#so you can imagine the kind of stress shes under

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

you know i've been thinking about the consequences of malleus's actions in book 7 and i realized how much he's fucked everyone over including his grandma. bc like other than the fact that he ob'd (which literally has NEGATIVE connotations one of which being is idk ""UNSTABLE"" which isnt necessarily a good look for a crown prince is all im saying) he's literally causing terrorism (??? can you call it that idk how else to call it) which is going to setback his grandma's efforts (and lilia's and baul's, and every supporter of his and his family) in keeping peace in their kingdom and the favor of the humans towards the fae. Like. i feel so bad for grandmother draconia rn i can only imagine the stress and pressure she's under.

Then theres also aside from PHYSCIALLY compromising everyone's healths in sage island (BECAUSE THE MAJORITY ARE HUMANS OR AT LEAST THEY DONT LIVE AS LONG AS THE FAE). He's also fucked everyone mentally twice over!!!! By booting them straight into a world where none of their problems exist. Now that wouldnt sound bad if it weren't for the fact that dreams have to end, and life isnt kind. It rarely ever is, and i can only imagine how distraught i would be if i were to say, hypothetically lost someone a year before and the wound is so fresh and raw and, in my dreams, they never died and everything is okay, then i wake up and realize that it was just that. A dream, they are still gone and i wish i never woke up which would be a LITERAL DEATH SENTENCE. This isnt just an event that takes place in NRC either BUT THE WHOLE ISLAND and that domain is GROWING, GROWING. I can't imagine just how many would be so emotionally ruined after this. Like.....

If Malleus does not suffer the consequences of his actions istg i will be so pissed, at least REMOVE HIM FROM THE PREMISE OR SOMETHING GODDDDDDD this cannot be remedied with a slap on the hand!!!!!

(Note: Sorry for the long rant. I felt the need to get this out of my chest bc i dont mind malleus's archetype actually nor do i actually hate him, bc i enjoy him interacting w other characters a lot (my fave ever vigenette is him giving deuce the equivalent of minecraft diamon for fixing a retrobit gaming toy) BUT GOD DOES HE MAKE MY BLOOD BOIL)

Yeah, I do feel like the scale of Malleus's actions cannot be understated. I know it's kind of a fandom joke that the OB boys are left off with a slap on the wrist + maybe some social ramifications at school, but this is the ONE time in the main story where things are getting super big and the effects could be cripplingly long-lasting.

I don't know if TWST will seriously address the consequences after book 7, but I sure hope they do!! There is a lot of interesting ground to cover (many points which this anon has already brought up) in a follow-up main story arc or the next book.

For example:

Malleus obviously has to regain the trust of his peers and staff. He didn’t really have it before but now has to work twice as hard to make connections since he just took a drastic action that confirmed the rumors some were already spreading about how he’s a monster.

He’s the sole heir to the throne and has just betrayed the trust of the people of Briar Valley. How are they feeling about him now? Do they still trust him to lead them?

How does this impact their relations with other countries (since Malleus himself stresses how he represents Briar Valley)? This is a problem visible on a global scale, and surely this would damage their rep with other nations, particularly the predominantly human ones. It’s setting back what is hundreds of years of trying to fix the broken trust between their races.

Malleus’s UM potentially puts his victims in physical harm; in book 7, Ortho suggests that since everyone is sleeping, their bodies are not getting the food or water they need. As a result, they may physically waste away and then perish. (We have seen that there are sleep blessings that keep people sleeping for hundreds of years without detriment to the blessed though, such as the one cast on Silver—so we cannot be entirely sure if Ortho’s theory is correct or not.)

There is the possibility that Malleus’s dreams may traumatize or retraumatize his victims, particularly those with deep rooted troubles. An example of this is Idia, who had suffered the loss of his brother when he was like… 8 years old??? But then in his dream, Idia is living a happy false reality that Ortho never died. When he finally comes to this realization, he has to relive the trauma of the discovery all over again and breaks down sobbing. We also see in the most recent book 7 update that Vil had to face the evilest aspects of himself and a dark reality; Rook became very emotional upon waking himself. Admittedly, Idia and co. coped with it well enough—this is proof of their character development and the strength of the new friendships they’ve formed. However, all the people on Sage’s Island/Twisted Wonderland may not react so positively or be so accepting of their cruel realities.

Again, just the overall moral dilemma of one person robbing all of Sage’s Island (and soon all of Twisted Wonderland) of their autonomy.

Potential extra work for STYX and whichever countries Malleus’s magic manages to spread to (repairing any physical damage caused by the thorns + mental damage done to those that fell asleep). That’s money, time, and resources that aren’t going toward other everyday endeavors.

How will Malleus himself mentally and emotionally cope with what he has done? Is he going to show remorse and shame? How does he plan on rectifying his actions, if at all?

Will this change how his dorm members + family view him? For example, will Sebek become disillusioned with his liege/realize Malleus is not as perfect as he seems? Will Maleficia blame herself for not being there for Malleus? Will Lilia feel guilty for not teaching Malleus right from wrong? Etc, etc, etc.

I’d honestly love to read all of these! 🤔 It would add a lot to the lore and history of Twisted Wonderland, as well as serve as motivators for Malleus to change, “be better”, and actually earn the respect he’s so used to being handed by default. This would be huge for him, especially seeing as he has not really faced significant backlash or consequences for any other missteps he was responsible for or involved in. (I know I bring this one up a lot, but Endless Halloween Night is one such major example.)

[guppybycharlybliss]

merry homestuck day. here's jade strider dirkways

[naruto-is-baby]

your top 15 favourite tv shows can say a lot about your personality

Tagged by @kuhakukage

Let's go besties :

1. Courage the Cowardly Dog

2. Danny Phantom

3. Teen Titans

4. Teen Wolf

5. Inuyasha

7. Tokyo Ghoul

8. Shen He Ling/Word of Honor

9. Australia's next top model

10. Brooklyn 99

11. How to get away with murder

No tags all the besties can come list their favourite shows so i can get some good tv show recs thank yew.

[scionshtola]

wip wednesday / whenever

bc technically it is thursday. but barely.

i was tagged by @coldshrugs @lavampira and @impossible-rat-babies, ty beloveds!! 💗💗 not tagging anyone bc it's v late but if you want to do it pls tag me! i am very slowly working my way through what i am thinking of as the "first chapter" of this au, so here's the most recent bit that i wrote.

Y’shtola could see the slight curve of their smile as she swung the coat over her shoulders. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, which hung far past her fingertips. “Sneaking me out the back way? Whatever will the others say?” They laughed. “A few of Count Fortemps servants agreed to cover for me while they could. It may be a while yet before anyone notices I am gone.” Corisande pushed open the door, and Y’shtola shivered as she followed them into the cold. The servants must have left the coats for them, but if Corisande was going to such lengths to leave in secret… “Is Haurchefant aware of your absconding into the night?” she asked, hoping her voice remained neutral.  “He is,” Corisande answered absently, leading them down a path through the garden. “‘Twas partly his idea, though he agreed ‘twould not please the Count were we to both leave so soon. He was willing to martyr himself on the Ishgardian nobility so that I may take my leave of them early.” A sharp twinge of irritation passed through Y’shtola. Was this who she would be to Corisande now? A mere consolation prize, the person to fall back on only when Haurchefant was unavailable, never to be chosen first again?  Part of her wanted to turn around, to go back inside, hang her borrowed coat up, and leave through the front door where they would not follow her. A small, inconsequential part of her that melted away when Corisande turned back to grab her hand once more, tugging her after them.

[s-lycopersicum]

[purrvaire]

"I stumbled over all my words / I made it weird, I made it worse" she really wrote it for the teenage girls in their 20s huh

[iphnh]

I get really frustrated when I see people recommend bell hooks....mostly because they never specify what exactly they like about her lmao. In my humble opinion, bell hooks does not say anything particularly special, but she does say a lot of things that are particularly harmful. for example, in The Will to Change, she argues that men misbehave because their mothers didn’t raise them right...which is like....one of the oldest ideas in history lmao. just because an idea is dressed up in fancy, modern, liberal language does not make it new. and her grand solution to men’s misbehavior? women being better mothers. ok. when we pull back the veil of this argument, we see she is basically stating that men’s misbehavior is women’s fault. which is the first rule of misogyny. 

another thing that frustrates me with bell hooks is how little she researches anything she says. she has no background in history, psychology, anthropology, etc, nor does she make a big attempt to include statistics and research to back up anything she says. I understand some people enjoy that kind of writing, but I also know a lot of people think bell hooks is an academic qualified to talk about history and/or psychology and/or anthropology,  and so they take her opinions as researched conclusions. they’re not. they’re literally just her random thoughts on life, sprinkled with some anecdotes. bell hooks does have a phd, but it’s in English Literature. when you read anyone’s work, please be mindful of how they justify their claims. 

I have a feeling that 90% of the people who recommend bell hooks have never actually read her and they just see her as an older black woman they “should” read (but never do). I respect that bell hooks endured a lot of turmoil in her life. But I honestly would not consider her works necessary feminist literature. 

[swordmaid]

i feel like shri’iia should’ve been an oath breaker in act 1…..not finding a lot of opportunities to break her oaths in act two currently but like imagine breaking her oaths via telling minthara where the grove is THEN betraying her when she rolls around because she’s a traitor to lolth ….it’s much juicier than 1v1-ing her in her office imo…

[oflostinfound]

[ EXTRA ]:    sender hands the receiver a spare weapon during a fight to give them a better chance after they break or lose their own. (eath)

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆/𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆.

|| 🔷 ||: ❝ Thank you- ❞

This was the third weapon she'd broken today on a missed swing. The taller daemon was a lot... faster than she though he'd be. Or maybe she was a little too worried about striking him, not that he couldn't handle it. She was so small compared to him, and probably not as strong.

Once more she is reminded of how much she wasn't a fighter, of why she hated fighting, but here she was holding her replacement weapon.

|| 🔷 ||: ❝ We're... trying again, I assume? ❞

Another sparring match, at least she had avoided getting hit this time. If her size and weight gave her anything it was agility, speed, and being a very small and hard target to hit.

[rosedom]

AHHHH HELLOOO sorry i usually dont request much, haha this is actually my second request in all of my tumblr story ever but...i saw you decided to write for gaming and i just couldnt resist, i love your writing a lot and i just think its so immaculate hahaa. Could you write an scenario where male reader is stressed from work (imagine he has an important job like a doctor or something whatever you want is fine :)) because he has been working days nonstop, so much that his boyfriend is all worked up and horny for him so when reader comes back he finds himself straddled by him while hes begging for fucking? With cockwarming, breeding kink and cowgirl position. Could that be with Gaming, Lyney and Gorou? SORRY IF IM ASKING MUCH I DONT WANT TO BE A BOTHER😭😭 i just dont know how to request but thanks for reading all of rant. And again, thank you and sorry for bothering😔 have a nice day/afternoon/night!

"an unnamed player has invited GA-MING, LYNEY, and GOROU to play . . . an apple a day

✦ㅤㅤ 【 CW 】 dom!top!male!reader, sub!bottom!ftm!characters, vaginal sex & riding, breeding kink + creampies, creaming (lyney), gratuitous praise + petnames .

A/N : aa u are never a bother !! i am SO SORRY this took so long for me to get to, omg . . . but i had sm fun with this (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

"do you want to watch, [PLAYER]? press KEEP READING to spectate the match."

Patient after patient after patient, each one with a more downright stupid trouble than the last. Your day had started with a young man, clearly fresh out of Millelith training, complaining of a tummy ache, of all things! He had clutched his stomach and moaned and groaned, and all you could prescribe him was bedrest. It’s not like you were going to waste medicine—medicine that some people needed—on someone who ached because he didn't eat fucking breakfast. 

The next patient was an older woman, here only for her biannual check up. You'd greeted her, said a sweet, “Good morning, madame,” but all she did was turn her snobby nose up at you and demand you not waste her time.

“Madame, you have a serious—” 

“I know, young man.” You had heaved a sigh, letting her boss you around for the length of her appointment before sending her off with the exact same specifications as last time: take vitamins, get ample rest, stop talking back to people just doing their jobs. (Though, that last one there was merely something you wished you had said.

Too bad the customer—in this case, patient—is always right, huh?)

But, by the end of the day, you wish, instead, that you had simply elderly after elderly; their disrespect pales to the absolute headache that the rest of your patients put behind your eyes, pounding at your skull—bam, bam, bam.

Wham bam-thank-you-ma'am, all throbbing incessantly behind your eyes and making you wanna hurl—except, god, you’re the fucking doctor, and who’s there to take care of him when he’s a little under the weather? You’ve got your boyfriend, of course—your perfect boyfriend, light of your life, apple of your eye, yet he’s home, and you’re here, and you’re bloody exhausted. 

“I need to go home,” you murmur—quiet, lest your own voice make you lose the last of your thin-threaded sanity—, already stripping yourself of the itchy scrubs you wear during the long days. 

“But sir—” the nurse asks, meak, but her voice is still too loud, too shrill for right now. 

You huff. “I’ve worked for fourteen hours.” The tired gruff to your own voice makes you cringe. You can feel the way it tumbles from your chest, rattling you, your overly sensitive eyes and brain and head and fuckin’ everything, at this point. “Refer to the doc on duty, now.” 

The nurse nods, once. “Have a good night, doctor.”

You bid farewell—a kind apology with a promise to make it up to them, to bring them coffee, maybe, or some cookies—, and you take the slow walk home. The sky is dark and the fireflies are out, the gentle glow illuminating the path. With nothing but your own thoughts and the night to accompany you, you feel your headache gradually ease. It throbs, still; but each bump in your skull is gentler, now: it’s easier to ignore. 

Although the porch light is too strong—the lantern bright and attracting the nighttime bugs and moths—, the foyer of your home is dark. Your aching head is grateful for the reprieve—for the silence that envelops you in totality the second the door clicks quietly shut behind you—, but something other than tiredness pulls at your heartstrings: your sweet boyfriend, clad in only a shirt of yours, toeing into the entryway. 

“Honey?” He wipes the sleep from his eyes, softly smiling at you. “Hi.”

“Ga-ming, honey—” honey, because Ga-ming unabashedly stole the pet name from you, first, “—you didn’t have to stay up for me.” 

As if on cue, his jaw cracks open in a yawn: this, you do not need the lights on to see. Your heart aches with your head, knowing that he had stayed up just for you. “Honey,” you repeat, sliding off your jacket and stepping up to him. You take his waist in your hands, bunching up the shirt he stole from your closet.

“Quit with that,” he murmurs, tilting up his head for a soft kiss. You grant it; but when you go to pull back, to keep the kiss gentle and chaste, Ga-ming presses forward, darting that little tongue out to lick at the seam of your lips; his hips, too, come bumping against yours, pressing into your thigh, pant to skin—

“Ga-ming?” you repeat, breath leaving you in a low huff. “You’re—” bare. 

Utterly, wholly bare: an expanse of warm, slick skin against your clothed leg. “‘m ready,” he mumbles while he takes to mouthing at your throat. His lips soothe you, somehow; it’s a reprieve, a stark contrast, to the pounding at your skull. 

“Ready?” you whisper, tilting your head back, letting your hands guide the steady roll of his hips onto your lap. 

He nods. “Ready for you,” he enunciates as he softly whines. 

Ga-ming—your Ga-ming—, your boyfriend, your love and light of your life: right here in front of you, on you, all needy for you, offering himself to you, wholly ready for the taking. 

“So please,” he continues, his cock dragging heavy across the seam of your pant; “fuck me.”

“Oh, honey,” you murmur; then again, an “oh, honey,” because you’re still half-dressed up in your clothes—though they’re only soft and bland, made to fit under the rough scrubs you had abandoned at the office—, and Ga-ming is naked save for the shirt draping across him, the low hemline covering the absolutely sinful way he grinds down. It’s a dirty move, a down, down, down that gives his sensitive cock friction against your pelvis. 

“Please, please, ‘m ready, I said—” his words abruptly drop off, a high cry in his throat that sends him to hide his overly-warm face in your neck. His skin burns against you, a feverish-hot that makes you chuckle, makes the throb in your head go away, just-so. “I said I-I was ready, so, please!”

You coo, quiet, bumping your hips up once. The jerking motion makes him cry out, but he manages to keep himself upright, right-side up but entirely unmoored on your cock. “Go on then, little lion. Take what you need, yeah?”

Whimpering a quiet, “Y-yeah,” he begins riding you, slow, steady—but slightly off-balanced—rolls of his hips that makes him whine, makes you groan low n’ deep in your chest. You let your hands rest on his hips, the fabric of his shirt falling over your wrists, and gently guide his motions. Once you’ve helped him establish himself, he begins riding you harder, more desperate.

Silent tears—though, are they truly silent, loud as he is moaning out for you?—dribble down his cheeks, falling to his shirt and soaking the collar of it in salty evidence of his abject pleasure. His abdomen is tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing again, all in a rapid loop, in and out and in n’ out, and then there’s a fucking bulge right below his navel when he sinks down hard n’ deep on your cock; and you’re sent over the edge at the sight, moaning through your teeth as you fill Ga-ming up with hot, sticky cum.

“Oh, oh—” he cries, grinding down harsh to get all your cum in as deep as possible, deep ‘nuff to breed him— “bred me, bred me so well, oh—” You groan at his desperate babbling as his thighs jerk around your hips, just before they give out on him entirely. He falls bodily into your chest, heaving through his own orgasm as weak mewls tumble from his prettily parted lips. Each sound is smeared into your throat while you laugh, light and breathless, jostling his overly-sensitized body and making him flinch. 

“Sorry, honey.” You kiss at his temple, and, the whole while, his small cunt is left to unconsciously milk your cock, left to assure that loud, insecure part of his brain that he’s wanted, that he’s bred all nice n’ full because he is loved. You’re long done, now, but the undulations make your body warm, soft, safe—just like Ga-ming is, comfy in your lap and wholly protected. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head against you, nuzzling into your throat with a heavy sigh. “You don’t have—hafta thank me,” he mumbles, a lick at your Adam’s apple to seal the deal. “I wanted ta.”

Tucking up the blankets around him, you grin. “Then can you warm my cock, lil’ dragon? Just for me?” You run your fingers lightly up his clothed spine, delighting in the shiver you can feel, one that runs the length of your cock as he’s snug on it. “Since earlier was all about you?” You raise the end of your sentence in a lilting tone, meant to tease, and Ga-ming huffs at you. 

And, n further retaliation, he clenches around you; the soft squeeze—all wet n’ warm, smearing your own cum across the base of your cock and leaving the mess of both of yours to dribble down the minute space between your bodies—forces you to calm your breathing, to take in the delicate scent of what is undeniably Ga-ming mixed with the smell of your own shirt, your own cologne. 

You laugh, then. “‘m sorry,” you say again amidst giggles, ones you’re careful you confine only to your upper chest lest the movement be too uncomfortable on both of your oversensitive groins. 

He doesn't reply, snuggled up comfy on your lap and stuffed full of your cock n’ cum both. Instead, he only noses into your neck further before his breathing steadies, lulling you to sleep, too.

It’s in your final moments of consciousness that you realize your head no longer hurts. 

(You suppose you now have the evidence that, yes, an orgasm is sufficient enough a cure for headaches.)

Under Lyney’s palm, a small floor lamp clicks silently on. The light is admittedly dim, but, to your sensitive eyes, the bulb is blinding. You cringe and cover your eyes; but it only serves to shield you slightly, because you’re still upright in the foyer, and your body is rather weak. “Lyney,” you tiredly murmur, lifting your palm just enough to see the ground lest you trip. 

You bump into him, laughing lightly, but his worried hands jump to your arm. “Hey—”

“I’m okay.” You’re quick to calm him, placing your free hand on his in a tender gesture as you make way to the living room. “Just a headache, ‘s all. Ya shouldn't have stayed up f’r me.” Earlier, it hurt to even think; but here, with him, the pain is easy to ignore, in the face of his own self destruction.

He grumbles at you, though, says something you can’t quite catch and drops his hands, pads over to the lamp to flick it off. The return of darkness is soothing. 

He smiles at you, then; or, at least, you think he does. It’s difficult to see in the dark, and you can’t strain your eyes without hurting yourself. “I wanted to!” He takes three long strides before he’s standing in front of you, draping his arms across your shoulders. The position makes his (your) shirt ride up on his belly, and— ”I missed you, y’know,” he murmurs, suddenly all soft n’ deep, looking up at you and bumping his forehead against your chin. “A lot, really.” 

“Lyn—” 

He quickly silences you with a kiss. Against your lips, he pulls back, murmurs, “I missed your cock, especially.”

Laughing against him, you lean up ‘til he can no longer reach you. He pouts at you when you reply, faux-snark, “only my cock, huh?” Your bottom lip juts out—a mirror of Lyney’s own, a magic trick of his you took for your own; it’s a devilish trick, one you play right alongside puppy-dog eyes you know he’s soft to. “How cruel.” 

He huffs at you, pulling you down by the collar of your shirt to kiss the mirth off your lips. “I was tryin’ to be seductive,” he grumbles, knocking against your chin and beginning to push you backwards into the living room. “But nevermind!”

You want to say, “Hey, now:” disagree with him and keep on pouting and go, “hey, hey, hey,” all offended, but the backs of your knees come into contact with the edge of the sofa, and you’re well and sufficiently distracted from that idea.

“Sit,” he gently commands you—merely the illusion of choice—, giving you no choice in the matter with the way he’s pressing you down into the cushions. You go easily; you sigh in relief when the softness begins enveloping you—a pillow’s snug right in the middle of your back, and you briefly wonder if Lyney had planned this. He murmurs, “there you go,” quiet n’ soft, and you’re taken by the way this man gives to you. 

He wears his heart on his sleeve, truly; except, right now, the sleeve is yours (just like his heart belongs to you and yours to him in turn), and it's bare, and so is the expanse of his long, pale thighs, the hem of his boxers peeking out beneath the shirt. He stands in front of you, between your legs, makes sure you’re down and that you’re gonna stay down, but your eyes aren’t really tired, not anymore, staring at Luney—your Lyney—before he huffs and sits bodily onto you, straddling your lap with his knees sinking into the cushions on either side of you.

“Lyney,” you murmur, reaching out to take hold of his thighs. The position makes the shirt rise up on his belly, exposing the soft, rippling muscles there; but, in the dark, all you can go by is what you feel against your own stomach, his bare skin pressed to your thin shirt. “I was kiddin’, sweetheart.”

“I know you were,” he snaps at you, mean-like, but he brings his arms around your shoulders all sweetly and nuzzles into the side of your head. “But I wasn’t. I—I really did miss you; and your cock. If you—if you wanna, of course.” 

“Of course I want to, Lyn,” you mutter, tilting your head up to kiss beneath his chin. “I’m just a little tired.”

“A little?” He huffs, again, before sighing. “Just—let me do the work, alright? I’m already...” he pauses, tilts his head to the side, breathes in and out sharply.

You hum at him to go on. 

“‘m already prepped.” Oh. 

“Oh?” You grin, bringing your tired arm up to cup his cheek. He leans into your palm and his eyelashes flutter, brushing against your skin. “Go ahead then, sweet thing.”

And go ahead he does, smiling into you before he abruptly leans back ‘nuff to chuck off the shirt. You whine, say, “hey!” but there isn’t any bite left on your tongue when Lyney starts tugging his boxers down, too. He’s impatient, pulling at the seam and groaning curses at the fabric—as if it’s the damn boxers’ fault that he’s in a position that prevents him from taking them off. 

He relents, tilting this way and that and finally—after painstaking minutes later, ones that, under no circumstance, should be arousing, but the anticipation, the wait: it all makes your dick chub up in your own pants—Lyney’s left naked in your lap. The fabric hangs off his foot, and you reach down to tug it the rest of the way off for your sweet boyfriend as he busies himself unbuckling your own belt, loosening the tough leather enough for your pants to droop and enough for him to reach a hot hand into your briefs. 

“Eager, huh?” you tease, lifting your hips—and, subsequently, him—to let him get your dick out of your pants. Neither of you bother pulling down your own pants, not after Lyney spent so long on his boxers alone. He doesn’t dally. “My sweet Lyney.”

He sighs, again—he’s rather dramatic tonight; but, then again, when isn’t he? It wouldn’t quite be your Lyney without some theatrics—, spitting into his palm and lathering up your cock with it while he makes to straddle you more fully. “Thought you were tired,” he grumbles, hovering his, indeed, wet n’ slicked up and entirely prepped cunt over your thick cockhead.

“Mhm.” You set your hands on his plush thighs once he hooks the head of you into his loosened hole, groaning low and pleased in your throat while he softly whimpers at the barely-there stretch. He prepared himself well. “But when you’re lookin’ so pretty for me, I can’t help being wide awake. Wouldn’t wanna miss this sight for the world.”

With your eyes now adjusted to the light—and, oh, you consider how the throb of your head is a bygone memory now—, you can see the way his cheeks darken just-so, puffed up in exertion as his groin meets yours. You’ve got your cock stuffed up balls-deep in him, and he leans into you once he’s fully settled. 

He moans, less out of outright pleasure and more out of total contentment, comfy and warm on your lap as your arms knead at his thighs. His arms squeeze around your shoulders, and he quietly asks, “Gimme a minute.”

Nodding, you simply bask in the steady heat of him, letting him adjust and recognize that, yes, you’re home, now, and you hadn’t really left him at all. “I missed you,” you murmur rather suddenly, your voice quiet but still stark in the silence of the night. “Thought about you durin’ my shift.”

“You did?” His voice is rough but wispy, a little out-there and entirely gone. He’s slipping into that mindset he always does when he’s left to warm your cock—regardless of if it were by his volition or your own—, but he begins to subtly grind his hips against you, mewling at the hot sparks of rapture from his cock rubbing just right against you. 

“‘Course I did,” you continue, moving your hands to his hips instead to help move him along. His arms tighten around you and he moans directly into your ear.

From then on, it’s quiet: quiet, that is, save from the obscene slick noises of the lube Lyney used to prep himself earlier with his own slick, your pre-cum mixing up and making a mess of thick liquid between both of your thighs. His moans are barely audible, these soft, gentle lil’ uh, uh, uh’s punched out of him with each tender grind down. 

You think, even, that you’ll both cum like this: quiet, nothing but the sounds of your connection and heavy breaths, moans, groans as you fall over the edge. But then Lyney starts bumping his groin against yours even harder, grinding down deep on your cock and rubbing against your full balls, and he starts babbling for you to “breed me! Please—”

“I-I’ll breed you,” you groan, leaning your head back into the sofa cushions and chasing your release, chasing the release you both want, the one he wants so desperately stuffed up deep inside him. “Gonna fill you right up, just like you want, sweetheart.” 

He babbles more—a mix of syllables and words, more pleas for you to breed him—until he’s silenced by his own high-pitched whine, cumming around you and slathering you in creamy-white. The steady clench and release of his cunt forces you to your own end, thick cum slowly leaking out from the edges of his cunt and your cock. (You can hardly tell what’s your leaking cum and what is his own.)

“Thank you,” he mumbles, already beginning to doze. “Th’nk you:” quieter, more muddled against your ear.

You grab the throw you have across the sofa’s armrest, rucking it up around the two of you; you cocoon Lyney safe in your arms and on your softened cock. He’s nodded off, now, and he misses your words: “You don’t have to thank me,” you say anyway, even if he doesn’t hear you, “I love you.”

The cum’ll be sticky, later, when you wake up; but for now, it’s perfect. It’s perfectly warm and entirely cozy, wholly snuggled up with the love of your life. Your headache, the stressors of the day—they’re all forgotten in his presence. 

You’re so, so glad to love him. 

“Hi, puppy,” you coo. The sound of your own voice grates you, but you ignore it to sweetly smile at your beloved. He stands there, motionless for a moment right there at the threshold before the foyer, until he shakes his head with a barely-there laugh. “Gorou?” 

He tilts his head to the side—this you can see, the silhouette of him in the moonlight—before he takes a tentative step forward. 

Then another. And another. Another, another, another, ‘till he’s standing in front of you and leans up to kiss your jaw. “Hi,” he repeats, voice ruff (hah!) and hoarse, a little too much so. “Missed ya.”

You tilt your head back to let him mouth at you, and your hands subconsciously come to clutch at his hips, and— “Oh, Gorou,” you mumble, pleasantly aghast, because your hands come into contact with bare, slick skin. “Pent up?”

With a quiet whimper, he tilts his hips forward, into you, pressing against the contact of your fingers on him. You slowly slide your one hand around, sneaking a large handful of his ass before you dip into his cleft, shuddering when your fingertip easily glides across his slicked, open cunt. 

“I-I wanted you, so bad,” he starts to mumble, shy, tucking his head into the meat where your shoulder meets your neck. Without any prompting, you adjust your stance, pressing your knee into his cock and making him jerk forward with another whimper high in his throat. “Oh!”

Slowly, his hips begin grinding—it’s a weak movement, testing, making sure you're really okay with this, right now. He moves unsure against you until you begin bumping your knee, letting his slick make a mess of your pant leg. “Go on,” you goad him on, soft, holding him snug against you. You can feel his cunt clench even through the fabric of your pants, a rapid rat-a-tat-tat against you that is oddly reminiscent of the headache you can feel begin to dissipate. “Take your pleasure, pup.”

He nods vehemently against you, beginning to hump as his tail swishes side to side, side to side, hypnotizing you just slightly. It’s hard to parse it out in the dark, but the shadow of it is undeniable behind him. Each bounce of your leg makes Gorou whimper, and he’s quick to crane his neck up for a kiss to muffle himself. You grant his request easily, but only for a minute; after, you gently part from him to murmur, so quiet that only he could possibly hear, those big, soft ears of his twitching as he strains, “What else do you want, honey?” 

“Want you,” he whines, grinding harshly once, twice. “Want you inside me, want you to breed me.” 

You didn’t expect that, but you’re a doctor, after all; it’s kinda in the job description to roll with the punches, so you do. “You wanna get fucked full of pups?” you ask, teasing and light, but Gorou’s mouth parts as a loud whine crawls out of his chest.

“Yes! Please.” Thick tears begin to drop from his eyes, saltwater dribbling onto the bare skin of your throat. “Now, now—breed me now,” he begs, and you coo at him, bringing your hands to curl into his hair, rubbing soothing circles into the base of one puppydog ear. 

“Patience, pup.” 

And, because he’s Gorou, and Gorou is nothing but a good boy, he nods, rapid-quick movements of his head, and begins to slow on your thigh. Heat shimmers low in your belly as he steps back from you on shaky legs, a wet splotch across your leg from his cunt. You bring a hand down, meaning to scoop it up off your pant, but your finger brushes two distinctly different textures: his natural slick, and fuckin’ lube. “Did you prepare yourself for me?”

“Y-yeah,” he mutters, tail tucking itself between his legs. You almost cringe at that, knowing he’s smearing himself into his own fur, but if he doesn’t mind, then you won’t either; besides, it’s hard to truly care when your boyfriend is so bashful in front of you. “I—I missed you, ‘nd wanted to be ready for you.”

The image of Gorou, ass up on the bed with four of his fingers stuffed up inside of himself flitters across your mind, makes your cock throb in your britches. Your erection was easy to ignore, earlier; but now it’s abject torture. 

However, it’s not nearly as torturous as it was for your boyfriend, and you know this. You know he didn’t cum, know his fingers are far too short to truly reach in deep and press against his g-spot, know his wrist can’t comfortably bend to jerk himself off and finger himself at the same time. So you coo, soft, “Sweet boy. Where’s your toy?”

“Charging,” he mutters. 

You grin at that: it’s perfect. “Can you go get it then, puppy?” 

With an audible swallow, he nods, rushing for your bedroom. You follow behind him, lethargic but so, so turned on; and while he’s grabbing the vibrator from the corner, you shuck off the rest of your clothes and plop yourself down on the edge of your bed. 

He must not expect you to have followed him, however, because once he turns around, he jumps, ears flattening to his head in embarrassment. You only laugh and pat your lap. “C’mere.”

Quickly—and toy in tow—, he shuffles over to you. He stands awkwardly in front of you for a moment before you murmur, “I said c’mere,” and tug him to straddle your lap. The position immediately forces his cock—slick n’ thick, out of its hood and throbbing incessantly—against yours, and he mewls helplessly for a moment, grinds once, twice again, before he grabs the lube to the side of you. 

You hadn’t even noticed it there, but now that he’s grabbed it, pointed it out, you feel other wet spots beneath you. He fuckin’ masturbated here, right on the duvet you both sleep under, thinkin’ about you and only you. You’re taking out of your musings when he slathers up your cock in lube, messy and sloppy, and then he’s rising, positioning you, and sinking right on down.

“Mm!” he cries out, swiveling his hips to take you in deeper, deeper, deeper. You groan at the lube-slick combination that smothers your cock in Gorou, Gorou, Gorou. “Breed me, breed me!” Each meak plea makes your cock pulse inside him, and he mewls at each throb inside him. “Please!”

“I got you, pup,” you murmur, your edge so close you can taste it on the tip of your tongue. “Just make yourself feel good, and I’ll breed you, okay? Okay, puppy?”

“Okay, okay—” 

You grin. “Good boy,” you say, and then he’s tumbling over the edge and bringing you right down with him. You groan into his throat, feeling the vibrations of his whimpers n’ whining moans as he’s getting thoroughly bred. Your hands ruck up his shirt to hold his sides and soothe him down from his high. “You did so good for me, sweetheart. Bred you just like I promised I would, hm?”

He weakly nods. “Thank you,” he mumbles, nosing at your throat. 

And, well. You’re bloody exhausted, and you promised to breed him, and he can’t keep on being bred if you pull out. You tell yourself you’re only upholding your promise as Gorou falls asleep on your cock, breathing deep on your lap: tell yourself that it’s the lingering tiredness that suddenly seems to hit you in full-force that keeps him warm and snug on you. 

Really, clean-up can wait. 

i got a lil' carried away on lyney's part ,, o(*^＠^*)o also, none of these were really cowgirl 'cos reader was sitting up for it . . . i couldn't think of how to have him lay flat in these scenarios LOLL

13 MAR. 2024, @rosedom, rosey .

[pretty-toru]

boyfriend quiz ᰔ gojo satoru

contents: tooth-rotting fluff. fem!reader. established relationship. mentions of sweets. making gojo think every question he answers is wrong on a quiz you made up.

“Baby, let’s take a little couple’s quiz together, hm?” 

Satoru had just stepped into your shared bedroom after a hot shower. The ends of his hair still damp from towel drying and his cheeks just a tickled pink from the steam as he takes long strides toward you, crawling into bed and stealing some of your warmth from under the covers. 

“Hmm, why do I have a bad feeling about this~?” There’s a boyish smile on his face as he holds you close and nuzzles your neck softly, feeling like his head’s up in the clouds the moment he’s wrapped up in your scent. “But alright, I’m game! Let’s go, I’m ready. What’s the first question?”

The white tufts of your boyfriend’s hair delicately grazes your nose and you press a tender kiss to the top of his head. “So, imagine you’re at our favorite bakery, what do you buy?” You start with an innocent question, leading him to believe that there's no right or wrong answers but he suspects there's a trick up your sleeve.

“That’s a fun one! I’m at our favorite bakery, right~?” He ponders carefully for a moment. “Well, of course, I would want those delicious pastries, those yummy cakes, and those fresh breads! And while I’m there, I should grab a few of your favorites too!” 

You almost forget just how incredibly thoughtful and caring Satoru can be. How you’re always on his mind and he spends a lot of time thinking about you no matter his whereabouts. You know this because it usually manifests in forms of gifts and trinkets—some sweet, some odd, some over the top, but they’re all very near and dear to your heart. 

“Wrong.” You shake your head gently, forcing an exasperated sigh that tells him you’re disappointed and upset he managed to get the question wrong. But really, you’re just messing with him, making him think his answers are somehow incorrect in this one-sided game of yours. “You weren’t supposed to be there without me in the first place.”

“What do you mean, Angel~? Why can’t I be at the bakery without you? Even if I’m getting you something, too?” There’s a glimmer of confusion behind his cerulean hues, yet his earnest smile still remains and he’s a bit at loss for words but continues to indulge you. 

“Next question—” Satoru quickly plops an affectionate kiss on your cheek before you continue, hoping to remedy your crestfallen face. “You have now left the bakery, what’s the next thing you do?” 

“Easy. The next thing I do after leaving the bakery is be with my favorite girl, and share all the delicious things I got. I want to be with you, no one else.” 

There he goes being so sweet again! He’s making this extremely hard for you not to openly swoon over him and smother his face with so many kisses, and he can see the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek trying to suppress your smile that he’s getting to you. But you shake your head again, “Wrong! You’re supposed to pick up the strawberries from the market like I had asked you to.”

“Oh my goodness, you’re right! I forgot all about the strawberry you wanted~” Satoru gasps loudly and runs a stressful hand through his hair. He then laughs and playfully rolls his eyes that he somehow answered wrong for the second time now. “Fine, I’ll go pick up the strawberries.” 

You couldn’t help the quick kiss that lands on his cheek for being so utterly cute and adorable as you giggled along with him. “Okay, next question—a girl approaches you and she looks like she wants to hug you. What do you do?” 

“Hm, who is she and why does she look like she wants to hug me?” He tilts his head to the side as he considers the situation. You feel like maybe, just maybe, he’s merely seconds away from getting a curveball thrown at him. Even though you know kind of partner he is, you’re quite curious as to what he’ll come up with. 

“Well, what do you do~?” You gently urge him for an answer. 

“It really depends, Angel. Are you the girl then?” His lips curl into a smirk, and he looks at you almost too knowingly like he could read your mind. But you know that even his Six Eyes can't do that. 

You hate that he was able to figure it out so easily. He watches as your face lights up into your perfect and gorgeous smile, with your head falling onto his chest and face burrowing in defeat. All of his answers were simply too sweet and considerate with you in mind and you can feel your heart swell with so much love and adoration for him.

Your muffled words come up to reach his ears, “How’d you know to answer that I was there with you? You’re too smart for this. But yes, the girl is supposed to be me.” 

“So you approached me, and you wanted to hug me, right~?” He strokes your hair softly and offers an amused chuckle. You slowly lift yourself off him to meet his soft gaze, nodding. “If you want a hug, you always get a hug, sweetheart.” 

Satoru doesn’t need to be told twice to have his strong arms coil around your figure, locking you sweetly in his hold that makes you feel completely safe and secure in his warm embrace. Then, a lingering kiss to your forehead just before he releases you but you can feel the faintest waver in his loosening grip that he never wants to let you go.

“Okay, one last question?” Your weight dips on the mattress beside him, tucking yourself in the nook of his arm and resting your head on his chest. He hums contently when your body always seems to fit so perfectly with his as he brings you closer to him like he can’t get close enough. ”What are we doing next?”

“Well, we could go home, eat the baked goods and the strawberries. After that, maybe snuggle while watching a movie and take a long nap together. How’s that sound to you, baby?”

You briefly mull over his words, and you can’t remember the last time he truly took some time off and enjoyed himself without restraints. So you’re determined to plan a fun and romantic getaway because even your loving and goofy boyfriend deserves a much-needed break to experience the small joys and pleasures with you every now and again.

“That sounds like our perfect next date.”

[always-andromeda]

𝐝𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⟡ Ellie Williams x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⟡ 1232

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⟡ You and Ellie enjoy an all-too-rare "quiet" moment with each other.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ⟡ soooo...this is my first time writing something for Ellie...please be gentle lmao. I decided to be a little easy on myself and start off with something light with absolutely no plot. Just pure, fluffy porn. That being said, I want to add that from this point onwards, anything I write based in the TLOU universe, I will be including links on what we can do to aid Palestine. From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.

HOW YOU CAN HELP PALESTINE

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟡ smut (minors, do not interact, please and thank you), reader has no physical description aside from being afab and able-bodied, fingering (reader receiving), oral (reader receiving), pet names (babe, baby), slight overstimulation, general softness, nothing else I can think of!

Early mornings suit you, Ellie decides. Especially when it's all cold and quiet and blue light as a thin layer of frost covers the outside of the window by her bed. You're both thankful that it obscures the view of any eyes that may have been peeking into Ellie's garage.

They would've seen you sprawled out on her mattress and Ellie slotted firmly between your legs, paying all sorts of attention to your thighs. And thank fucking god, you're the only one who can hear the filthy words that fall from that wonderful mouth of hers.

"You're so fucking soft, babe." Then she chuckles, "And so easy to work up."

Your thighs shiver with anticipation and you're far beyond the point of feeling any kind of shame about it. There's only urgency filling your chest as you hope that Ellie's teasing turns into something. It wouldn't be the first time that she'd spent so long on you that Jesse had to come and "wake her" for patrol.

Now that had been a special kind of torture: Ellie hoisting herself up off of you and yelling to Jesse that she'd be right out as she pulled on her hoodie and gathered her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. She grabbed her backpack, kissed you on the forehead, and muttered, "See you tonight," with a cocky grin. Then she fucking left.

And you'd have to shake away whatever mounting pressure she'd built up inside of you and uncomfortably shuffle your way home in yesterday's clothes all while trying to avoid the watching eyes of Jackson's population. It felt like every ounce of deprivation was written on your face in those moments and you hated it.

So you thread a hand through her hair, gently urging her towards your cunt.

"Hey, hey, hey, I'm gettin' there," she teases and removes your hand.

“Now, please,” you whine.

But it’s no use. With a little laugh under her breath, she keeps peppering kisses along your bikini line. You know she relishes in it, listening to you gasp as she gets closer and closer to where you need her only to pull back moments before her lips could connect with your center.

She must be feeling nice this morning; she hasn’t admonished you for squirming or whining. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t have patrol today. Or maybe it’s because you spent hours after dinner the night prior relieving her stress as well. Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that quiet moments like these are rare. All you know is that you can handle it; you can handle her.

You ball up the sheets in your fists and adjust your hips ever so slightly, settling in for whatever Ellie has planned for you. She uses a finger to pull the thin cotton crotch of your underwear to the side and groans to herself.

She laughs, “I don’t even have to try and you’re soaked.”

You lift yourself up on your elbows to look down at her. “Imagine what would happen if you did try,” you quip.

“Tough talk for a girl in your position,” she says. Before you can give her another snarky reply, she licks a long stripe up the center of you. The sudden warmth is welcome but it still startles you. 

Ellie adds with a scoff, “Besides, I don’t need to imagine. I am well aware of what happens when I try.” With that, she eases a finger in you.

In and out, she patiently worked you open until asking, “Want another, babe?”

You give a breathy yes. A beat passes where you wait for her to request a please alongside it. But it never comes. She must be feeling really nice.

With a whine, you feel her slip that second finger in. She’s methodic, curling her lithe fingers with each pump and carefully itching an ache inside of you that begs to be scratched. Bit by bit, she only feeds the flame; only makes it climb higher and higher up your belly until it seems to burn at the back of your throat. That wet squelch between your legs intensifies as she fucks you faster. You let out a soft moan and Ellie curses under her breath.

“That’s right, baby. You’ve got it.”

You can’t quite see her expression but you can tell she’s got that smug smirk creeping across her face. It’s the face she makes when she can tell just how well she’s playing you.

Right then she decides to go for the kill. Her tongue flicks over your swollen clit in time with her scissored fingers and before too long, you’re chasing it. Rutting against her mouth, you follow that all consuming fire that burns away each and every one of your better senses. It craves nothing more than pleasure and the praise of the girl you love more than life itself.

Strangely, you don’t mind it. In another world, you could afford to be so needy and so selfish whenever you wanted. Perhaps that’s why you’re so drawn to the feeling now; to the fleetingness of it. It’s lightning in a bottle. And with the heat mounting, you feel ready to burst.

A string of wanton curses falls from your lips. Bones scorched with pleasure, you're quickly approaching the point where you’ll be nothing more than ash.

Ellie groans desperately against your cunt, “C’mon, give it to me. You’re almost there.”

That’s all you need to fall over the edge. You shatter as soon as your climax makes contact. You’re a mess of limbs. Legs wrapping around the woman attached to your cunt. Heels digging into her back, still chasing that endless more until it damn near hurts. Chest heaving as you start to realize that it never will be enough. But somehow, that’s alright. If it was enough, there’d be nothing left for her to give; nothing left to yearn. And you’d rather spend the rest of your life wanting her than wandering in oblivion.

Finally, the pleasure gets to be too much. You’re all but a pile of smoldering cinders, terrifyingly close to blowing away in the wind. You cry out and tap the side of Ellie temple, signaling the end of the

She quickly obliges and switches to pressing gentle kisses to your mound between whispered praises. Hands gripping your thighs, her thumbs swirl soothing circles to your trembling flesh. Her kisses work their way up your belly, between your breasts, across your collar, up to your lips.

“You alright?” she asks softly.

Your head still spins a bit but you manage a nod and a low hum which only makes her chuckle.

A thin layer of sweat on her forehead sheens in the light. The smattering of freckles you adore dance with the flush on her cheeks. Judging by the creases next to her eyes and the smile she wears, she’s languishing in how you look too.

“I sure did a number on you, huh?”

“A little,” you mutter. But you know you’re not fooling her.

Ellie settles at your side and weaves an arm behind your neck, loosely holding you to her. You stay like that for a few seconds; quietly intertwined.

You look up at her through your lashes and break the silence. “Love you, Els.”

She smiles and presses one last kiss to your nose. “Love you too, weirdo.”

[lady-ashfade]

Percy Jackson x Apollo's child reader. (Write while imagining platonic)

—£ Request: Can I please request a Percy Jackson xApollo's child reader imagine? Request:Percy gets injured and knocked out while training. Reader is with him, of course. Let's just say that reader is fairly strong and carries Percy to the infirmary where she patches him up?And can she stay with him the whole time he recovers? And maybe he can wake up from a nightmare and the reader is the only one who can comfort him 🥺🥺🥺?

—£ Warnings: Not much, Head trauma, Nighmares. Short.

You saw Percy around camp alot, he always looked confused. You understood what he felt. You spared him a few kind glances and smiles a few times.

At least he knew not everyone was out to get him. He liked that.

So when he was training with Luke he was being pushed to achieve his potential. One thing lead to another and he trip, landing a nasty blow on his head.

You were there and saw this happen, and being one of the medics you quickly rushed to him.

“Let me do it, I’ll get him there.” They handed him off to you because of how talented you were. You were known for many things like the rest of your siblings, and being strong was one of them.

You took care of him quickly. The young boy looked so peaceful when he was knocked out. Not confused, Not worried or stressed. He was just a boy.

Giving him medicine on the cut that healed quickly, tending to any scratches he has. You also feed him and made him drink.

Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed all night but the thought of him waking up alone makes you feel sad. His cabin was empty.

His brows frown and his body twitches slightly, and chest falling rapidly. He looked panicked as he groaned. His peaceful sleep turned into a nightmare, they were familiar to you.

“Shh-” you pulled out a oil you made and rubbed it under his nose and taking his hand quickly. “You’re safe, warm and dry.” You whispered to him.

Your touch and words of affection seemed to calm him down a bit as his face loosened up and slowly stopped moving.

Slowly his eyes open and try to focus. His attention only on you as you clear up in his vision. “Hello.” He whispers, having no clue what was happening.

Smiling you take your hand away from his. “How is your head feeling?” You asked as he cleared his throat. He mentioned it was better as he reached for the cup of water beside him.

“Percy- I know it’s not my place, but I want you too know that we all get them. I had them every night when I first came, and they still come back. But the luckily thing is that it gets easier.”

He just sank into his bed not saying anything but looking at you and you couldn’t quite tell his emotions. He was always sarcastic and never really showed anything.

“Are you wearing lavender?” Of course he changed the subject but it made you laugh a bit. “A ken smell,” you hand him the small bottle.

“Keep it, makes the nightmares easier.”

He was happy for a moment. Soft and appreciative.

“Thanks, now can I go back to sleep? Without being watched?” Nods your head and stand up. “Call if you need anything.”

He watches you walk out of the cabin with a warmth in his chest. A new friend. There was something about you the just made him feel safe and comfort.

[luveline]

kbd steve and r dealing with two of the girls holding a grudge/fighting and helping them make up 🥹🥹🥹

kbd —mom!reader and dad!steve attempt to get their girls to forgive each other

“I thought they’d just forget,” you whisper. 

Steve looks over your shoulder, hand on your waist, the smell of hot butter bubbling on the stove like an itch in his nose. “Right? Like, they’d sleep and forget. Especially ‘cos they like sharing the bed.” 

Avery and Beth sit as far away from one another as is humanly possible. Beth sits with Dove toward the head of the table, frowning as her little sister climbs onto her legs and tries to comb her hair, while Avery sits by the open kitchen door. She’s pretending to poke at the snail that lives under the stoop, but she’s really on the edge of tears. 

They’re fighting because Avery took one of Beth’s fruit slices yesterday at lunch (warm pastries that all the kids can’t get enough of). When Steve asked her about it, she lied and said Beth actually ate one of her fruit slices, and Beth had been so betrayed she actually got mad. Beth never gets mad. 

Avery couldn’t take the guilt, confessing in tears the night before that she’d lied, and so you and Avery knocked Beth’s door together to apologise. Only Beth didn’t forgive her. 

It’s weird to see them not getting along. Avery and Beth are so sweet to each other usually. It’s odd that they aren’t sharing their breakfast, that they aren’t trying to feed the baby her mushy eggs. You and Steve are used to a more lovey-dovey feeling in the mornings. 

You dip down to sit with Avery when she does eventually start crying. “What’s the matter?” you whisper. 

Steve knows you’ve got the reins on that one, taking a seat by the other disgruntled party. 

“Is she crying?” Beth asks him softly. 

“Yeah, baby.” 

“‘Cos of me?” 

“It’s not like that.” He pulls Dove off of Beth’s lap before the toddler can trample her. Dove frowns at him but decides to allow it, resting in a lump against his chest. He pats her back. “She feels bad that she upset you, and she lied, and she wishes you were feeling better.” 

It must be strange to be young and be terrified that nobody will believe you, even over something as small as a fruit slice. Steve can’t imagine what he’d feel like now having to justify things to his parents. Or maybe it was that Avery’s never done something like that, at least not that Beth could remember. 

“She lied,” Beth stresses. 

“I know. But she did say sorry, honey, and she promised you two of her fruit slices today to make up for it. Maybe we can be friends again?” Steve says. 

If Beth wants to be mad a little while longer, that’s okay, but from the looks of her where she’s looking back and forth between Steve and the open kitchen door, she’s ready to forgive, or make her sister feel better at the very least. 

“It’s nice to forgive someone,” Steve says. “It’s kind. Avery didn’t wanna get in trouble, but she got you in trouble instead, so it’s cool if you’re still grumpy.” 

“I’m not grumpy.” 

Steve gives her an encouraging smile. “I know. It’s up to you, baby. Between you and me though, I think Avery’s super duper sorry.” 

In your lap, Avery sniffles. Dove climbs down off of Steve as Beth slips from her chair, then looks back for Steve. “Will you tell her I’m not mad?” Beth asks him. 

He wriggles his fingers. She takes his hand. 

It’s an unusually cold morning for the season, Steve can see your arms have wrinkled with goosebumps where they’re wrapped tight behind Avery’s back. You’d already given her a scolding for lying last night, and you and Steve are one and done with parenting; you don’t comfort her reluctantly, you just comfort. “It’s okay,” you say under your bread, swaying her from one side to the other. 

“Hey,” Steve says, crouching down to catch your attention. 

“Hello.” You see Beth, and you smile with relief. “Hi.” 

“Beth has something she wants me to tell you, Ave,” he says, nudging her arm gently with his knuckles to catch her attention. She peers up tearily from your arm. “She said she’s not mad anymore, okay? She wants to be friends again.” 

Avery looks at Beth cautiously. “Really?” she asks. It’s hard not to hear how hopeful she sounds. Steve feels extremely sympathetic, and he can’t help thinking she’s cute. She’s such a sweetheart, just like Beth, and Dove, and baby Wren he’s sure will end up the same. Like you. He can’t count how many times you and him have argued over the years, but every time it ends with you being more sorry than you need to be, and usually some of Steve’s guilty tears. 

“Yes,” Beth says, “so please don’t cry anymore.” 

Avery pouts. “You wanna give your sister a hug?” you prompt. 

Avery jumps up and throws herself at Bethie, almost knocking her younger sister down. Steve puts his hand behind them to stop a calamity. “I’m sorry, Bethie,” Avery squeaks, her voice high with upset and scratchy as she squeezes Beth tightly. 

“It’s okay! I’m not mad!” 

“I know!” Avery sniffles. “I’m still sorry. I told dad you ate my slice but you didn’t, I’m sorry.” 

“She’s forgiven you, baby,” you say, patting Avery’s shoulder. “It’s all water under the bridge. Yeah?” 

Beth holds Avery by the arm as they pull away. “Yeah. Water un’ the bridge.” 

“Thank you,” Avery says. “I don’t like when you’re mad.”

You and Steve make similar expressions of love and empathy over their small heads.  

[reiding-writing]

hiii, i hope you're well! i saw that you are taking requests for spencer and i really like your angst fics so i was wondering if you could write one with unrequited love?

preferably bau!reader who has feelings for him but he doesn't and she watches him get with someone else and everybody knows how she feels about him but he is oblivious, ending is up to you but i love me a sad ending heheh 😸

transgression [ s.r ]

You’re in love with Spencer Reid. He’s in love with somebody else.

WARNINGS: SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE MAEVE ARC, LOTS of misunderstanding, Spencer is kind of a bad friend, lots of arguing, major character death

spencer reid x gn!reader || ANGST || 8.2k || masterlist!!

a/n: sorry for the delay, but i did warn you it was gonna be long so- also i listened to ceilings on repeat whilst writing this so take that as you will 🫶

did i bend the maeve arc to my will for this fic? yes. yes i did.

taglist (slashed blogs couldn’t be tagged): @babyspiderling @marsxoxo2 @vytvyvy @hpstuff244444 @frostooo @ohmysw33 @radioactiveinvisible @devilsadvcte @the-local-pendeja @kakashis-formal-simp @robinswrld

You suppose you did it to yourself.

Spencer’s migraines had gotten increasingly worse over the last few months, and after a few consecutive days of hounding him, he’d finally decided to go and see a medical professional about it.

You’d expected him to come back with news about how his brain stem was too active from how hard he was working himself, or that he’d managed to raise his blood pressure to an unhealthy high from all the stress he was under.

Instead he’d told you that they couldn’t find anything physically wrong with him and that he’d been referred to a geneticist to check if the cause of his sudden mind-numbing aching was due to an underlying condition that might have been passed down from his mother.

He’d come back and forth to you for weeks about his phone calls with the doctor.

How she was helping him with his sleep deprivation.

How she was helping to manage his diet.

How she loved classic literature.

How she and him had spent four consecutive hours on the phone debating over the logistics of a novel they both enjoyed.

You could see the change happening before your eyes, and you weren’t the only one either.

“Pretty boy’s chipper this morning,” Morgan joins you at the kitchenette, his eyes following Spencer as he takes a seat at his desk with all of the enthusiasm of a golden retriever puppy who’d been let off his leash for the first time.

You hum with a nod, focusing your attention on the two cups of coffee you were making, heaping tablespoons of sugar into Spencer’s Doctor Who mug to satisfy his insatiable need for sweetness. “They’re reading a book together,”

“Really?” You respond to Morgan’s raised eyebrow with a short nod and another hum.

“Thoughts in Solitude by Thomas Merton, apparently she finds the religious analysis ‘fascinating’,” You can’t help the small contemptment that seeps into your tone as you reiterate what Spencer had told you to Morgan, and you can practically feel his pitiful gaze as he watches you make your coffee.

“I’ve heard of that book before from somewhere,”

“I tried to get him to read it a few months ago,” You take a sip of your coffee at the end of your sentence, barely able to taste it over the scolding water but not finding the mind to care.

You leave your conversation with Morgan at that, taking the two mugs in your hands and walking back into the bullpen, placing Spencer’s mug in front of him and walking around the cluster of desks to reach your own.

He’s sure he doesn’t need to verbalise it, but Morgan feels increasingly sorry for your situation, noting how you skirt past Spencer’s “thank you” without a response as you bury your head in your files.

he can’t imagine how much the fact that Spencer had seemingly formed a crush on his geneticist ripped you apart.

And the worst part? He’d never met her in person.

All scientific laws of attraction be damned, Spencer Reid had fallen in love with someone he’d never met in the span of three months, and you we’re resigning yourself to sit on the sidelines and watch as the man you had been in love with for six years find the happiness that you longed for with somebody else.

How you managed to keep up your facade you didn’t know.

You’d offered him change for the pay phone he’d call her from when he was running short. You’d let him rant to you about her opinions on a novel that you had failed to get him to read. You made excuses for him to leave the office early so that he could spend his time on the phone with her.

You were the one that sent him to the hospital and caused him to meet her in the first place.

He never hesitated to remind you of that fact, thanking you vicariously every time he relayed his conversations with the doctor back to you.

As the weeks progressed he stopped calling her that. She wasn’t ‘the doctor’ anymore. She was Maeve.

He didn’t call you by your first name and you’d known him for ten times longer that he’d known her. He didn’t even call Morgan by his first name and those two were practically brothers.

And that part was probably what hurt the most.

Maeve.

A name of Irish origin meaning ‘intoxicating’. How fitting.

Apparently the Irish goddess of love and desire was named Maeve. You could see the glimmer in Spencer’s eye that told you his Maeve was just as important as the mythological goddess he was describing.

His Maeve.

“So why haven’t you two actually gone on a date or anything?” You take a sip from the mug in your hands, swivelling your chair back and forth with your foot as a pivot. “You’ve been talking for what, four months now? Surely it’s about time you actually met her in person,”

“It’s complicated,” Spencer sighs as he collects the loose papers he was working on in a pile. He didn’t want to divulge Maeve’s issues without her permission.

“You’ve been saying that for the last six weeks Spencer,��� You roll your eyes as you discard your half-empty mug on the table. “If I didn’t know any better i’d say you’re putting it off,”

Spencer shook his head adamantly at your suggestion. You couldn’t have been more wrong. He did want to meet her. Desperately. He’d wanted to meet her since the end of their first phone call. But he also wanted to keep her safe.

How do you meet up with somebody who’s hiding from a stalker without endangering them?

“I do want to meet her. It’s just- she’s dealing with something personal and it’s put a rift our plans, that’s all,”

“So it’s her not wanting to meet up with you then?” You raise an eyebrow at him over your desks.

“Look it’s- You don’t get it okay? It was a mutual understanding from both of us.” You can hear Spencer’s tone become more defensive as you spoke, and you raised both of your hands in surrender.

“Okay, i’m sorry for prying-” You ended your apology with a laugh, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted despite feeling your heart deflate in your chest at the way the friendliness his his eyes fizzled out the longer you looked at him.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Spencer’s late to work this morning.

It’s 8:06 when he finally walks through the glass doors, the coffee you made him stone cold after sitting lamely on his desk for the better part of twenty minutes. He doesn’t so much as offer an apology as he picks up the mug and makes his way over to the kitchenette to pour the coffee down the sink.

You follow behind him in a mix of intrigue and a want to refill your own mug, swilling it out with some water as you watch Spencer load a coffee pod into the machine. “Phone call last longer than you expected?”

“Hm? Oh- yeah, we were discussing the literary analysis of Annabelle Lee,” Spencer’s demeanour seems to brighten immediately once he’s given an opportunity to discuss the details of his phone call with Maeve, although the beginning of his ramble is quickly cut off by the beeping of the coffee machine.

You wait patiently for his coffee to finish before you begin making yours, raising an eyebrow as Spencer pulls out a regular teaspoon instead of the usual tablespoon he’d incorrectly use to load his coffee with sugar.

Your intrigue only heightened when he pulled a carton of milk from the mini-fridge. Not even normal milk. Soy milk.

“Since when do you drink coffee like a normal person?”

His eyes flickered from his mug to your face as he tipped a single teaspoon of sugar into his drink before replacing the bag back where it came from. “It’s a part of my managed diet, Maeve thinks that my increased sugar intake might be one of the risk factors for my headaches,”

“Did she tell you to put soy milk in it too?” You don’t know why you have the urge to be petty, Spencer had long since needed to change his coffee drinking habits for the sake of decreasing his sugar intake and Maeve’s suggestions were beneficial for his health.

It was just the fact that it was her that ticked you off.

“She did actually, it provides the same amount of riboflavin as cow’s milk, which acts as a soothing agent whilst also helping constrict inflamed blood vessels, but without all of the excess fats in regular milk that might make my migraines more frequent, it’s genius really,”

He thought that her ideas were genius. Him. Mr ‘I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187’, thought someone else’s ideas were genius.

You’re sure that he already knew the benefits of milk alternatives, and yet he attributed the ‘revelation’ of what they could do to Maeve. Of course he did.

“When was the last time you made a decision for yourself?” The question comes out much harsher than you intend it to, and you can tell by the way Spencer furrows his eyebrows that he’s taken offence to it.

“Sorry, that came out wrong,” No it didn’t. “I’m just a little surprised that someone as independent as you is so… willing to follow blind instructions,” Your attempt at saving yourself half-works, that wrinkle between his eyebrows disappears and you can see that the glimmer in his eyes is returning slowly.

“She’s a doctor, of course i’m going to follow her suggestions,”

You give him a soft nod as you pick up your mug from under the coffee machine. “Yeah, no, that makes sense, it’s just a little surprising is all,”

You don’t give him a chance to respond to you before you’re walking away from the kitchenette to retake a seat at your desk, fearing you might say something out of pocket if you continue the conversation any longer.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You were really pissed off now.

You’d arrived back in Quantico three days ago, and you were still piled up to your neck in paperwork.

Maybe you would’ve had it finished by now if Spencer would stop talking about the fact that he was “-finally going to meet Maeve in person,”.

You had half the mind to snap and tell him to just shut up, although by the saving grace of Morgan you thankfully didn’t have to.

“Reid, give their poor ears a break man,” Your thankful for Morgan in times like this. He knew you were knee-deep in your feelings for Spencer, and he knew that every time Spencer so much as spoke Maeve’s name it carved another hairline fracture in your heart.

You were close to shattering, and Morgan could tell.

“Oh- right, sorry,” Spencer offered you an awkward smile which you mirrored back at him.

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it,” You shake your head in a polite dismissal of his apology before turning your head back down towards your files.

“I take it you’re nervous then?” Alex’s voice cut through the beginning of an awkward tension between the two of you as she entered to bullpen with a cup of coffee in hand.

“Well- I mean- you know…” Upon being unable to find a sufficient response, Spencer resorts to shrugging into his chair. “I just don’t want to ruin anything,”

“But aren’t you curious what she looks like?” Alex raises an eyebrow with concern like Spencer was he son going on his first ever date.

“it doesn’t matter what she looks like I mean- she’s already the most beautiful girl in the world to me it’s just-”

You don’t stick around to hear the rest of the conversation.

You sudden upheaval from your desk stops Spencer’s sentence as his eyes follow you across the bullpen and out of the glass doors, followed shortly by Morgan as he jogs after you.

“Hey- Wait up a minute-” Morgan catches your arm before you have a chance to get in the elevator, and as you turn your eyes towards him he can see the beginnings of tears forming in your eyes.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this..”

Morgan can do nothing more than pull your head into his shoulder and wrap his arms tightly around your back with a soft mutter of your name. “I know kid, I know…”

“He thinks she’s the most beautiful girl in the world,” You turn your head up from Morgan’s shoulder to meet his eyes, a single stray tear cascading down your cheek, illuminated under the florescent lights. “How am I supposed to compete with that..?”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Incidentally, Spencer’s date with Maeve didn’t end up happening. Conflicting work schedules or something, you weren’t really listening.

Maybe all of your subconscious thoughts had leaked into reality and finally gave you momentary release from the crushing defeat of having Spencer go on a date with someone else.

Maybe it was them punishing you further by forcing you to sit through him rant about the book she’d left him at the front of the restaurant.

It didn’t help that you already had a headache that made it feel like your eye sockets were being kicked by an annoying kid sat behind you on an aeroplane, leaving a dull ache in it’s wake and making you just want to bury yourself in a hole and hibernate.

“And right at the back she wrote ’Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another’ it’s a quote from-”

“Thomas Merton. Yeah, I know.” You dig the knuckle of your left thumb into cavity of your eye socket over your closed eyelid, hoping to relieve some of the tension that’s lingering there and disrupting your thoughts.

“Thomas Merton’s ‘Love and Living’ specifically,” If Spencer noticed your discomfort he didn’t acknowledge it. “It’s a collection of his essays on the importance of love to live, so for her to have written it specifically knowing that I would read it means-”

“Reid.”

Your tone stops him from continuing any further, and he blinks at you with that sweet puppy-dog expression that would usually have you weak at the knees.

“No offence, but I don’t care about your over-the-phone girlfriend or the quote that she wrote in your book.” Your tone carried a harshness to it that Spencer wasn’t used to hearing from you. It was cold and detached and not like you at all.

“Are- you okay?”

“No, Reid, I’m not, and if you’d bothered to ask about my life every once in a while instead of using me like a human diary maybe you would’ve realised that already.”

You practically slam your file closed as you speak, pushing your chair out from your desk and leaving him sat in shock at your sudden change in attitude.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

After a bit of introspection, Spencer did realise that he hadn’t been treating you very fairly. He hadn’t asked you how your life had been in 3 months and 26 days. Four of those days he’d spent in damn near radio silence. He wasn’t sure he could take it much longer.

He missed you.

It was a bit ironic considering you sat directly opposite him for almost eight hours a day five days a week, but after you’d snapped at him last week, he truly realised just how much of his day he spent socialising with you, and just how much he missed talking to you.

So he decided that he was going to apologise.

And what better form of an apology for being dismissive of your feelings than putting a personal effort into something for you.

He walked into the office that morning with a leather bound copy of The Parasite by Arthur Conan Doyle stored cautiously in his messenger bag, pages scrawled with annotations from Spencer’s own reading of the novel that he hoped would be insightful to you as you read it yourself.

He’d remembered you saying how much you wanted to read the novel a few months ago, so he figured giving it to you as a personalised apology would show that he really did care about you and had listened to what you’d told him.

“Are you busy?” Spencer asks, though he already knows the answer to the question.

He’d been watching you from the other side of the room all morning, hoping for a moment or two of eye contact to see if there was a possibility of a conversation. A look from one to the other; even a smile would’ve been enough to make him feel validated and content. And he would have been willing to settle for that.

But you never looked up. Not even once.

"Mhm," You continue to not spare Spencer so much as glance as he speaks, turning over the page of the file you were working through.

“Can I take a minute of your time?” He tried to catch your gaze again, only to be met by your continued focus on your work. The last thing he wanted to do was disrupt your work routine, but he also knew that he needed to talk to you sooner rather than later.

“Please,” he said softly. “It’s important.”

You exhale heavily through your nose, exasperation written clearly in your expression as you leave your pen as a page marker to close the manilla folder on your desk. You turn your head upwards, raising an eyebrow and opening your hands to agitatedly indicate for him to continue.

You wouldn’t lie and say that it didn’t hurt being so openly cold towards Spencer, but you’d reached a breaking point, and you couldn’t bare sitting idly on the sidelines and letting him tear your heart to pieces anymore.

Spencer was relieved that you’d granted him your attention, but the look you directed towards him was enough to make him wince. You weren’t looking at him through a lens of indifference but rather cold, hard disappointment.

He took a deep breath, trying to gather the right words for what he had to say.

“I’m sorry,”

He seemed almost breathless as he spoke, like he’d just finished a tangent about something without taking the time to breathe. “I know that I’ve been spending too much time talking about Maeve and not enough paying attention to you.”

"You don’t say," You mutter the words under your breath to yourself, but your sure that Spencer heard you based on the way his eyebrows knit and the small gleam of hope in his eyes dwindles to barely a flicker.

He was trying not to react to your snide comment. Spencer knew that your tone didn’t leave any room to deny your meaning. He’d been selfish in talking exclusively about his relationship and hadn’t realised how it was affecting you.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer repeated. “You mean so much to me and I haven’t been showing that.”

"Thank you," Your thanks are polite but dismissive, like you were acknowledging his apology but choosing to not actually consider it as one, and it left Spencer with an expression of clear frustration.

He was used to being able to read your facial expressions and emotions in the past, but now you were just an unreadable wall of disappointment. He had hoped the apology would've been enough, but it was clear that you weren’t going to let him off that easily.

Time to pull out the last resort.

He bent over and fumbled with his bag for a few moments before pulling out the novel he’d brought with him face up.

“I uh… got you this,” He holds out the book towards you. “You said you wanted to read it right? So I uh.. annotated it for you to make it more enjoyable,”

You take the novel from him with a raised eyebrow as your eyes scan the cover, a clear flicker of confusion in your expression.

Spencer noticed your expression and furrowed his own brow in confusion. You didn't seem to recognise the book. In fact, the look on your face made him wonder whether you even knew this book existed at all before this moment.

“I hope you… like it,” he said nervously. “I was going off what you'd talked about before. You mentioned the book was a classic?”

"I… have never seen this book in my life,”

“B-But…” Spencer knew this was going to be awkward at some point, but he'd hoped not this early into the conversation. He could feel his cheeks burning from embarrassment, and it was only getting worse as he searched your face for an answer to this awkward situation.

“I… swear I heard you mention it once.”

You give him a short shake of your head and a pursed smile of awkward thanks as you put the book down on your desk.

Spencer looked away, embarrassed beyond belief. He hadn't even been able to deliver an apology properly, let alone make you feel special like he'd originally intended to.

How had he gotten it wrong? He had an eidetic memory for god’s sake.

When you put the book down on your desk, his eyes flicked back to the book. He'd spent almost 4 hours annotating and researching it and now it felt like all that effort had been wasted.

If you hadn’t mentioned it then who had? Someone must’ve. Someone he obviously equated with you to the point where he’d somehow managed to override his eidetic memory to mix the two of you up.

It takes him a few moments before you hear him whisper out a name under his breath, the palm of his hand dragging down the front of his face at the realisation.

"Maeve…"

The mention of her name had your eyes flickering away from the leather cover and right back to Spencer’s face, awkwardness completely rid of your features and replaced with a mix of negativity that Spencer wasn’t sure he wanted to dig into.

"Are you serious?" Your words come out less questioningly and more accusatory, and you hold the book up so that he can see it once more, the gold embossing on the cover glinting under the overhead light as if to only taunt Spencer further for his mistake.

“You apologise for continuously disregarding me for your girlfriend by giving me a book that she showed interest in?”

You could see Spencer's face fall as your words sink in.

He hadn't even taken the time to think over what he was apologising with. It was almost as if his brain automatically just reverted back to his girlfriend's interests as an escape from dealing with his own guilt and sadness.

"Damn it," he whispered to himself. And in that moment he realised he'd just committed the biggest crime someone could make when trying to apologise.

“Like you constantly flaunting your relationship in my face verbally wasn’t bad enough.”

"I'm sorry I-" he says again, voice teeming with sincerity and guilt.

"You are truly and utterly unbelievable Spencer Reid." Your words didn’t carry anger as much as they did disappointment, and he could see the astoundment in your eyes as you pushed your chair backwards to stand, dropping the book straight in the trash bin by your desk before walking off.

It’s where it belongs; Right alongside the small sliver of respect you still had for him.

Spencer could've said so much more: he could've admitted how ashamed he felt for his careless actions and he could've apologised again and again a million times if it meant you'd stick around and give him a chance to make it up to you.

But you had already made it clear that you weren't in the right state of mind to discuss this matter further.

The best thing he could do now was give you space as he watched you walk away, a deep pain in his heart that slowly ate him alive from the inside.

He’d well and truly fucked up.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Oh sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You were bordering tears by the time you reached Garcia’s office, unintentionally interrupting her lunch break with Alex in the process, though the two seemed to care less about the interruption and more about the fact that you liked like you were about to cry your eyes out.

You take in a sharp breath through your nose as you try to tape together the cracks in your composure, although with every one you seal three more seem to appear in it’s place.

“I-” You can barely get the first word out before the tears start rolling down your face, and Alex immediately stands from her seat to guide you to sit in her place.

“Hey, you’re alright, slowly,” Alex’s hands find your shoulders and rub reassuring circles against your shirt. The slow breath you take in doesn’t stop the flood of tears that’s blurring your vision, and you only manage to get out a single word, but it’s all the two need to understand what’s got you so overwhelmed.

“Spencer-”

“I swear I am two seconds away from smacking that boy over the back of the head,” You can hear the clear frustration in Garcia’s tone. “Surely he’s got to realise how much he’s hurting you by now,”

“He does… I lashed out at him and then left to come here…” You rub your eyes with the back of your hand alongside a small sniffle, trying to rid your vision of it’s blurriness from your tears.

“Good, the boy deserves to have some sense knocked into him,” You appreciate Garcia taking your side, but you can’t help that small lingering feeling of guilt that invades the back of your mind.

“He’s just in love, it’s not his fault…” The words almost physically pain you to say. The verbal acceptance that Spencer Reid was indeed in love with somebody. Somebody who wasn’t you.

“That doesn’t mean that he should be disregarding you though sweetheart,” Alex’s tone is soft and almost maternal, and your sure that it doesn’t help how emotional you are.

Garcia’s right hand reaches forward to straighten out the collar of your shirt, unintentionally crumpled as you try to wipe your face of your emotions. “You’re his friend, and you have been his friend for longer than he’s known this girl he’s talking to, it’s not fair for him to completely push you to the side,”

Garcia was right. It’s not fair. Nothing about how Spencer had been treating you since he’d started speaking to Maeve had been fair. And you were done making excuses for the boy just because you knees deep in your feelings for him.

You didn’t deserve to feel guilty. You didn’t deserve to feel bad for lashing out at Spencer for apologising for not showing interest in your life by further proving just how little he’d actually payed attention to you. You didn’t deserve to cry because he was the most stupid genius to ever live and couldn’t see that you were hopelessly in love with him. You didn’t deserve to suffer by his hand.

It wasn’t fair.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Maeve’s been kidnapped.”

You have to consciously suppress the small voice in the back of your head that celebrates the possibility that she might not be a part of Spencer’s life for much longer. It’s a horrible thought. You should never wish ill upon anyone, no matter how much you internally despised them.

Still, that part of you that was still petty, that was still infuriated with Spencer and Maeve, wanted you to tell Spencer straight to his face that you weren’t going to help him find her and that it was karma for how he’d treated you.

But you weren’t a bad person.

As much as you might hate her, she was still important to Spencer.

“I have a wealth of knowledge i should be applying to this case, but- i can’t focus on anything for more than four seconds at a time… which makes me the dumbest person in the room-” Spencer’s eyes are full of desperation as they scan across your teammates.

“So please help me… Please help me find her…” The desperation in his voice is heartbreaking, the remnants of tears staining his face as he explains the context of the situation through broken sentences.

“We don’t have an official case, so we’ll be working on personal time,” Hotch’s voice is much quieter than you’re used to. Softer, more considerate. “Does anybody want to leave?”

You can feel his eyes linger on you as he asks the question, and you subconsciously purse your mouth into a tight line to stop yourself from impulsively pulling out of the investigation.

You might be detrimentally frustrated with him, but you did want to help. Even if it ultimately resulted in your downfall.

Hotch gave you a short nod before turning to the rest of the team. “Good, let’s get to work,”

It didn’t take Garcia very long to track Maeve down, mostly attributed to her unique name and specialised job.

Dr. Maeve Donovan, a professor at Mendel University who took a sabbatical leave 10 months ago.

The group split into different groups once they’d found her, JJ and Morgan heading off to a loft her parents owned, Alex and Rossi heading to the lab she used to work at, and you and Hotch, accompanied by Spencer, going to speak to Maeve’s parents.

“Reid,” Garcia’s tone is soft as she looks over her laptop screen towards him as he begins to stand from the conference table. “I have a picture of her, do you want to know what she looks like?”

“No,”

Spencer’s answer is immediate, joined by a shake of his head.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You and Spencer watched from behind the one way mirror as the interview progressed.

They’d last spoken to Maeve five days ago. Her mother had cancer. She was also a geneticist. They were suspicious of her ex fiancé Bobby.

Her fiancé?

You can see Spencer’s face drop at the words despite the low lighting in the room, and you can’t help but furrow your eyebrows yourself.

She had a fiancé?

Spencer practically storms out of the office after the questioning is over, and Hotch has to remind him to calm down as they reach the apartment of Robert Putnam with Morgan and Rossi in tow.

When the door opens the five of you aren’t greeted by Robert, but rather a girl, a girl who looked very confused.

You invite yourselves inside at the girl’s recognition that Robert was inside the apartment.

“And who are you?”

“I’m Diane, his girlfriend,” She raised an eyebrow as the five of you looked around, confusion cut short as Robert rounds the corner questioning the sudden voices coming from his living room.

“Hey babe what’s-“

“Robert Putnam, FBI we’d like to-” Spencer’s voice cuts him off harshly as he rushes to speak, although he stops his sentence halfway as a flicker of recognition falls across his features and his anger turns to dread.

“Hey, I know you,” Robert doesn’t have the time to say anything else to Spencer before Hotch forces him out of the room, shutting the door behind him to speak to Spencer privately whilst you Morgan and Rossi remained inside.

Hotch returned a few minutes later. Spencer didn’t.

You end up taking Hotch’s place as you push yourself out of the apartment with a small “excuse me,” to follow after Spencer as he walks out of the apartment building.

“Spencer- wait up a minute-”

He doesn’t stop at your call, and you’re practically running down the stairs by the time you get to him, already out of the front doors of the apartment building.

“Hey-” You take a second to catch your breath before turning your eyes back towards him again. “Are you alright?”

You could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he met your gaze.

The last time you spoke to him you threw away any remnant of your friendship with him in the bin alongside the book he’d given you, and now here you were, chasing after him to make sure that he was okay.

“Why did you agree to help?”

Your face falls from concern to surprise at his question, and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“I know that you don’t like her, so why are you here?” You could see the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes, clearly overwhelmed with how the investigation was going.

“She’s important to you Spencer. Like her or not I care about you. So therefore I care about her,” You don’t think as you speak, words spilling out of your mouth with no conscious filter.

“I’m sorry.” Spencer’s apology elicits a sigh from your mouth, and you shake your head softly at him.

“Forget it, let’s focus on getting Maeve home safe alright?” He obliges to your request with a purse of his lips and a small nod, turning his eyes towards the ground.

“What’re you thinking about?” His eyes fall on yours once more at your question, round with confusion and glistening with the starts of tears. “I can see it in your face, you’re calculating something in your head,”

He exhales through his mouth in a small laugh. You’d always been able to figure him out, and not just because you were a profiler.

“2,412 hours,” His tone is uncertain, mixed between gratefulness for you observance and something far more upsetting. “That’s how long Maeve and I have contacted each other counting letters and phone calls…”

“That’s what-” You take a second to do the calculation in your head. “100 days?”

“100.5…” He runs his hand backwards through his hair, pressing his eyes closed like he’s afraid tears will spill from them if he doesn’t. “What if that’s all I get?”

“It won’t be Spencer…”

“You don’t know that-“

“Yes Spencer, I do,” You have to consciously suppress the sigh that threatens to leave your mouth, pushing your lingering distaste for Maeve down with it. “She is going to be fine, I promise,”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Turns out Maeve’s ex fiancé wasn’t the stalker. In fact, he was being stalked himself, and whilst JJ and Garcia were looking over the images posted to Robert whilst him and Maeve were still together they discovered something that changed the entire direction of the investigation.

Maeve’s face had scribbled out in eyeliner.

You and the team spent the next thirty minutes rebuilding the profile from the bottom up.

“Celebrity stalkers are usually non violent,”

“You want to tell that to John Lennon Rossi?” Spencer looked up from his lap towards the group at the table, having separated himself from the group to sit on a sofa lining one of the walls so he couldn’t bias the profile.

It wasn’t going too well.

“What was it that Mark David Chapman said after he shot him?” Spencer stood from his seat, anger flaring in his nostrils. “‘It was like all of my nobody-ness and all of his somebody-ness collided’,”

You could hear the rise in his tone as he worked himself up the more he spoke.

“Spencer-“

“Maeve is somebody. And this- bitch is a nobody.”

“Spencer.”

Spencer caught your gaze, and immediately fizzling out of his eyes and replaced with guilt. “I’m sorry- I can’t be very helpful right now I should leave-“

“Yes you can Reid, you have 100.5 days of communication with this girl and a recall everything verbatim,” Morgan’s gaze is entirely concerned with Spencer’s outburst.

“There’s too much of it, and I can’t sort through any of it clearly-“ Spencer is clearly on the edge of breaking, and you can tell he’s not going to be able to keep his composure for much longer.

“Then pick one of us and we’ll go through it with you,” Hotch leaned his elbows against the table, his voice again portraying that soft, parental tone that said he knew how overwhelmed Spencer was getting.

Spencer didn’t even say anything, his eyes just silently flickered over to you and you knew you couldn’t refuse him.

You return his silence as you get up from your seat and pat your hand on his shoulder for the two of you to exit the room together.

Time to torture yourself for the sake of Spencer’s wellbeing.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Diane Turner, a research assistant working for her PhD in the same lab as Maeve. A student who had her thesis rejected because it contained a heavy sample bias that included both of her parents.

It took a while, but Garcia eventually managed to track down a loft that was owned under Diane’s parents’ names, less than 10 minutes away from Maeve’s apartment.

“Take your gun and vest off,” Diane’s voice is harsh through the receiver attached to the front of the building, and Spencer’s eyes flickered up from the silk blindfold in his hands to the metal box.

He doesn’t question the orders as he immediately begins stripping the vest from his torso, dropping it and his gun on the floor.

“Now come in alone.”

“Spencer.” You call out to him as he reaches for the door handle, and he gives you that look that makes your stomach do flips in your torso. Except this time it’s not that pleasant fluttery feeling, but instead an existential dread at the fact that he might not walk out of the building alive.

“I’ll be okay,” He gives you a nod of reassurance as he pushes the door open, and you find yourself clenching your hands around your gun to stop yourself from following after him.

The six of you wait outside for what feels like hours, and you lean back and forth on the balls of your feet as you become increasingly restless with the situation.

Then, a gunshot.

And a second.

And your heart drops in your chest.

You’re not entirely present as you rush into the building with the team following behind you, gun raised at your eyes.

Spencer had to be okay. He had to. He was going to be fine. You were going to walk into that room and he was going to be perfectly fine.

You hoped Maeve was alright too. As much as she was unintentionally causing you literal hell, you knew that she meant everything to Spencer.

You knew that he’d choose her over anything. He’d choose her over you.

And right now you don’t care. You just want him to be okay.

You force the door open to the loft with your foot, gun pointed straight ahead at the first person you see.

“Stay back-“ Spencer practically shouts from where he’s half lying on the floor, right hand clutching tightly at his left bicep, trails of blood cascading down his fingers and onto the floor.

“Stay back stay back don’t shoot-“

You let out an audible sigh at the fact that Spencer wasn’t critically harmed, although upon a whimper of his name from further across the room you turn your eyes up to the noise.

And you finally meet the girl that’s caused you ten months of hell. Held at gunpoint.

That small voice in the back of your head tells you that this might be your chance to finally rid her from your life, to let her succumb to whatever Diane had planned and leave Spencer to you.

But you take one look at the desperation in her eyes and any loathing that remained in your mind immediately fizzled out.

It wasn’t her fault. Of course it wasn’t. She was just a girl that happened to be in love.

“Diane,” Spencer pushes himself to stand, and you can see the pain in his face as he does. “There’s still a way out of this,”

“You never wanted me. Never!” Diane pushes the gun she’s holding hard against Maeve’s neck, and you can see her eyes squeeze closed as she attempts to keep herself from crying. “You lied!”

“I didn’t.”

Spencer shakes his head adamantly, and you glance over at Hotch as you spread across the back of the room, guns raised in Diane’s direction. “Diane, I offered you a deal, and you can still take it,”

“Me for her. Let me take her place,”

You only have a view of the back of Spencer’s head now, but you can tell by the tone of his voice that his expression is a pure display of desperation, one that you’re happy you can’t see because you’d lose your composure in an instant.

“You would do that?” Diane’s question is angry and accusatory, tears rolling down her face as she presses the gun against Maeve’s neck once more.

Spencer nods with no threat in his tone. “Yes,”

“You would kill yourself for her?”

“Yes.”

You practically feel your heart stop.

“Thomas Merton,” Maeve’s voice is almost exactly as you imagined it to be. Soft, smooth and, as Spencer had called it all those months ago, ‘dipped in honey’.

“Who’s Thomas Merton?” Diane’s tone contrasts Maeve’s tenfold, pitchy, uneven and overrun with manic anger.

“He knows,” You can see Maeve’s eyes flicker, and you assume that they meet Spencer’s as his shoulders drop. “He knows.”

“Who’s Thomas Merton?” Diane shakes Maeve in her grasp as if to intensify the urgence of her question, and you tighten your grip on your gun in instinctual response. “Who is he?”

“He’s the one thing you can never take from us,” Maeve’s voice is confident and defiant despite the clear tears in her eyes.

Thomas Merton could’ve been something between Spencer and you.

“No.”

You can see a clear change in Diane’s expression at Maeve’s words, and she lowers the gun from Maeve’s head only to hold it up against her own, staring directly into Spencer’s eyes.

“Wait-”

Spencer barely has time to shout the word before the gun fires, and you flinch at the sound as you watch Maeve and Diane both drop to the floor, dark red blood pooling around the two.

You can feel the tension in the room as everyone computes what just happened, guns lowering slowly as their eyes lock onto the two women on the floor.

You’re not focused on that. You’re focused on the tightness of Spencer’s shoulders as he takes sharp breaths in and out of his nose.

The way he seems to forget about the bullet wound in his arm as his legs give out underneath him.

The way a sob that leaves his mouth despite the fact that he tries to muffle it with his hand.

The way that Spencer broke.

He's crying. Big, heaving, heart-wrenching sobs.

His shoulders are trembling.

His hands are shaking.

His head is hanging downwards so that his hair is covering his face.

You approach him slowly, kneeling down at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

His eyes slowly shift from Maeve, his sobs only seeming to amplify as he meets your gaze. His eyes are red and closely with tears, his cheeks running hot and his lips trembling.

You don’t speak, knowing that you’ll break if you do. Instead, you guide his head into your shoulder and let him crumble in your arms, grieving the loss of the love of his life.

You’re sure you’re going to cry yourself to sleep when you get home, but right now, you needed to be strong. For him.

“I’m so sorry-“ Spencer speaks through broken sobs as you hold him, the rest of the team moving to secure the scene.

“Shh,” You shake your head against his softly, rubbing the palm of your hand up and down his back as you let him cry until he physically couldn’t anymore.

“I treated you so horribly-“ He pulls away from your shoulder to look into your eyes once more. “I’m so sorry- Please don’t leave me…”

You purse your lips into a line, your expression full of so many emotions Spencer can’t distinguish any of them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You pull his head back into your shoulder, leaning your head against his. “I promise…”

[bluerosefox]

Friendships Between Realms (YJ and Danny Shenanigans Being Peek Friendship)

So the 90s YJ group got into a lot of shenanigans tbh. Like a lot and mostly without their mentors knowledge. And whenever I think of YJ I think of the Core 4 (mainly cause Tim is my fav, and the Core 4 is just so amazing together) anyways I honestly wouldn't put it past them if they had accidentally summoned or were being sacrificed by some cult, or meet Danny who accidentally fell into their world via a random portal in someway. (In this DC and Phantom universes are not on the same world, fyi)

Like Danny, still new to being a hero but getting the hang of it, meets them, learns some things from them, and actually gets along with them to the point that when he has to leave Robin gives him a communication device to keep in touch (and Robin Tim would, despite being the second most paranoid of the Bats this boy lies to Batman to his face and had hidden an entire Batmoblie cost in the Batarang budget and keeps it with YJ) and Danny does.

It's nice to have hero friends who understand the struggle of balancing hero and normal lives. Don't get him wrong Danny loves Tucker, Sam and Jazz but sometimes they just don't... fully get it. The danger, the stress, the anxiety, the relief when things are solved or saved, etc etc that comes with being a hero or at least try to be one. They don't understand the urge he gets at like 3 am to go patrol Amity Park just to make sure everything is safe. YJ on the other hand does.

He talks to them about his problems and they help out and Danny in turn helps them out too when he can. Like they needed help with Secret, call up Danny see if he knows what kind of ghost she is (he turned to Clockwork and Frostbite in that case) and Danny in turn talked to them about Dan (they told him about them having to face their own future evil self to at one point). Danny talks to Conner when Dani came into the picture, he wants to make sure he doesn't screw up like Superman did towards his clone's feelings and self worth. Etc etc.

Point is, despite being dimensions and Realms apart, YJ and Phantom are friends and have been in touch. He's friends with all the YJ at the time and keeps in touch with them all but is very close with the Core 4. (Danny was the one that reassured Tim when Bruce was thought to be dead. Couldn't find his soul or ghost in the Realms and Clockwork was being 1000% more crypticd about Batman when Danny had asked if he was lost in time, Danny (or CW) couldn't do much to help due to certain rules but Danny could tell Tim "He isn't dead. Just lost. You're not insane Rob I promise."

So imagine a few years later, DCverse is under heavy near world ending supernatural danger and it gets to the point someone in JLD suggests they may have to summon the Ghost King in order to stop it (maybe its an old ancient ghost/spirit someone foolishly unleased). Of course there are some that strongly advise not to, that summoning him would spell the end of everything, but someone else points out they're already close to that edge they already got no other choice.

So they try and it fails and everyone is confused.

Bart, because of course it's gonna be Bart, returns from helping evacuations takes one look at the summoning circle and says.

"Why are you using those outdated sigals and symbols? That'd like trying to call an out of service number." Bart says before he speed texts Tim, Conner, and Cassie to come over.

Tim, RR, takes one look at the circle and asks who they were trying to summon. When told they were trying to get the Ghost King, him and the Core 4 look at each other before Tim pulls out his communicator and texts Danny.

It takes less than a few minutes before RR tells Impulse that Danny was cool with the summoning and to bring him in. Impulse nods and quickly runs around and changes the old summoning circle around with new symbols and sigals. Then RR turns to most of the JLD members and says sternly.

"You all better not memorize this, this is Phantom's personal summoning line and he only wants friends to know it. He gave us permission."

And with Superboy (Conner) and Wonder Girl agreeing with nods.

Before any of the JL or the JLD could really ask or even interrogate what that meant Impulse was done with the preparation. the Summoning circle was changed around with constellations and other signs of stars, there was a bag of fresh burgers and three milkshakes in the middle of it, and under it was a stylized symbol of a D and a P.

Its Impulse who starts the... chant and raises his hands up. (its actually the dumbest song anyone can think of. Danny wanted it to be funny and the Core 4 totally encouraged it) the candles shift from red to green fire, the star symbols start glowing before flying around on the floor in a circle like shooting stars, the area starts feeling like a cold winter wind beginning to blow, and the stylized symbol is glowing green before...

Danny pops up in his Ghost King form (flaming crown, galaxy cape, looking more ghostly than human but still a teen), finishing up the song and laughing. When he spots his friends he's grinning and waving hello to them, all of them greeting him back.

The JL are confused as heck but noticed how shell-shocked most if not all the members of JLD as their staring at what has to be the Ghost King...

Basically. I want Danny to be one of the people/things the 90s YJ did/meet during their insane shenanigans that most of their mentors most likely didn't know about. They all kept in touch and if they knew, and were later invited to the coronation, of Danny becoming the new Ghost King and later needs to bring out the big guns against a supernatural entity and stuns everyone else that they have a friend in a very high place well... yeah.