from your mom, losing her in the crowd just to see him - a surprise, but it ended up as one for you instead. Your dad kissing some young groupie on his lap, he pressed back on the black leather couch, this wasn’t a mistake on his part, the excuse you heard later was bullshit, as the sight of his hands gripping her ass and her nude back were imprinted in your mind - told a louder story than any gossip.

Next memory is your mom, sobbing in the empty bedroom late at night. A common occurrence, as a child you never noticed that - maybe she hid it well or you didn't wake up so often at night. Standing behind the door to hear bitterness in her tears, unwillingly passing the same sentiment. The fog in your memory faded to realize your dad's presence is lacking. Even his affection was forced, there was nothing in his playful pinch or the boop on your nose, even a light chuckle after a pet name held nothing but an act. 

The last betrayal came from your mom. Empty, dull looking apartment, you have never noticed how lifeless this place is, even on bright days your memories of this place are tinted with grey, the color of cloudy weather like it was always supposed to rain but it never did. Little paper note on the table without a ring - you expected one, forgetting he has never married her nor there was a ring. Maybe that’s for the better, marriage kills women. Pretty delicate handwritten text adorns on the paper.

“I hope you die from an overdose, you don't love anyone other than drugs, alcohol and your stupid, failed carrier!!”

She left your dad, finally. She left you too, not so finally. A child is an extension of one parent or both of them, a bitter reminder of your mom’s mistake? Even if her caress was gentle and full of love, even in videos she recorded with little you - clear trembling voice after another disappointment from Leon, red eyes after sobbing, but always with you, taking care. And you believed you were not a child anymore, 18 years old was a big number. 

Since today, the place was supposed to be lonely, cradling you in its cold embrace as Leon is never present as much as she or you wanted. So, the loud jiggle of keys. Clink! The turning and the sound of the door opening pulled you out of your mind, unsteady footsteps not even similar to your mom. Leon. You feel like you were standing here for eternity, meeting his gaze is unusual - like catching Santa Claus placing gifts as a kid, which you have never had. His appearance is still ruffled, hair falling in front of his eyes just to be brushed away in rough movement, squinting at you briefly before recognizing and confusion washes over him. Cologne mixed with alcohol, a hint of sweet, floral one from fucking one of few remaining groupies. 

You feel like you have just caught your husband cheating, dick deep inside some pretty bimbo bitch’s hole - instead Leon is your dad. 

Leon didn’t comment on that, squinting again as he read, while your own gaze stared at him with a hope to see something. Anger? Regret? Maybe realization he lost something valuable? That he loved you after all? Leon shrugs, nodding to the note. 

“She left?” He asks, not even trying to be decent. To pick it up, to read it, to realize how big he fucked up. Is he high? Drunk? Or all substances have already eaten his brain? The note is all written straightforwardly, clearly his cells are eaten by every drug coursing in his bloodstream - at this moment, even for a short one a wish passes through like a falling star, a hope for overdose to hit him right now. 

“Seems so” is the only answer that comes out, stunned to process how surreal this feels - straight out of Lynch movies, weird feeling in your chest, the surroundings look more surreal, dislocated and you don’t want to leave the room. 

“She forgot to add women too”

“What?”

“You don't love anyone other than drugs, alcohol and your stupid, failed carrier” He glances down, not hiding a smirk on his lips, about to say some funny joke. “I love women too.”

…

The gossip killed his fame and reputation, your dad told you this while being drunk on the couch, slurred words not even trying to look you in the eyes. In your honest opinion Leon was the one to kill it. Alcohol, drugs and age don’t go well forever, some are fortunate and more tolerable but a never ending cycle of scandals do irreparable damage. You know your dad, he is impossible when his mind is fogged on some of the stuff. Coke, molly, whiskey or vodka. Maybe everything mixed, maybe worse - you are no expert, everything has always led to him being some kind of mess. Pissing himself or throwing up all night loudly, depriving you of sleep. Even worse - ending up in the hospital after an unnatural amount of drugs in his blood. 

In a second, a thought about your dad flashes. What’s about him? Hate is too strong, love is locked in the little box under your bed with keys you threw out - doesn’t mean it is absent. He is cool, not enough to deserve real love. Something tells you he doesn’t understand it too. “What do you love, Leon?” Alcohol, closing eyes on the couch after pregabalin hits, heightening other substances, music, strings etching into his calluses and a good pussy - his answer is not about love, but preferences. That’s what he likes. You don’t like your dad. That's the right way to say it. 

“What do you know about fun?” Again, same story, for god’s sake. You ignore his attempt to talk - waste of time. Another try to brag how experienced he is, how many substances were in his nose or in his system in general like you are some sort of dumb impressive girl or a groupie. It is impressive when you are 18, in a way; “holy shit, how have you not died yet?” You heard those stories plenty of times, you saw it and had to deal with his mess for free - they get repetitive. To quote him, at your age he got his dick wet every weekend, if the week was not going well. It was the past, the rockstar one but now all you can see is a washed up musician with an ego of a star. 

No reaction, it irks him in the wrong way. Who the fuck are you? Loser daughter of his, no way you got a man hard even once - the most you’d have is some dumb guy knuckles deep in his car and Leon still has a hard time believing that. Leon nudges you, his finger pokes your waist before leaning closer. A sad hint in his features. Another second and he is going to pout to look believably upset. “It’s my birthday”

“No, it is not” You raise your eyebrow. Actually, you don’t know when his birthday is. Leon has never told you and his drunk or high appearance was not something out of ordinary - a normal Friday night, rather Saturday morning. Drinking more or less doesn’t matter much, all days are no different from celebrations - you still can’t stand it. This is probably another attempt to get under your skin, like he always does when he is sober. Or need a drink. Leon tugs your cheek with two fingers, briefly succumbing to this urge until you don't push his hand away, rejecting his touch. You are not a child. 

“Uh-huh, it is” He mocks your tone, the corner of his lips tenses briefly - evaluating you. 

“Since when?” 

“Since today, don’t be a bitch” Leon pauses meaningfully, raising an eyebrow. “No one likes bitchy girls”

You don’t need him to like you. Your dad died back in the backstage room with a groupie on his lap. Eyeing him again, you can’t ever be sure with this man. He adores messing with you for fun, sobriety doesn’t give a man a lot of hobbies. But right now Leon looks believable. Your dad is not the best actor, you think, maybe he can have some other hidden talents. 

“Do I need to buy something?” You ask and even briefly you notice a flash of excitement in his gaze. Like he won a lotto. Even kids don't get so excited for their birthday party. A “tsk” follows.

“Oh no-no, no way” Leon shakes his head, placing his arm in front of you and creating a ‘small’ obstacle. “Let me deal with this. Show you how to party, what to drink.” 

Your distrustful gaze tells him a lot. Is he real? Should you even trust him? He’d probably get drunk and leave you alone - and this gives you hope and bruises his ego even slightly, not something new with living with him. “I am a pro” 

Not so reassuring.

…

Series of different whiskey bottles on the table, looking like some chaotic statistic - one is lower, then it is higher and it repeats. You don’t really understand if those are expensive ones or cheaper, the only one you are aware of is Jack Daniels. That’s a lot, really, expecting one bottle, two at most, but there are more than enough for a group - you are not going to drink all this. 

“Come now, share a little drink with your dad” Leon pats the spot next to him, spreading his legs, a nightmare to have him in public transport. There are already two glasses of whiskey, one of them waiting for you alone. The couch dips slightly with your weight, his knee slightly brushes against yours, forcing you to clench your legs together even tighter, giving him more space to keep his spread.

The reflection in the whiskey, your hand moves and little waves of alcohol spreads making your face uneven. You are not sure if this is even right to do, at the same time you are at home, safer than around jerks at some party, even if your dad sucks. It burns in your throat, the brown liquid slips down with a hard gulp just to leave some weird aftertaste on your tongue. Leon was eyeing you, ready to shove it down in case you decided to spit it out. No waste in his house! Your glass gets refilled quickly, ready to fill it again and again - at the same time, you feel his hand bringing your own closer to your lips, inviting you to keep drinking. All while his glass looks deepless, infinite, in a way it is still not finished, even though your gaze doesn’t really focus on his drink so it is hard to judge if your sentiment is correct - still, maybe he just throws whiskey in his mouth like it usually happens every day. 

“...You don’t–” Your eyes set on the full glass of whiskey on the table, is it yours? Can you be sure it is his? Leon looks at you with a smirk, satisfied with how everything goes - not even trying to hide it right now, you are so pliant in his guidance. “Drink?”

“Don’t be silly, I've been drinking too.” No, he hasn't, two glasses were the most he has ever drunk this evening.

“Ah!” You hum, the brain processes everything with a big delay. Words roll on your tongue, but nothing comes out - and if it does, you imagined this. Leon eyes your face briefly, maybe the first time he ever stared at you longer than a minute which is still a lot for him. The curves of your lips that hosts beads of whiskey, urging him to catch them as he usually did with groupies in the past. Nostalgic.

“You don’t look like me at all” Leon mutters out with a frown. The doubt of you being his daughter always tormented him - just not too much to care about the paternity test. Even if you are 100% his, he wouldn’t try to be a good dad - the time has passed and he doesn’t care about it enough. Never did.

“What?” 

“Come here, let me see that pretty face” He grins, his own words sound amusing to him, watching your expression ease with every second passed, just like old times. “Perhaps my vision fails me.”

You fell for it. Leon’s hand grips hard your jaw, his thumb caresses your cheek and it feels weird - after many years of his absent presence you feel like a little girl again, waiting for him to pinch your cheeks in between his fingers, to cling to his leg while he’d shred one of his favorite riffs or even solo, always fascinated to stare at his fingers jumping to one string to another just to coax a melody. His lips crush on yours instead, swallowing hard the saliva pooled in your mouth your mind clears even briefly. What the fuck? 

You have kissed a few guys at parties before, invited out of pity just to stay in the corner, ignored, awkward until a guy decided to get you - easy target, desperate and they are not far away from the truth, in the end always leading to a bad car sex with them not being able to recognize your clit. But Leon kisses you differently than those boys, his grip is secure on you, there is no way to get out of this - like a collar settles on your neck, tightly but in the form of his hand. You don’t close your eyes, too shocked at the feeling of his dry lips. Your dad’s lips. He looks unbothered, focused on it. First, with utmost care you had never felt from your dad, it gets pushed aside as Leon gets used to your useless state, easy to kiss you as he wants. Weird, that’s your dad. Your dad kisses you. Alcohol dumbens you, briefly trying to rummage through reasons to excuse him, but this confuses you even further and all you can hear is heart rate beating in your ears, tasting even more alcohol on your lips before he sucks your bottom lip - a way to force his tongue in. 

“Open it” a light slap on your cheek seeing your eyes blurs with the unfocus. Of course it worked, at least Leon gets what he wants. Your lips part in a gasp, blinking as his tongue delves in your mouth. Saliva pools more, now the taste overwhelms your buds to the brim, his tongue feels slick rolling against yours, like passing an invisible candy. You feel your ears burn with shame, you suck at this more likely, but Leon seems unfazed at this as the kiss deepens with more grunts coming out of him against your lips. You don’t understand why your tongue tries to keep up with his now, your hand tries to reach for his wrist. To slap it, to dig your fingers in it - anything to show you want to get out of this. 

Your body feels heavy - any movement you are capable of now is useless, as alcohol messes up with the perception of whatever is happening. It gets worse, heavier like stones were tied to your legs before you got thrown in the water. His hand creeps lower, gripping one of your ass cheeks, fingers dip into the fat, slowly kneading until you feel a pressure over the tight ring of your hole. Your body flinches, lightly but not enough to push him away, enough to break the kiss. Leon is not worried, no way you will be able to do anything. “Has anyone ever touched you here?”

You don’t remember. Actually your mind is full of fog, trying to find anything to stitch together for an answer, but for Leon you just stare like a dumb bitch, not giving him an answer other than a weak grunt. Probably not, college guys are not brave enough to try anal - all cool on text, big dick, promises to destroy your holes, just to lead you in their mom’s car and rub your labia before the most mediocre, dry sex, at best. 

“Mm? No?” You shake your head, this doesn’t stop him as his finger presses harder, thumbing at it slowly, observing your eyes widen, hips shift to distance yourself from him - useless. Your body is not yours, all you can hear is his voice waiting for an answer and heartbeat in your ears.  “Not even a little bit?”

His finger keeps skirting over the muscle, nudging it to slip his finger inside. It is hard to form sentences, even harder to think because your head is full of feathers. And it is already overwhelming, the idea of more makes your stomach tense. And if he decides to fuck your ass? Your heart jumps in your chest, maybe imagining this, filled with different contrasting feelings. One is fear, you can’t push him away, your eyes have a hard time focusing on his face, alcohol is dawning on your chest like a sleep paralysis and second one is your clit throbbing for need to be ignored -  just to be used like some object. By your dad. This is wrong, this is alcohol talking. Your hips buck slightly into his hand, unaware his cock jolts in his jeans. 

“N-no” Your voice doesn’t even sound like yours, some stranger’s. His eyes sparkle in pleasure, watching how your expression twists in fear and confusion as his fingertip circles against your hole now, still maintaining the pressure. Trying to relax, so you’d give in finally. “...it hurts” 

“Come on, just a tip?” Leon frowns as you shake your head again, frantically this time. A light pout on his lips as he decides to let this be. He thumbs over your hole for the last time, before withdrawing to hold your thigh. “Then next time.”

His hand caresses your skin, like a lullaby to soothe you from what he tried to do, to be nicer to your drunk state - gullible, more than he was back in time, lesson was learned a long time ago after his heart got shattered. Your skin feels soft underneath his palm, a cotton blanket that is addicting to touch every time, with every caress his hand creeps higher, at the same time your body relaxes at every second. Your chest falls down as your breathing returns to normal pace, exhaling. Tension slowly leaves, fogging everything. You need your dad’s sweetness, even if you don’t realize it. And your dad gets what he needs. Calloused fingers part your cunt, applying pressure on the clit that made you flinch and open your eyes. When did he remove your shorts? He is all over you, with the same hungry look you’ve seen from other men. They all have the same look, pupils dilated jumping from your face to your tits, then to your legs - men are not the smartest creatures, all identical too. Blood rushes into your ears, you feel every thumping sound of it. You try to push him, but alcohol messes up your strength perception. It feels like your entire energy was put to push him off, just to see him being here. Not moving even for an inch. 

“You are wet, fuck” Leon grunts, sliding his fingers in your hole. Feeling them disappear in your folds and you can’t help but flinch, the burning stretch at the lack of adjustment makes your jaw tense. It clenches at rough intrusion and you feel air knock out of your lungs for a moment. You shake your head and Leon grins, your denial is fun, giving more space to play with you. “This cunt is wetter than any groupies.” 

You want to close your eyes, not to stare at him - a bad dream, nightmare, you can’t believe your cunt gushes around his fingers so needily. Wet sounds of him pumping your hole, Maybe you are imagining this, alcohol is not the best lube - only making you drier, usually. Or those are guys you had. Leon’s fingers curl up against your wall, pressing as he finds that sweet star-hitting spongy spot - every pussy loves that and the pressure coaxes your eyes widen with a shaky whimper. “Da-ad–”

“Those bitches were desperate-desperate to be bottomed by your daddy, you know?” His fingers rut relentlessly into you, your stomach pools in more warmth that isn't supposed to be, quick pace coaxing out more sounds you never knew were possible. Your teeth sink into your lip, trying to worm out of this. Blood rushes down, feeling burning warmth spreading from your clit up. Leon chuckles, shoving you harder against the couch with his weight. “Tsk, ungrateful like your slut mom.”

It is overwhelming, gushing more around his rough pumping fingers. The pace is steady, easy with the amount of slick your cunt gives. Not feeling anymore that burning stretch, leaking like some needy bitch. Every nerve in your body starts to burn up, pushing away the thought of your dad fucking drugging you and fingering your pussy. Actually, you aren't sure there were even drugs in the glasses - you just want to put more blame on him. Leon is not inexperienced in sex, even if his main interest was his own pleasure he knows the signs of approaching orgasm. No way you are going to cum first and not him, that isn’t in his interest, right now you are not better than a groupie in his arms. He pulls back his hand, leaving you empty, cutting out the sweet wave of orgasm. It is disappointing, shame hits you at the realization you wanted to cum on your dad’s fingers. Oh, fuck. Can’t get worse. 

“You are not allowed to finish yet.” He mutters with a raspy voice, eyeing his soaked fingers. Slowly spreading out just to watch the glistening strings connecting them. God, he missed that.

You feel your body getting lighter than before, there is still the feeling of suffocating and dying if you don't keep your breathing in check. Eyes are always about to close, it is hard to keep yourself awake, moving your head gives you the sensation of a quick camera flick - in reality, you didn’t even shake it. At the same time you should expect nausea, the urge to throw up and a twisting stomach. Time feels inconsistent, at some point you sure it has passed 3 hours already, but catching a glimpse of the clock tells you can’t trust your feelings. But this worry fades away as his cock presses against your wet, sensitive folds. Ignored by him, flesh-to-flesh so hot your hips buck up to rub yourself weakly. When did he unzip his pants? You miss most of the noises, actions - his movements register in your brain too late. One moment you think he is kissing you, now you are confused when his dick got so close to you. For Leon this is nostalgic, standing over your pliant state on the couch is not so different from fun he had with groupies, if not even identical. Dumb look on your face trying to recollect yourself just to fail miserably, a weak whimper escapes from your parted lips, like you are on some good crack right now all lost in it and legs spread just for him to get his dick wet - not his first rodeo, every bitch he had, they all looked like you. 

His hips jerk, his cock slides across your puffy, wet folds smearing his flesh with your arousal. He wants to be slow, indulging in every single inch of you before even notching his tip. His cock twitches, bumping against your clit and your back arches into him more.  Your cunt is already warm, burning hot after being so close to cum - thanks to his fingers. A warmth spreads in his chest, pride. It is not hard to get laid even nowadays, still it is much rarer than in the past. But after this? Leon is sure his dick is going to get wet more often, daughter should help him. And you will in his opinion, in case of contrary nothing drugs can’t fix. 

Leon is not patient, he has never been one - one of reasons condoms were a rare occurrence in his wallet, never sure if they aren’t spoiled and if they are that is not his worry. He can overthink after sex, before consuming whiskey. Realizing nothing is so bad as he thinks - hey, his pull out game is not so terrible, Leon believes. Guiding his leaking tip to notch in your hole, it glistens after smearing your arousal across the flesh. And at contact your body clenches - begging him to slam his hip, to bury himself in you finally. Leon wants that too. A push is enough to see his cock disappear in your folds - sliding inside so perfectly, feeling how your walls stretch around his cock accommodating to the intrusion, the warmth of your cunt is welcoming, like the best thing after drugs. Sucking him in so sweetly after every inch sinks into you. Your walls clenched around him, quick to adjust to the curve of his dick that presses so nicely on your g-spot. 

“A bi-i-ig stretch!” That supposed to be a warning before he slides in, to prepare you - instead the timing was wrong. Would be useless, you are no different than any groupies from the past - tell them anything and their brain wouldn’t even process that with the amount of alcohol. It heightens pleasure, but not the thinking process, even worse if you are a dumb bitch - for Leon you are. You blink fast, his cock filling your cunt to the brim, hard and with no other way to feel the emptiness. Almost overwhelming, to tears if you didn’t start already. Leon would have commented if that was the case. 

“Fuck…” You. It doesn’t come out, it remains on the tip of your tongue.Talking is hard. 

“Oh, come on,” Leon bucks his hips, punctuating his words just to see your eyes widen. “I’m already doing that.”

A low grunt, his head dips down to nibble the flesh of your neck - sensitive, scratching you with the light stubble on his face. It is hard to focus on something one, his dick throbs within you, like you were born to have him inside your pussy - never vice versa, he is your dad. His hips slam, your body arches into him, his cock grinds every time hitting deep inside your pussy, to the brim - to the point you feel it so deep you overthink it is in your throat for a moment. Anatomically impossible, maybe it is puke. Fuck, you wish it is not. Thoughts fade as your clit even briefly gets the sweet friction every time his pubic bone presses - coaxing more moans out of you.

His orgasm approaches quickly, one would think it is too quick - he’d blame age first, then maybe tell man’s pleasure is on pedestal. Why would he bother with someone’s pleasure if alcohol gives him whiskey dick. His balls tighten with every slap, the sounds of flesh-hitting, your moans all that invite him to be rougher, to bully your cunt and not caring about stingy redness forming. Every slam inside you, grinding up against the sweet spot just to drag it.  Your body shudders eventually, all teasing, edging didn’t disappear fortunately or not - cumming on your dad’s dick is not the best achievement, it sickens you, fills you with the urge to scrub his touch away. Your walls spasm harder around him as a new wave of hard, pleasant shockwaves dumb every bad thought in the head. 

“Cum.” Your teeth sink in your lower lip after murmuring weakly. Your hands try to dig into his arms, to hold yourself just to end up in a weak grip, sliding down to keep resting uselessly. “Gonna cum— dad!”

It’s a song to his ears - sweet, kicking him back in the past, all groupies identical to each other. They are young, they have legs, they have breasts and hips to hold, more importantly a hole - you have this too, unlike them your eyes are not full of scaring adoration. You don’t look into his eyes as much as they did. And he likes that. Leon noses your jaw, biting the skin of your neck harder than you ever felt, filling his taste buds with mild iron taste and forcing a squeal, light thrashing that fades away after another slam. Your pussy spasms, more fluid gushes easing strokes. It slides nicely, more freedom to bully your clenching hole. You want this to stop, your vision blurs and tries to keep focused - hard, like a kick in your head as Leon shoves his dick deeper. Overwhelmed, guilty, ashamed but arching and wiggling underneath at the non-stop pounding. 

You try to push him away - useless. Another attempt, another hard shove that hits air out of you. He needs his fill, you are not leaving. Your lips open weakly, begging to stop in a breathless whimper. A pressure in your bladder, an uncomfortable press intensifying with every thrust, every hit to the gummy spot making it worse. Too full, too overwhelmed. Your breathing gets even heavier trying to push him off again - useless, everything you try is. Still the irrational panic is present, something is going to happen, you don’t know what. Your pussy clenches harder around him, tightly than ever, trying to stop the upcoming mess, before his pace stops at one last thrust. Deep inside, messy grinding for the last time. The weight of his body presses on you, grunting against your neck leaving no escape. Thick ropes of cum spurt inside you, for a moment everything feels too real - his sperm is warm, sticky and there is too much. And it hits you again. Your legs tremble, trying to push yourself away weakly, but his weight blocks you. Crushes you like a punch in your abdominal. Not the one he expects at least, feeling stuttering spurts drenching his front and the couch underneath you both. 

“Did you just…” Leon leans back, looking down at your pussy filled with his cock. Brow knitted together trying to understand what the fuck just happened. Young girls are nasty, his dick experienced almost everything; puke after a dumb one thought she’d be able to give him a good deepthroat - in some cases he was the one forcing it deeper. Or coke off his dick, a blonde girl eating ice cream before sucking him off - too many, list goes on and he won’t remember everything sincerely. Words don't come out, a little bit shocking as he tries to reminisce in the past just to find something similar: Did you just squirt? Or is that piss?

And you look confused, even more than him. First, unaware of what happened accompanied with lightness in your bladder. Goosebumps wash over your skin, your body sticks together with uncomfortable wetness. You wish it was just a slick with his cum oozing out of your hole, you fucking wish your body didn’t betray you further than this. Leon presses harder against you, his wrist is on your neck, slowly suffocating with pressure. A squeal escapes, not understanding what you did wrong this time. “S–stop!”

“Your daddy made you squirt, what a nasty whore” Leon grins, watching realization slowly settle. “Or you just pissed yourself, grown up pee girl. Pee girl gets a belt. ”

Leon keeps you like this, watching your face go redder and redder with every second before easing the pressure. His soft cock slips out easily from your already leaking hole.  It delves on you, even more when the warmth of his body withdraws completely.

“Fucking mess” Leon grunts. Barely intelligible, you can hear that.  It is a mess, you made this mess - not him. His footsteps slowly dissipate in the loud bam! The calming, muffled sound of water dripping comes from the bathroom. He is showering. You are alone and alcohol doesn’t help. A wave of nausea, it fades just to return in the same violent intensity. 

Dirtiness and shame wash over you. Your body is not yours, like a big wound in your chest that will leave a black, bleeding scar. This is wrong, this shouldn’t have brought you pleasure, you should have been more defiant, kicked him off you, to bite his lip - anything. Dull pain flashes through your body. Sometimes it is okay to kill yourself - no, it is not, you are being dramatic. You still feel his touch, his dick like phantom pain. It does hurt too, he did take something from you. Awkwardly, curling up with your knees close to your chest, arms wrap around them to bring you some sort of peace, like a dog remaining on the couch.

You don’t like your dad.

…

Insomnia torments you, the sound coming out of the streets gives nothing but fear. You still feel out of your shell, even if he hasn't shown up since forever. You think he is dead, buried in some trash can - the end your dad deserves. Every news gives you hope to see his face, not in some scandals or to show nostalgia to the ex-rock king - too see the sweet word, death. 

So close to fall asleep, so close to avoid the bitter black hole growing in your chest every night. Loud noise, forcing you to flinch. You wish it was a bulgar, maybe it is. You’d give him your dad’s guitar, if it was not already sold. You don’t think so, a treasure of his fame, success - something to brag about, remains to gratify his fragile ego. He is home. Another trashing, something falls and a loud “Fuck”, then silence. You can’t live like this anymore. Getting out of a warm bed, the blanket won’t shield you from the blues of this place. Peeking out of the corner, you can’t really see what has fallen but you can clearly see your dad. On the couch. 

Leon looks like a mess, ruffled hair all over his eyes, laying on the couch. He smells awful, unfamiliar now. Maybe you just missed it - not possible. The smell reminds you of death, not so cool as he was in your child's eyes. Now, much cooler is dead. You pour the water in the glass, no way he is going away with this bullshit, you want to see him drown, to be hurt like you were all these days. Quick motion and chilly tap water splashes on him. Easy sober up method! Watching him shudder and flinch, blue eyes filled with confusion, darting around as his hands run through his hair, slickening it back. It eases the emptiness he left. You feel better. 

“What the fuck?” Leon mutters, wet fabric clings to his body, almost see through. Following wetness, it guides you to his jeans. A big damp patch. 

“You made a mess, again” Lie comes out easily. Not really, there is a drop of truth - that’s his fault. He hums, lips corners tense again as if he wants to say something. He is drunk, not helping with the thought process - slower, dumber. Like you were.

“Did I…” Leon inquiries for a moment, then a pause. Piss myself?

“Yea, of course” You nod, your hand hides the glass behind you. “Looks like the Apple doesn't fall far from the tree” 

[aiceofspades]

tramp stamp | dean winchester x f!reader

headers: @strangergraphics-archive

pairings: dean x f!reader

genre: fluff, implied smut

word count: 2,314

author's note: so this is my first spn fic and i hope it lives up to the standard that everyone is used to, hope u guys enjoy!! also ignore any typos pls <{•_•}>

masterlist here!!

you'd gotten a lower back tattoo a while ago, and while sam had noticed and complimented it, dean was as oblivious as anything. so when he finally saw it, shocked would be an understatement.

earlier in the day, you'd taken a shower in the motel room you were all currently staying in while dean was out getting coffee. you walked out of the bathroom in jeans and a bra, forgetting that sam was at the table researching, but he kindly averted his eyes while you changed, even though you didn't mind—he was like a brother to you.

"hey, sam," you asked, your back facing him whilst you picked a shirt out. "do you think the disappearances in this town could be linked to the murders in the prison the next town over?"

"um, i don't know. what made you come to that conclusion?" he asked, shuffling some papers around on the table behind you.

"well," you said, pulling a random band tee over your head and turning around. "even though this is a disappearance and those are murders, they started happening around the same time, and the victims are all men."

he thought for a second. "hm, maybe. but even if they are connected, i say we focus on this town, and if the murders are still happening when the job is done then we can go investigate, yeah?"

"good idea. i'd have probably just gone in all guns blazing into the prison. what would we do without you?" you joked, walking over and sitting opposite him at the table.

"i forget you have that tattoo on your back sometimes, you know. sometimes i'll take a glance and i'll get all shocked before remembering you've had it ages."

"really?" you giggled.

"yeah," he said, smiling. "why did you choose 'hell hath no fury' and whatever else it says?"

"well, as william congreve put it best in 'the mourning bride', 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'—no anger is fiercer than that of a woman. i have others, you know."

"really? you never fail to surprise me. when did you get them done?" he leant his elbows on the table.

"the earliest was about six years ago. my latest was my back one, only six months ago."

"do your parents know?"

"let's just say my mum wasn't too happy, but my body, my choice. my dad wasn't bothered since he has one himself. do you wanna see them?"

so you ended up showing sam your tattoos — all of them were in places that you were comfortable with sam looking at — and right as you were showing sam one on your ribs that said 'is it better to speak or to die?', dean walked in with three coffees in hand.

"woah," he said, setting the coffees on the counter top. "do you guys want some privacy or something? i didn't know you liked each other like that," he trailed off, obviously joking.

"dean," sam said as you lowered your t-shirt. "she's just showing me her tattoos, it's fine."

but dean paused. "you have tattoos?"

you pulled a face at him. "do you live on this earth? i swear you've seen them before. i literally got one six months ago, so surely you saw the plastic wrap on my back..."

he shook his head slowly, taking his leather jacket off to reveal his iconic layered flannel-over-henley outfit. "nope. i've never seen your tattoos. but you let sam see them before me? i'm flattered," he said, feigning disgust.

"oh, shut up. i mean, i'll show you them if you want but surely you've seen them before?" you asked again, sure that he was faking it.

"no, i have not seen any of them. please tell me they're in, uh, compromising positions," he said, smirking.

"ew, gross," you said, standing up and grabbing your cell off your bed to check for any messages. dean brought the three coffees over to the table, where he and sam both took a sip of theirs, leaving one for you.

the room quietened down to a comfortable silence as you focused on your phone. one from bobby asking for details on any paranormal activities in town, one from your sister checking up on you, one from a hunter who lived in town...

a ding came from sam's phone and he stood up after checking it. you closed yours and slid it in your back pocket.

"i'm gonna go grab a few books from the local library. bobby texted me a few recommendations," he said, closing his laptop.

"don't be too long, we need to go undercover this afternoon," dean said.

"i won't, but i'll give you two some privacy. make sure to use a condom," he joked, grabbing his jacket and exiting, leaving you and dean with red cheeks.

you turned around to your duffel bag on your bed, sorting through to find the book you were currently reading. as soon as you had sat down and opened it to the page you were currently on, dean disrupted you.

"so?" dean asked, breaking the silence.

you looked up from your book. "so what?"

"your tattoos?" he said, standing in front of you.

"oh," you said, folding the corner of your page down before standing up. "so i don't know why you're so interested, but i've got one here," you said, showing him one on your tricep.

then you rolled your jeans up and pointed to your ankle. "another one here."

you rolled your jeans down and lifted your shirt up, showing him the one on your rib.

"what does it mean?" he asked, leaning in close whilst gently brushing his fingers over the ink. the close proximity was making your cheeks flush again.

"it means should you say what's on your mind, or die without anyone knowing your true intentions? i think about this quote quite literally once a day."

you turned around to look in the mirror behind you to admire the tattoo, and as your back was facing dean, you happened to glance up and see his expression change from being mildly interested to downright gobsmacked. then you remembered your tramp stamp.

dean's fingers immediately stretched out to touch the words embedded in your skin, just above your tail bone. the touch sent a shiver down your spine, and seeing your reaction, he slid his hands to your waist, pulling you closer to him until your back was flush against his front.

"now, i definitely haven't seen that, or i would've done something about it sooner," he said in a low voice, thumbs brushing your skin.

"do you like it?" you asked.

"well, what does it mean?"

"that no anger will ever match that of a woman's."

he hummed, reaching up to pull your shirt down for you, watching you in the mirror. "fitting. sometimes when you're angry, either when your hunting or just in general, i know that if anyone ever did you wrong, you wouldn't stop until you'd got your revenge. you're very determined."

"i don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing," you said gently, leaning back into him and watching his face in the mirror. "it could be my fatal flaw."

"i think you'd know when enough was enough though, 'cause you're quiet observant and mature."

"are you just continue complimenting me for the whole day?"

"if you give me a kiss, then i'll stop. i know you don't like it." he had been asking for a kiss from you for a while, and whilst you thought it was just a joke, you realised now it wasn't.

you turned around to face him, arms winding around his neck. "you're being serious?"

"yes. i'm always serious with you," he said, his hands sneaking under the back of your shirt to touch the ink in your skin again.

"well you'd better kiss me like you mean it."

and he did. he was soft at first, as he hesitantly slipped his tongue in your mouth. but as he realised you were mirroring his enjoyment, he sped up slightly, now biting your bottom lip. you reciprocated by pulling at his hair which caused him to push you against the wall. you hitched a leg around his hips as his mouth trailed downwards, biting slightly on your collarbone.

"dean, don't," you breathed out between sighs. "sam'll see."

"he knows we both like each other," he gasped against your skin, his hands gripping your hips. "in fact, i think he wants us to do this."

"so you think i like you?" you said as he moved back up to your lips.

"yes," he said into your mouth. "i know you do. i've heard you gasping my name out at night when you dream."

"you're supposed to be asleep at night. and don't tell me that you got off on me gasping your name," you said, reaching under his shirt and dragging your nails down his back as he carried in biting your neck. you remembered the vivid dreams you'd had of him over these past few months, and something warm grew in your stomach.

"well i'd be lying if i said no..." he trailed off, and you felt his mouth curve into a smile against your neck.

"dean," you giggled. "that's gross!"

he pulled back from your neck, his pupils blown, lips parted and swollen, and hair stuck up in all directions. "and you getting off to a dream you had of me wasn't?"

oh. so he had seen you that night under the sheets from across the room. it was only a few weeks ago, but recollecting the ecstasy you'd felt that night after a particularly vivid wet dream of him brought a redness to your cheeks as you'd realised dean had heard every noise you'd made that night. and those noises included you moaning out his name into your duvet to try and muffle the sound.

"look who's shy now," he mocked, regaining his breaths.

"you weren't supposed to hear that..." you trailed off and lowered your head to prevent him from seeing your embarrassment.

"well i did, and it made me want you even more." he leaned in again, this time slower as his hands trailed up and down your body.

you leaned back from him before you pushed him backwards towards your bed. the back of his knees hit the bed and you pushed him down. he propped himself up on his elbows and watched as you straddled him.

"you need to watch yourself, dean. i might just have to put you in your place if you're not careful."

he smirked, watching as you trailed your arms down his biceps and his chest. in no way was he toned and muscly, but you didn't mind, as long as he was lean. most of those guys who were toned were usually dicks who loved their reflections more than you. dean didn't really care about his reflection much, only his hair, so it was nice to see someone staying true to themselves.

he sat himself up cradle your head in one of his hands and your jaw in the other. "you know, you're the only woman i'd let top me."

the words you'd prepared to reply with stuck in your throat as your face turned red again. he just gave a toothy grin and silently laughed at your reaction whilst you calmed yourself down, occasionally stroking the back of your head.

when you finally overcome your surprise, you lightly smacked him on his arm. "you can't just say that!"

"i mean, i think your reaction was pretty cute, so i think ill say it more often," he said, hugging you tight and pecking your lips once, twice, three times, before moving onto the rest of your face. your hands clutched at the back of his shirt.

he pulled you back down to lay on top of him before rolling over so he was hovering above you. then he kissed you again as your hands went around his neck. he was gentle, way more gentle than any man had been with you. his lips met yours and you wrapped your legs around him.

and that's when the door flew open. sam with five books in his hands.

dean's eyes flickered open and when he saw it was just sam, he closed them and carried on. you, however, pushed dean off you before scrambling up and wiping your mouth. you all but ran over to sam at the door.

"heyy, sam, how are you?" all he could do was open and close his mouth. "you're back early aren't you? maybe you should go read in the car," you said, pushing him out of the door and closing it behind him.

as soon as you'd closed it, you walked back over to dean who was laid on the bed with a strange look on his face.

"you okay, loverboy?"

he nodded, eyes flicking to you. "m'just really happy, that's all."

"o-kay." you sat next to him, reaching out to stroke his hair.

then he sat up slowly, your hand falling off his hair whilst he was eyeing you up. you knew that look in his eye.

before you could say anything, he tackled you to the bed, pining your wrists above your head. "y'know what sam said earlier, about using a condom?"

you nodded slowly.

"i think we'd better take his advice while he's outside," he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows.

"if you want to do it, you could have just said 'let's do it'."

"don't you wanna practise safely?" he asked, a genuine question though it was worded funny.

"ew, don't word it like that! but i'm down for anything."

"let's make this quick then," he said reaching for your top to pull over his head and flipping you over onto your stomach. "but first, i gotta see that tattoo one more time."

[treeteaofversailles]

Should've Been Me Final Part

MDNI! This is my original work. Please do not post to another site or to AI. Thank you and happy reading!

Summary: All in Zayne's POV. He was friends-with-benefits with you, MC's twin, before things ended badly. Two years later, Zayne returns as your roommate.

A/N: Thanks for reading my first short series!

Tags/TW: Implied smut, angst no comfort, miscommunication (no communication), swearing. Fem!Reader (she/her pronouns used, but mostly "you"). Non-MC Reader.

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3oUMoiClWMVZu1VXU88Kbb?si=fd029ba8a81d4292

Parts: Pt. 1 | Pt. 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in their apartment, you were silent the entire time you patched up his hands. You wouldn’t look at him, and the latex gloves hid your warmth from him. 

You wrapped his hands and then yanked your gloves off, snapping them before you threw them into the trash. 

“Your friends are worried about you,” you finally said. You crossed your arms as you sat back on the couch. “You’re distracted, you barely listen to any of them unless—and I’m quoting them—I am in the room and repeat what’s going on,” You looked at his hands and sighed sharply, “And now you’ve fucked up your hands tonight.”

The friendliness in your voice was all gone. His chest tightened. Your eyes held him in his seat before you sighed softly. 

“Normally, that’s your cue to talk, Zayne.” 

He swallowed thickly and looked away. 

The ticking clock was the only thing that broke the silence. 

You were watching him intently before you shook your head and got up. “Fine. You won’t talk. And I’m not going to try and get it out of you.”

Zayne looked back as you pulled your jacket back on, the zipper sliding up with a sharp hiss.  

It was the sharp contrast to the soft hiss of his zipper when you’d spent your nights together. 

“For fuck’s sake, Zayne, don’t make people accuse me of being your distraction because we both know that ship sank to the bottom of the Atlantic and will never sail,” Your eyes were cold on him. 

You stared at him silently before shaking your head and walking away. 

“Please don’t leave,” he croaked. 

You froze. The sound of the clock ticking filled the pregnant silence. 

You slowly teetered your weight on your feet before turning slowly to him. The same dark look was carved in your face. 

“You have no right to beg that of me,” You said in a chilling tone. “Not after you acted like I didn’t exist or refused to pick up any of my calls.” 

“I didn’t call you because—” Zayne stopped, his mind scrambling for an answer. 

You glared at him. “Because?” 

He couldn’t piece the right words fast enough, his head spinning with little clips of excuses for his ignoring you. 

“Because why, Zayne?” You snapped. 

“Because it was for your own good,” Zayne blurted out. 

“Excuse me?” You narrowed your eyes. You scoffed louder. “What the fuck did you say?” 

“I did it to protect you,” he tried again. 

“Protect me from what? What gave you the right?” Your hands shook as you glared at him. You curled them into fists and tried to steady your breathing. “What gave you the right to decide for me what to do?” 

Zayne lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You let out a bitter laugh and turned away, shaking your head as your eyes shone with your tears. 

“Well great fucking work, Zayne! I definitely wasn’t hurt that you just walked out without saying anything, or at least asking if I was okay. I definitely wasn’t hurt when you wouldn’t even look in my direction or acknowledge my existence. And I definitely didn’t lose sleep thinking about what I did wrong!”

You threw your hands in the air and laughed bitterly again. “But now I know! And it’s because I decided to fall in love with you. Sorry! My bad! That’s on me!”

Zayne looked back at you, and his chest squeezed so tightly that he couldn’t breathe. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

You just stared at him as tears rolled down your cheeks. He never wanted to make you cry. He left so you wouldn’t have to. 

He hated seeing you cry. He hated it even more that most of the time, you did because of him. 

“Did you ever feel anything at all?” You asked, your voice trembling as you tried to hold yourself together. “Did you even see me as a person?” 

“I did,” Zayne replied quickly, “And I still do.”

“So why did you decide for me what was the right thing to do?” You asked him again. “Why did you decide to push me away?”

He pressed his lips together, and you just looked away, exhaling sharply. “I thought you were in love with Caleb,” the real truth danced on the edge of his teeth, but he still chose to spit out another claim. “I thought that you falling in love with me wasn’t what you actually wanted.” 

You gave him a look as if he sprouted another head, “When did I say I was in love with Caleb?” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Since fucking when did I say his name, ever?” 

Zayne tried to answer, frantically pulling back all those memories of your nights together. Not once did you ever say Caleb’s name. You only said his. And you only spoke of Caleb in passing, as friends did. 

His skin went cold as his heart fell. 

You were never in love with Caleb. And you never used him to cope with it. 

“But you…” He began.

“I hung out with Caleb all the time because he's my friend,” You said. “I was in love with you, Zayne. And regardless of what you thought, regardless if you believed you would be saving me somehow by following those stupid rules, you hurt me so badly.” 

He hung his head and let you talk. 

“I thought I wasn’t capable of being someone’s first choice, so I clung to you even if I knew you wanted her instead. It’s because you chose me to come home to, I thought it could have become something real. I’d forgotten what my own face looks like because I let you call me by her name so much,” You said, your lips shaking as you tried to hold your tears back. 

Zayne turned to your piercings. 

“You wouldn’t even—! Am I that worthless you couldn’t give a breath of an explanation?” You cried, your voice broke as more tears fell. 

He dug his nails into his freshly healed hands, quickly drawing blood. Getting stabbed in the heart with a real knife would hurt less. "No. No, you're not worthless." He said.

I was just a coward...

You shuddered a breath. “You hurt me so badly I wanted to hate you. I wanted to hate you so bad because it’d hurt so much less than missing you,” You cried. “But I couldn’t. And I can’t. Because I don’t know what’s going on with you. And I don’t want to hate you for something I don’t know about.”

You didn’t hate him… His heart began to flutter quickly. You didn’t actually hate him. 

“So just tell me why you did that to me? And why did you think I would have been okay with it?” You asked in a voice barely above a whisper. 

Zayne forced his lungs to take a breath and his mouth to move. He needed you to hear the truth. And if you did hate him for real after, he deserved it. 

If you didn’t…

“Because I was scared of falling in love with you.”

You silently let him continue, your rosy cheeks shiny with your tears. Tears that he was the reason for. 

“I was scared of falling in love with you because that meant I’d give in to everything just to be with you. I was scared that if I became so obsessed with you, I’d get possessive and I’d trap you. I was in love with your sister, and I was already obsessed with the idea of her. So, when I had you, when I had all of you, I got scared I’d actually die without you.” 

Your eyebrows pulled back a bit. But Zayne needed you to hear everything. 

“I was so scared of falling in love with you that I’d suffocate every second of your life with me. I’d follow you around like a piece of shit on your shoe. I’m greedy and I want all of your attention, your time, and your love only for me.”

His heart was shredding to bits in his chest as he forced himself to open up. 

“I lost your sister already to… to someone else… and I refused to let the same happen to you. I was scared I’d never leave you alone. I’d never let you have the time of day to yourself. I didn’t want to hurt you like that. So I left. I thought that you’d be able to fall out of love if I left early enough.” 

He took a breath, “But I was wrong. Because I did end up falling in love with you anyway, but I lost you, too. And I knew I didn’t deserve to ever tell you that because of what I’d done.” 

You could only stare at him silently, tears still streaming down your red cheeks. For a moment, Zayne thought that he would be able to step forward and embrace you, to pull you in and tell you that everything was okay. 

Instead you took a step back, and he watched you wipe your face, and then sigh deeply behind your hands. 

The clock was the only thing filling the silence. 

“Even with those fears… You still had no right to push me away like that.” All of your anger was gone, and it was replaced by that familiar guilt that Zayne saw in himself every morning when he woke up. 

“And I’m also at fault because I let myself believe you’d love me if I were the one you chose to go home with every night. But I was wrong,” you said quietly. “You still chose her. Until it was too late.”

You looked at him, your eyes shining with fresh tears. “My whole life, I believed I was the second option after MC. Because she was the youngest, the prettiest, the smartest, the…” You shrugged. “Whatever… My whole life, I was second to my younger sister. And I used you so I could pretend I was someone important… That because you chose me to spend your nights with, I was finally better than her. And I'm sorry for that too. For using you, so I could feel important.” 

Zayne’s hands felt colder than they’d ever been before. 

 “I’m choosing myself.” You said. “I’m going to work on myself. And I’m going to be around for Greyson’s sake. But you need to pull your act together too. Don’t run after me,” she turned and walked out of the apartment, leaving Zayne alone in the dark. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list (open):

@sylusgirlie7 @cockiiess @moonlight-dream54 @abejaruby

[itemstealer]

Some of my thoughts on this too (mainly focusing on Ayre):

1: You did imply this, but Ayre only "backstabs you" when you decide to genocide her entire species, with everyone on Rubicon as probable collateral. She has EVERY reason to fight you, and she and her species have as much of a right to live as you do, which I personally feel is something a lot of people ignore. It's unreasonable to expect her to lay down and die.

2: Ayre doesn't really pull any manipulation tactics on you (at least to my knowledge), I think the only time she lies is when she states she's Rubiconian, which while true, she does neglect to mention that she's coral not a human. I understand not really trusting the voice in your head but Ayre isn't trying to manipulate you.

3: Expanding on 1 a little here. Ayre (at least from my limited memory) is the one giving you mostly RLF jobs (that Walter did not approve of beforehand) that you have the choice not to take. She never complains (to my knowledge) if you don't take them. The only time where she even visibly has a reaction to you not taking a job from her is when you try to, once again, GENOCIDE HER ENTIRE SPECIES.

4: I've seen a post (that i can no longer find so I can't really confirm if this is a hallucination tbh) say that Coral Release is a hivemind thing when it... isn't. That was Allmind's version of Coral Release, and nothing in the actual ending cutscene even hints that that is what happened. I think if it was, that would've been something we were told or shown in some way, but the only thing we are told is that the coral has been "disseminated across the stars" now. Plus I think it being that simple as being a coral hivemind misses the point of the ending. Part of the point for that ending is going past the point of no return. Of making a decision and not fully understanding what will happen afterward. Of crossing the rubicon. Hell, thee ending translates from latin into "The Die is Cast", the entire planet is named Rubicon (i.e the Rubicon River), not to mention many areas and pilots being named after a bunch of Roman shit. So much of the game is building up to that and the answer being "coral hivemind" cheapens that in my opinion.

Was this a good addition to the post? I don't really know, I didn't slept last night so maybe this is entirely incomprehensible, but still.

While I do feel like a lot of people simplify Ayre and view her as more morally pure than she actually is, I also think any read of her that has her not care about Raven or just be manipulative is just... not paying attention to the story. Especially the story of Alea Iacta Est. I think if you only do the first two endings I can get why someone could speculate that about Ayre, but with that one she is clearly very uncertain about siding with Allmind all the way up to the O'Keefe mission. She wants Raven to make the choice because she does not know if it is right to do but she trusts Raven.

So often I feel like the take that Ayre is "manipulative" just boils down to, Ayre feels emotions and expresses them. I also think we should remember that Raven is not a total blank slate with zero character traits. It is made clear they have some things they care about like Walter, Ayre, Carla, Chatty. And achieving symbiosis is a thing they choose to pursue over and over and over despite having the choice to back out so many times on the Alea Iacta Est route. Ayre even keeps bringing up that if they commit to it Allmind wont let them back out later. She brings that up. So the reading that she is manipulating Raven to achieve coral release is pretty weird. Especially since Ayre clearly did not even know about it until about the same time Raven did (which is a bit before Allmind approaches them about it to be clear, so it is not just Allmind either).

The game also very heavily frames Alea Iacta Est as the one where Raven does follow their own will throughout. Both the other two endings ends with Walter or Ayre respectively expressing support for Raven to choose what they want. Now that means what they want aligns with what Ayre wants, which supports the "our shared dream!" line in fires of raven I think. On Fires Raven just decided their loyalty to Walter outweighed everything else (which is why they are still a "dog" as Freud suggests during the fight instead of a "scavenger bird"). Whereas liberator has Raven become a symbol for freedom, and I do think that route is more in line with what Raven believes is right (since you are so often given the choice of siding with the RLF despite that being less pragmatic than siding with the corps) but that is also not really Raven pursuing their own goals. That is putting that on hold to protect the coral because they care about Ayre.

Both those routes a choice is still made, but it is only on Alea Iacta Est where Raven has a clear goal that they are pursuing that was not given to them by someone else (Allmind only approaches about coral release after Raven and Ayre have already began looking into how to achieve symbiosis).

Anyway back to how Ayre gets judged unfairly.

Other characters do worse things and do worse things to Raven specifically that they do not get judged much for. Rusty tries to murder Raven despite Flatwell telling him not to for rather flimsy reasoning, he tries it regardless of earlier choices by Raven. Even if Raven has always sided with the RLF Rusty tries to kill them. Yet not a single person judges Rusty for this (out of universe, in universe Flatwell seems pretty annoyed by it but he chooses to fight alongside Rusty). While Ayre turning on Raven in the route where they try to destroy her entire species means Ayre is a backstabber who never cared in the first place apparently. I think this one really stands out to me because of just how much literally nobody judges Rusty for that. He realises Snail was trying to get him and Raven killed, his cover is totally blown probably. So he has no real reason why he has to fight Raven beyond "they might be a threat". Which depending on earlier choices is an insane position to take. I think it makes sense for Rusty to do this and the story would be less interesting if he did not, but it is him being kind of bone headed.

I would also like to point out how characters consistently has zero respect for Raven's agency or choices and will assume the worst of them regardless of player choice a lot of the time. With Walter and Ayre being the main exceptions to this.

[isogenderskitty]

i think it's interesting how steph is like... the nerds see her as part of the popular group, and sure we see her talking to the cheerleaders a little, but other than that she doesn't really seem to be one of them in the truest sense? i could fully believe that she feels like the tiniest bit of an outcast there, like she's just cool enough for max to give her a pass but she doesn't really click with them that well. she feels to me like the bridge between the popular ones and the nerds, which is appropriate i suppose for her place in the story.

[optimistic-autistic]

nothing so aggravating as seeing people claim what Hades did was just a misunderstanding because he ''loved Persephone too much''. like i don't know about you, but it's pretty hard for that to turn into building a town based on slavery and later getting a girl and assaulting her (even if it's just implied, he still at least had to pretend to do something like it, because his goal was to make Persephone mad).

[skitskatdacat63]

.

[rainybraindays]

once again do not get why people act like Anthony is such a good brother

[my-current-obsession]

Me, delusional, foaming at the mouth:

ISH ROUTE??? POTENTIAL ISH ROUTE? PLEASE?

[omarwolaeth]

Thinking about how souls canonically do exist in universe, and how that might correlate to seeing different people as one in the same, all because their souls are identical (pieces of a whole)

[fionnaskyborn]

one day when i am not busy dying on the inside and out i will write an honest-to-god essay about how people are, for the lack of a better descriptor but simultaneously for the lack of a more perfect one, too edgy about five.

[kxllerblond]

spends my last hour ranting about how the cod fandom replaces the only black dude on the team with some mULTIPLAYER CHARACTER not even in the main game. an hour well spent tbh

[seventeendeer]

as a fat person who's always clamoring for more interesting fat characters in media, I honestly think one of my all-time favorite depictions of a fat character is Jumba from the original Lilo and Stitch - both visually and personality wise

from a design perspective, even though he's an alien, he has so many little anatomy quirks that make him a more believable fat character than many fat human designs in other media. I love the realistic sag and layering of the fat on his arms, the lack of neck definition, the rim of chub around his face and upper back, the way his back is rounded. his clothes pull taut and pinch in anatomically accurate places (e.g. shoulders are firmer = smoother outlines, the sides and back are squishier = bumpier outlines).

and he's stylized so well! all these great details boiled down to some simple shapes and pen strokes. IMO the Lilo and Stitch art style is extremely appealing - it's warm and clean and visually pleasing, but every character is super unique. Jumba isn't supposed to be pretty, but even though he's a very large, very fat, bald older guy who spends most of the movie in crop tops, the way he's stylized and staged makes it clear the audience is supposed to find him interesting to look at, and variably intimidating/cool/powerful/capable. he's often funny, but the physical aspect of his comedy is derived from being so hefty the other characters struggle to prevent him from barreling ahead and doing whatever he wants; being fat makes him come off more in control of the funny situations he gets into, not less. also, because the art style is what it is, a lot of his character acting also just makes him look kind of cute ... though that's universal across the cast

I also really like the fact that his size clearly gives him both realistic advantages and realistic disadvantages. along with having a stronger sense of agency in the comedic scenes, his size in combination with his impulsivity also makes him a more intimidating antagonist. you never know what he's going to do, and his size makes it difficult for other characters to stop him when he's made up his mind. at the same time, it seems to take him longer to catch his breath, he sometimes grunts when moving around a lot to imply it takes more effort, and he clearly struggled to find clothes that fit him when putting together his disguise. I think it's awesome that the character's size impacts how he interacts with the world so much, and again, in relatable ways

and personality wise, it is ALWAYS great to see fat characters portrayed as intelligent - not only is Jumba an accomplished scientist, he's also crafty and witty! a few quiet scenes imply a philosophical side, as he ponders on Stitch's existence and feelings as a living weapon. with Stitch explicitly being made in his own image to an extent, I'd argue there's even room to interpret some of the things he says about Stitch being hints to how he sees himself; we never learn much about Jumba's past, but it's clear he's a social misfit and strongly defiant. I don't think it's a stretch to assume some of what he said to Stitch about being a monster who can never belong anywhere was intended to read as projection (which makes it all the more heartwarming when both of them find a place to belong on Earth)

it's also a nice twist that toward the end, Jumba is the one who is unexpectedly compassionate toward Nani, while Pleakley tries to urge him to ignore her. again alluding to a level of emotional depth and intelligence that is often missing from even well-intentioned depictions of fat people. his character isn't even fully explored, and yet he's one of the most dynamic and interesting supporting characters in a movie full of fantastic characters. the audience is expected to find him fascinating and even sort of mysterious, and he is!

the sequels and spinoffs were more merchandise-driven franchise fluff for kids than the artsy direction of the original movie, but even so, I remember Jumba went on to become Lilo's lovable, amoral uncle figure, which I also thought was so fun as a kid. I love that they committed to the fact that he was more caring and compassionate than he seemed. not only was he a cool evil mad scientist character, but he was also eventually ... a friend ...

and he was even gay

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

[ventbloglite]

I think we need to sit down and talk about malgendering.

Not misgendering, malgendering.

We all know what misgendering means. Misgendering is when a trans person (or to be honest, even a cis person) has their gender denied to them in some fashion by implying, suggesting or outright stating that their gender is actually Something Else and not the one they identify as.

e.g. A trans woman being told she cannot attend a certain class because it's 'just for women'.

Malgendering is when the trans persons gender is not questioned or denied and may even be affirmed - but only in a context in which it can be used against them in some fashion (to make judgements on them as a person, to exclude them from something, to incite bigotry towards them etc).

e.g. That same trans woman taking her shirt off on a hot day and being arrested for indecent exposure.

This is misgendering;- "You're not a woman, you're a man." This is malgendering;- "Trans women are women, so obviously they exist to serve men."* *obvs it is also transmisogyny and all malgendering is transphobia.

But what you don't want to hear is that malgendering is a form of transphobia mainly used against trans masculine people and nonbinary people.

Most people recognise malgendering when it's;

Using the term 'theyfab' to ridicule an agender person or making jokes about how an agender they/them user looks (to you) to be a completely cis woman.

But you need to look out for how;

Malgendering is treating trans men like their transition has turned them into women-hating predators because of your own predjudices towards men/trans man were always inherently women-hating predators because maleness is what makes you those things not your actual thoughts, words and actions.

Malgendering is not listening to how trans masc people are marginalised 'because men aren't oppressed though' as if that's not ignoring a huge part of their identity (the being trans part) and how that works.

Malgendering is telling trans men 'this is just what it's like to be a man, people treat you like shit and you have to take it or not transition'.

Malgendering is insisting that any trans man who calls any attention to the fact that he is indeed, trans, and has/had female anatomy and faces misogyny due to being raised and still perceived (by transphobes) as a woman is misgendering himself, all other trans men and 'weaponising his AFABness'

All of this is transphobia. All of this is bigotry. This kind of predjudice and bullying doesn't magically become 'OK' once you find the 'right' group to do it to. You either want to end bigotry and transphobia and identity-specific targetted hate or you want to perpetuate it. But you can't call yourself a trans ally, or escape the bigotry allegations whilst malgendering people. And no you're not being sneaky by slipping in your hateful predjudice comments and actions whilst validating their gender.

Malgendering is transphobia.