#misery loves an idiot

[bleue-flora]

If I wrote a multi fandom fanfic it would literally just be Arrow’s Oliver Queen, Supernatural’s Dean Winchester, MCU’s Loki and Bucky Barns, and c!Dream imprisoned in Minecraft’s favorite torture box, Pandora’s Vault, with c!Quackity and his bag of tools… what does that say about me?…

[rendevok]

twitter fluff requests! 💞

[sincerely-sofie]

*silently slides Twig/Ark content onto your dash* *scurries away into the night*

(Read the rest under the cut!)

[hkpika07]

*throws santa costume on gordon*

now he goes with his son all of his other kids can even be reindeers too dont worry james rudolph is the most important reindeer -trainblogging anon

Congratulations you've caused him great indignity ♡

[tropicalfreckles]

This took me all day yesterday but I did it.

(volume warning for headphone users sorry)

I finally threw down what's been in my head for a few weeks now.

(below is the poses)

[nem0-nee]

Mayuu concept overblot reminds me of the babadook movie

Hsishs you have no idea how much this has a grip on me now- You, dawg, have such an astronomically sized brain?!? Thank you for letting me know 😭😭

Like MAN?! Now I want to showcase her OB in the form of a storybook

Sorry in advance if this is any way of unnerving ;v;

[RIP Silver you'll be missed]

A tale of one, a tale of many.

When a beloved friend turns into the enemy,

Feared of becoming nothing but a memory

Leads to a tale of a neverending tragedy;

Kairos— the perfect opportunity.

Prisoner of Time, won't you show us your mercy?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

[catcatb0y]

Honestly though saying (or implying) that vocaloid or vocal synths in general "devalues the human voice" is SUCH an incredibly shit take for SO many reasons.

Like yeah Saki Fujita getting so many other roles in voice acting because of her contribution to Hatsune Miku (the anime cameos and stuff are usually done with her original voice, them modified to be robotic) is a bit of an outlier when most other vocaloid and sythns don't have that influence.

You can even sort of wave off the dozens upon dozens of people who go for realistic tuning- like whenever a synth has any sort of clarity, there are like five people commenting about how real they sound. Clearly people do still care about human sounding vocals, because they go nuts over realistic vtuning.

There are many different aspects of vocaloid that use human voices, too- from Set It Off's duet "Why Do I?", human rap artists using Miku's vocals as background, and the entire CONCEPT of Project Sekai which releases AND COMMISSIONS songs for vocal synths and real people.

But the sheer number of vocaloid producers who use their own vocals as back up (MikitoP, PinoochioP, and I believe Kira off the top of my head), the number of producers who can sing and/or do self covers (again Kira, GIGA, Ayase, Teniwoha, syudou and so many more), and the amount of vocal producers who have gone forward with legit musical careers after working with vocaloid (Kenshi Yonezu, most notably, who did work for years under the alias Hachi)

I mean, hell. There are vocaloid producers who go on to become vocaloid vocals themselves- like nostraightanswer, the vocal provider for DEX, who has made both vocaloid and original songs. Some even duets.

That's not even including creators like JubyPhonic, Rachie, Will Stenson, Lollia, Octavia, Razzy and Co., and SO many other HUMAN cover artists who gained following or honed their skills on none other than vocaloid covers. (And that's just a handful of English Cover artists, not like Sati Akura a Russian cover artist or Ado who has commissioned songs from vocaloid artists)

It's also not including UTAUites who input their own voices to use for covers.

"Devalues the human voice" is such blatant bs. They ARE human voices. They are OUR voices. "You'd think by now that we would have learned, behind every piece if art is a human to be heard." (- CircusP, 'Better Off Worse')

[sysig]

Step off loser (Patreon)

[nomazee]

another thing i love about melodramatic reader is that not only to they feel every emotion intuitively, they broadcast them without shame to the right person. other character might complain, but reader ultimately trusts them with their grievances and monologues and rants,,,

auuughfhhhh

GWEN ur so true so real so right... melodramatic reader and their seemingly thoughtless rambling but everything they share is so deep and intimate and raw their partner doesn't even realize that they're hearing everything for a REASON... they are the most trusted person in their life and all reader's secrets and inner thoughts are safe with them no matter the sheer volume of things they share

also love the idea of a reader ONLY being dramatic around their partner and when that character asks around and is like "what do you mean they don't sit you down and make you listen to their hour-long spiel about their annoying coworkers and also what they ate for dinner and also the birds they saw on their morning walk" and everyone is like Hey that's actually JUST you

[bleue-flora]

Couldn’t help but think about this scene (Ch 5 of Misery Loves Another Idiot-) on Saint Patrick’s Day 🍀 so in honor of our favorite green boy on this green themed holiday, here’s the first rendition I wrote that I just found in my notes. 💚 Enjoy! Consider it my late tortureversary gift. ;)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Referenced/Implied Torture, Injuries, Profanity.

The pang of a metal water bucket hitting obsidian infects the air with an ominous promise. Followed by the approaching footsteps of who intends to fulfill that promise.

The noise makes Dream winch and struggle to hold back his trembling form. The desire to flee building up like a mountain inside of him. But he can’t. Can’t so much as crawl to the false safety of the corner with his ankles currently chained to themselves and the floor as well as his hands tied together behind his head, causing an intense pressure on his shoulders. A lingering tingling coats his body in pain from the previous days and even if he weren’t vulnerably bound to lay out on the floor like an animal ready to be cooked, the broken bones in his legs wouldn’t get him very far. That and well he’s trapped in an obsidian box completely covered in lava. There’s no where to go in this accurate recreation of hell. All he can do is wait for Quackity to make the first move and endure the torment that comes along with it.

Quackity takes his place to sit crisscrossed next to Dream’s head a bright and puzzled expression on his face, “Let me ask you something. Why the color green. Why choose that color?… I mean it’s not particularly flattering on you. It’s really not. It’s certainly not an intimidating color.”

In the hopes it gains him more favor with his torturer, he plays along a bit to the temporary non-hostile ambience, exhausted and tentatively he responds, “I don’t—don’t know. What do you want me to say?…“ before shifting to a higher sarcastic tone, “Oh, Quackity, I just love green—it’s my favorite color—it’s obviously the color I look best in—I mean, it makes me feel powerful, you know, like all the good villains…”

Continuing on he reasons, exasperated, “No no no unlike some people, I don’t need anything to make me feel powerful or fucking intimating, Quackity. It doesn’t matter what I wear, it could be—be a Rudolph costume and it wouldn’t make a damn difference. I still have the revive book so, to be fair, am I less powerful if I wore purple instead? I mean, do really think—do you really fucking think everyone would fear me less in pink?”

Nope. It wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter at all. No, he just wanted peace and freedom and that made him a tyrant. Pink, purple, turquoise, he could dress in the whole goddamn rainbow and it wouldn’t matter, not once they saw him as the villain. He could wear a fucking duck onesie and they’d still call him a monster and hunt him down to kill him like one. No, color had nothing to do with his persona or villainous facade. If he wanted to be seen as fearsome he wouldn’t wear neon lime green and a mask with a derpy, happy smile on it. No, it’s only because it actually is his favorite. Has been as long as he can remember, long before Tommy declared them enemies and turned the server against him.

Quackity, not amused in the slightest by the answer, replies while dipping a cloth in the bucket and squeezing out the access water, “Do you think you’re funny? You think you’re fucking funny?—huh?… Don’t fuck with me, Dream. I was trying to be nice. I was gonna ease into it today, but you know what? I’ll just cut to the fucking chase. How does that sound?”

[For the actual scene I went with see Ch 5 Bridge Over Troubled Water of Misery Loves An Idiot- linked here and above]

[fuckthewest]

There is something deeply fucking wrong with me I'm so attracted to negativity and misery etc. That I'm literally viewing cautionary tales as semi aspirational. My dumbass is playing disco elysium and becoming so enthralled by the angst of Harry s. Dubois that I don't even mind - and even sometimes morbidly look forward to - that I'm becoming like him. I fr play the scene where he meets his wife in the dream and my heart aches so much and I'm like "that's gonna be me" and my heart aches even more out of a disgusting excitement for misery. I have become so entrenched in negativity and angst and melancholy that I have become comfortable revelling in it. Fuck my entire life.

[iishmael]

Ok the fic is at 6k, and I plotted it out in detail to be 20k in total <3 im soooo excited!!

[dont-offend-the-bees]

There's something actually strangely comforting about the stress and struggles and sadness that comes with being trans and it's the fact that this is One source of anxiety in my life where the blame lies SQUARELY with everyone else. Like every other thing that's wrong with my life I can find some way to feel personally guilty or responsible for but when it comes to being trans I am just existing as me in a completely neutral way and it's everyone else who refuses to be in any way normal about it.

[strwbrymocha]

sad sad sad :3

[nereidprinc3ss]

light of the morning

in which spencer sneaks into bau!reader's hotel room and they share a little more than just the bed

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom!spence x sub reader, munch!spence, unprotected piv sex (dont do that), creampie (hate that word btw) praise, mentions of having to be quiet because morgan is right next door LOL, fluffy, established co-workers/friends with benefits, soooo idiots in love a/n: here is the promised smut. i am literally kicking my feet and twirling my hair and giggling and blushing at my own writing. I'm gonna have a freak out. requests are open like my legs

It’s late when the knock finally comes. Late enough that you’re dozing on the bed above the covers. 

It takes you a moment to reorient yourself—you’re rubbing your heavy eyes when you finally get the door. 

"Hi."

"Hey," says Spencer, hands awkwardly shoved into his pajama pants pockets. It’s funny, really. He never gets any better at this. 

You step aside and he enters the room, looking around as you close and relock the door. 

"Did I wake you?"

"How could you tell?"

"You’re in pajamas. And you look tired. I mean—you don’t look bad. You never look bad, I just meant… you don’t look tired but you’re not—I didn’t mean to—"

"Relax," you yawn, putting him out of his misery. "I was joking. I know I look tired." You glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It’s late. We have to be up early tomorrow."

"Yeah, I got, uh, sidetracked. Sorry."

He was reading. If it was anyone else, you'd be offended--but a sinkhole could open up under Spencer's feet and he probably wouldn't notice if he was absorbed in a book.

You shrug, a knowing smile lifting the corner of your mouth. 

"It’s fine. But I don’t know if tonight is a good night. I really am exhausted."

His eyebrows dart up. 

"That’s fine. That’s totally fine. I’ll just, uh—"

When you don’t move from in front of the door, he pauses, unsure. You bite the inside of your cheek, studying his rangy frame and choice of clothing. Blue pajama pants, slippers, grey CalTech zip up hoodie. It feels wrong to describe a 6'1 man as adorable, but that’s how he looks in his sleep clothes. There’s a very real chance, you find yourself thinking, that you are the only member of the BAU to ever see him in something other than slacks and a button-down. He looks so cozy that you kind of really want him in your bed even if he’s not doing anything but sleeping. The invitation slips out before you can think too hard about it. 

"You could… stay, anyway, if you want?"

His mouth parts slightly, and those eyebrows raise again. There’s a moment of awkward silence and you are very much beginning to regret your offer, wondering if you somehow violated the sanctity of your co-workers/friends with benefits situtationship. Clumsily you try to backtrack. 

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, you can—"

"No, no! You didn’t, I just don’t want you to feel obligated to invite me to stay in your room. I’m right across the hall, I can go back if you want me to."

You smile awkwardly, silent relief replacing the brief anxiety. 

"It’s fine. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before." And not like you wouldn’t have ended up doing it tonight anyway, if things had gone as originally intended.

He chuckles, looking to the floor and nodding. The blush on his face does not go unnoticed by you. "Fair enough."

It’s incredibly endearing how nervous he still gets after six months of this little arrangement. 

"Do you wanna get your stuff, or…"

"No, that’s okay. I’ll just go back early tomorrow. The chances of someone seeing me leave your room are significantly higher if I do it so soon after entering."

You squint, unable to tell if he’s fucking with you or if that’s an actual statistically sound probability. And then you realize, blissfully, that you don’t really care. 

"Okay, well. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to brush my teeth."

Once you’re enclosed in the bathroom, hotel vanity lights blinding you as you brush, you find that there is a jittery sort of apprehension buzzing in your chest. But that’s silly. As you yourself pointed out, the two of you have shared a bed many times over the past few months. But the sleeping together is always a byproduct of the sleeping together. Never have you shared a bed in a completely decent, virtuous, strictly non-sexual manner. It’s always been a matter of convenience—less bother if he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking back into his room in the middle of the night when you’re both exhausted. Or maybe that’s just what you’ve been telling yourselves. 

You rinse your mouth out and exit the bathroom, flicking off the light and finding that Spencer has indeed made himself comfortable. The hotel room is dark and he’s already under the covers, fiddling with his phone. 

"What time should I set the alarm for?" He asks, looking over at you as you crawl into bed, drawing the covers over yourself. "I was thinking 6:23. That should give me enough time to—"

"Sounds perfect," you affirm, wiggling under the blanket as you get comfortable. He schedules the alarm and sets his phone on the bedside table, dousing the room in complete darkness. Your eyes stay open despite, waiting for them to adjust. A few moments of utter silence and stillness pass, and you can tell Spencer is completely stiff next to you. 

"Spencer."

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. Like he’s even more wired about this whole situation than you are. 

"You know you don’t have to avoid touching me at all costs, right? I’m not a leper."

He looses a nervous laugh. 

"I know. We’ve just never really done this."

You frown at the darkness.

"We’ve definitely slept in the same bed before."

"Yeah, but… this feels different."

That, you can’t argue with. Can friends with benefits share a bed just to be near each other? Does that blur some line? And why does it feel more intimate than the sex? 

Screw it. If there is one thing you don’t want your relationship with Spencer to be, it is uncomfortable. Uncertain, you can work with. But not uncomfortable. You reach for him, hand sliding under the duvet—and find his hand already waiting for yours. 

"I don’t think it’s that different," you lie, interlacing your fingers together slowly. 

"Prolonged physical non-sexual contact does have measurable health benefits…" the words are murmured, like the moment is fragile and he doesn’t want to shatter it. 

"Can’t argue with the facts," you breathe, trying to modulate the shakiness of your voice. But you have a feeling you’re doing about as good of a job at concealing your nerves as he is. He shifts.

"Can I…"

"Yeah."

Your heart is pounding as he slips one arm under your neck and the other around your waist, pulling you close. Instinctually you curl into him, slinging your top leg over him as you’ve done before, but always dismissed as post-sex brain chemicals making you feel all warm and fuzzy. A neurological reaction that is so solidly scientific, neither of you ever questioned it. But it feels bigger now. 

He exhales as you settle against each other—a sound of relief that mirrors your own. He’s so warm, so safe as he envelops you, physically and sensorially. In such close proximity, so clear-headed, you notice each layer of his scent. Toothpaste, lavender, vetiver, detergent. You sort of feel like a creep, but you can’t deny how comforting it is. Nor can you deny the pirouette your heart does when he begins minutely rubbing your back, like he’s not even thinking about it. 

"Goodnight," you whisper into his shirt. 

"Goodnight," he whispers back. 

You fall asleep pretty quickly after that. 

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

It’s unclear what wakes you up—maybe it’s the blue-grey dawn light filtering in through the filthy window (doubtful, it’s still mostly dark) or maybe it’s the blinking green digital clock on the nightstand. 5:02 AM. Your alarm will go off in an hour and 21 minutes.

Sometime in the night you shifted, turning over in your sleep, but Spencer is still holding you close. The arm slung so casually over your waist is slightly domineering, but you manage to rotate again and face him once more. Mere inches away from his face you can see every detail. His expression is so peaceful, it makes your heart ache. 

But you’re just friends. 

Perhaps he felt you moving, because his eyes flutter open and you watch as they flood with consciousness. He takes you in, takes in his arm over your waist. For a split second you’re nervous he’ll pull away. 

"What time is it?" His voice is scratchy with sleep. 

"Five."

"Why are you awake? We have over an hour til the alarm goes off."

"Sometimes waking up early is okay."

His eyes flicker between your own, and momentarily you’re paralyzed as you realize this is a limbo state for the two of you in which you’ve never operated. You don’t know what’s acceptable. You don’t know what to do. Being close to him feels so good, that the idea of separating hurts. But you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, or—

He leans forward and kisses you softly. In the blue light of dawn, rather than frenzied and hidden in the dark, a desperate tear of clothes and teeth and hands—it’s almost freeing. All the anxiety you were feeling just seconds ago begins to melt. 

Friends. 

"You looked anxious," is his whispered answer after he pulls away a moment later, like a kiss is the simplest remedy in the world. He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. "We should go back to sleep."

"I don’t want to go back to sleep."

The corner of his mouth twitches as he studies you.  

"No? What do you want?"

Emboldened by your mutual indiscretion, it’s your turn to kiss him. You feel him smile against your lips, hand finding the back of your neck and raking up through your hair to pull you closer. 

The delirium of sleep seems to have softened you, filed down the rough edges of your boundaries and kicked away the lines in the sand. What’s a kiss or two when you’ve just woken up? A small, innocuous display of affection while you’re still barely conscious. Nobody could fault either of you for that. People don’t think clearly when they’ve just been asleep.

So what if your lips part against his, and his other hand finds its way under your shirt to stroke the bare skin of your waist and hips? So what if you hitch that leg over him again and press closer?

Spencer breaks the kiss, still ghosting over your lips. 

"I thought it wasn’t a good night?"

"It’s not night time anymore, is it, genius?"

You sneak another kiss, nipping his bottom lip gently as you pull away. 

Instead of whatever array of responses you were expecting, Spencer smiles slightly, eyes almost sparkling in the faint light. The hand on your hip moves to your face, gently thumbing across your cheek. He begins to say something, and stops himself—biting his lip to hold back the words. 

"What?" you ask, heart dropping. Illusion fracturing. 

"I was just—" he begins, pausing for a moment before the words all come out in a rush. "I was just going to tell you how beautiful you are, but I don’t know if that’s something I should say, or if it would feel too… I don’t know…"

He trails off. A rare instance in which he doesn’t have the words. 

You do. Intimate. Real. Romantic. And he’s right, it does feel too much like all of those things. But that doesn’t mean you don’t like it, perhaps more than is strictly good for you. 

"It’s fine. Thank you."

He continues chewing on his lip for a moment. 

"Did I just ruin the mood?"

"No," you laugh, "not at all."

"Thank god," he sighs, surging forward again. 

"Since when do you thank god?" You manage between kisses. 

He moves to press his lips to your jaw and down your neck. 

"Do you want me to talk about the historical and cultural transition of religious expressions into ubiquitous secular colloquialisms right now?"

"Kind of," you breathe.

"No you don’t," he murmurs against your neck as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "You want me to take your clothes off."

Well, he’s not wrong there. 

You help him tug the shirt over your head before leaning back into the pillows as he situates himself over you and lavishes more kisses down your neck and collarbones, pausing to suck a mark only when he knows it’s low enough to be covered by your clothing later. 

You gasp when his lips brush over your nipple, before running his tongue over the sensitive skin. He glances up at you, and though his mouth is occupied, you can see the humor in his eyes. He loves how sensitive you are—how easy it is to get a reaction out of you. 

Of course, you continue to prove him right when he takes the other into his mouth, trying to hold back your little whimpers as he darts his tongue over the peak. Maybe somebody else wouldn’t hear them, but Spencer does. He’s hyper attuned to the sounds you make. Something of a catalogue has begun to form in the back of his mind; he knows exactly what each noise means and how to get them out of you. 

Once satisfied, he moves to press a kiss to your sternum. 

"You’re gonna be quiet for me, right?" Another kiss above your bellybutton. "Because Morgan is sleeping right on the other side of that wall, and we don’t want to wake him up."

"I’ll be quiet," you promise, somewhat breathlessly. Spencer’s mouth trails lower until he’s pulling your shorts down your legs, leaving you completely naked. He tosses them somewhere on the floor and hooks your legs over his shoulders. 

"Good." He plants one last kiss to your thigh and the next one lands right between your legs. 

You regret the need to be silent almost as soon as he drags his tongue over your clit. It’s not like the two of you have ever had the privilege of making a lot of noise, as the hotel rooms are always so close to each other, but it doesn’t make it any easier. 

Instead you opt to rake your hands through his hair and try to take deep breaths. But he knows exactly what you like—he knows starting light and slow, teasing around your most sensitive spot will work you up to the brink of insanity, just like he knows gentle circles make your back arch and elicit the prettiest little moans. 

"More," you beg, and the hands wrapped around your thighs rub soothingly, reassuring you that if you can just be patient you’ll get what you want. 

He takes your aching clit into his mouth, sucking lightly and you’re forced to clap a hand over your mouth, muffling the sob of pleasure you can’t hold back. Spencer keeps it up until you’re practically riding his face, teasing your dripping entrance with the tip of his tongue when you get too close. 

"Fuck, please, Spence," you whisper through your fingers, hips rutting in your desperation. Somehow it always ends up like this—with him in charge and you begging. Not that you have a problem with it, of course. 

He hums into you, and if the way his tongue moves back to circling your clit with newfound fervor is any indication, is apparently satisfied with your entreaty. 

You gasp and try to control your breathy moans, but his mouth feels so good on you that your vision is going out and you’re losing touch with reality ever so slightly. You use the last of your brain power to bite down on the back of your wrist, hoping it adequately muffles the noises you make as you come on Spencer’s tongue and he greedily continues lapping at you. There’s really no way of knowing—your ears are ringing anyway. 

When you come to a moment later he’s peppering kisses on your thighs, rubbing your hips gently. 

"So pretty," he murmurs, climbing back up so your lips can meet again. "Everything about you is pretty."

You paw at his shirt, signaling that you want it off as you moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, feel your slippery arousal staining the kiss. Spencer helps you, sitting up briefly to unzip his hoodie and pull off his shirt. 

You’re the one to drag him back down, and you notice that he pulls the covers back over the both of you in a sweet gesture he probably didn’t even think about. 

"Need you to fuck me," you beg, reaching down to try and undress him further. 

"So crude. What happened to my nice, sweet girl?" He mumbles against your neck, but helps you with his pants anyway. 

"You must have me confused with someone else."

"Doubtful."

You don’t have much time to consider what that could mean before he’s running the head of his cock over your clit and you’re gasping into his mouth, saying please like it’s the only word you know. 

"There she is," Spencer croons, slipping inside you slow enough for you to feel every inch but quick enough for it to expel all the air from your lungs. Once he’s opened you all the way up, impossibly deep and close, you’re seeing stars, barely breathing. His head has dropped to your shoulder but now he drags his lips up your neck and jaw. "We okay?"

It’s been a while, you realize, since that last case in Maine. He always takes some getting used to. Hardly able to think around the pressure of his cock you nod, trying to string together a few words. 

"Fuck, I need a second." The words come out choked, but you manage. Spencer rubs your hip, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. 

"Relax, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you."

He curses to himself, dropping his head momentarily. You’re so fucking soft, and warm, and perfect, he can’t think straight. But he has to try because he has to take care of you. 

"Spence," you gasp, failing to verbally communicate the intensity of the physical sensation. 

"I know, baby," comes his sympathetic coo. "You know you can take me. Deep breaths."

"Mhm," you squeak, trying to take follow his directions and soften your muscles. Spencer keeps rubbing soothingly over your hips, stomach, whatever he can get his hands on, really, pressing kisses all over your face and telling you how good you are, how perfect you feel for him. After a few moments he feels you fluttering around him and experimentally pulls out halfway, before pushing back in equally as slowly. Your jaw drops as he begins to leisurely fuck you, arms wrapping around his back. He gets deeper than you expect every time, rubbing you raw and stretching you out in the most delicious way. 

"Perfect, baby. Such a good listener, did exactly what I asked."

You cry out when he begins fucking you impossibly deeper, but still so slow and sweet.

"You feel so fucking good for me," he groans. "This is what you were made for, huh?" You agree enthusiastically, eyes fluttering shut. 

"Only for you."

Just three words—but he wasn’t expecting to like hearing you say that as much as he does. A strong desire to possess you overtakes him—one that he’ll probably have the decency to feel guilty about later, but for now feels fucking fantastic and intoxicating. 

"Only me?"

You moan an affirmation. 

"Good. I don’t want anyone else fucking you, do you understand me?"

"Yes!"

"I’m the only one who gets to touch you," he breathes, speeding up ever so slightly, "nobody else is going to feel you like this. Such a good girl, spreading her legs for me at five in the fucking morning. You’re not doing this for anybody else, baby."

"Uh-uh, please, pleasepleaseplease Spence—"

He knows what you need, reaching a hand down between your bodies to rub your clit. 

You gasp an airy, high pitched curse, hips twitching but unable to escape the near-punishing rhythm of his own. It’s obvious that your orgasm is close, but you can’t even warn him, too overwhelmed with pleasure. He kisses you, swallowing your moans that have probably become just a bit too loud given the whole hotel thing. 

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you near the finish line for a change, open mouths slipping against each others in what is too messy to be called a kiss. Your orgasm body-slams you, a choked silent scream as you tighten around Spencer and he seems to come at nearly the exact same moment—deep inside you, slowly rolling his hips in a few more strong thrusts as he finishes. 

You let out a delayed moan at the sensation of being filled up, still pulsing around him as he comes to a halt, buried inside of you. He drops his head to your neck, and you can feel each breath against your flushed skin. Other than the panting, you’re both silent for a while. Spencer seems to gather himself sooner than you do, finally breaking the quiet. 

"You okay?"

All you can manage is a little squeak, at which he looses a breathy chuckle. His hand slides to your hip, gently stroking the skin with a thumb. 

"Need your words, angel girl."

"I’m okay," you coo into his shoulder, but he has to strain to hear it above his own breathing. 

"Yeah? Why so quiet?"

But it seems that at least for the moment, he’s gotten all the words he can out of you. When he tries to move, you whimper indignantly, clutching onto him tighter. 

"I really did a number on you this time, huh?" He laughs when you nod into him. "Are you falling asleep?"

"Mhm," you hum dreamily, little puffs of warm air slowing against his neck. 

"You can have…" he cranes his head to check the digital clock, "48 minutes."

"An hour."

He settles his weight on you once more, pressing a chaste kiss to your throat. His voice is low and gentle as he admonishes you. 

"I said 48 minutes."

But it doesn’t matter—you’re already asleep, or close enough to it. Spencer takes the opportunity to shift you to your side, and the way you wrap around him like a vine even unconsciously makes his heart ache. He really should go now—the earlier he gets out of your room the less likely certain complications will arise—but how can he possibly leave you like this? A vulnerable, dreamy girl with tangled hair haloing around her on the pillow case, clinging to him with blind trust that he’ll watch over her as she sleeps? No—there’s no way he’s leaving yet. Instead, he brings you closer. 48 perfect minutes will go by far too quickly, he’s sure. 

[tombstones-and-saxophones]

“If [op] was in love with me, I’d know” this and “I’m pretty good at picking up signals” that motherfucker no you are not and no you would not, because I am in love with you and I wrote some rather blatant poetry about you and the blessing of knowing you and I made you read it and you told me you loved it and somehow you still haven’t gotten the memo. The fuck is wrong with you