whiskeyghoul

[whiskeyghoul]

Stranger Things 3 × Posca

[whiskeyghoul]

Obama: U busy?

Harry: I’m shooting a perfume ad..

Obama: Is that the one i smelled on you last night? ;)

Harry:  Barack please……………i’ll see you later.

Obama: :D

[whiskeyghoul]

Stoopid stuff based on a meme I saw on Pinterest I wanted to draw!!

[whiskeyghoul]

A lil Papa V sketch using thee Dracula as reference

[whiskeyghoul]

𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀

You realise nobody’s ever gone down on Clark before and aim to change that. (Or, Clark gets spoiled.) fem, 3k

established relationship, oral sex, messy gentle blowjob, a helping hand, mildly inexperienced clark

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Clark strokes the back of your neck gently. He has nice fingers. He’s tall, so his arms are long and his hands are wide, but they’re pretty, too, with trimmed cuticles and light hairs at the knuckles. You squint with an eye smushed close in his chest, daytime TV the only discernible sound beyond Clark’s breathing. You time your inhales to his, then your exhales. Clark probably hears it, but he doesn’t say anything. His touching grows softer still. 

You shift in his hold some and wrap an arm around his waist. Under your arm, you can feel the bite of his denim jeans. They’re a good fit. They… accentuate things. 

You try to pay attention. Clark put the cooking channel on because he knows that’s what you like. He is earnestly sweet, and likely heartily bored. 

You let your hand fall to his thigh. His skin is warm even through the denim, heat seeping through your hand and his thigh, back and forth.

If your face were to fall a little further down, if his hand slipped higher, guiding your head…

You slide your hand up to his hip and feel at it accordingly. “Clark?” you ask, voice croaky with disuse. 

“Mm?” 

“Can I ask you somethin’?” 

“Sure, baby. Ask me something.” 

You could fall asleep like this if heat weren’t stirring in your stomach at even the idea. Clark calling you ‘baby’ with his Friday-night-tired voice doesn’t hurt the fantasy. Your knees hot against the hardwood, braced, Clark’s stuttering pleasure.  

He must find a tell in your expression, going quiet and smiley. “What?” he asks. 

“You don’t have to answer.” 

“I doubt I’ll mind. I’d tell you anything.” 

You let your thumb stray toward the inside of his thigh. Feel the muscles there twitching. “I know I’m not your first girlfriend, but you told me you aren’t… totally experienced.”

“Right. What, do you want to know what I meant?” he asks. 

You know Clark’s fucked girls. Has gone down on girls, just not many. Clark has fucked and gone down on you, and he did it beautifully, but he’s never let you blow him: you’ve never asked. And it isn’t because you don’t want to, only, Clark seems to have a want to do things in his order and you’d been happy to follow his lead this whole time. 

“Has anyone ever gone down on you?” you ask quietly. 

Clark goes slightly stiff, despite best intentions. “No,” he answers, scratching at the nape of your neck. “No one’s ever gone down on me.” 

“You don’t want to try?” 

“No one’s ever offered, and I guess I’ve never wanted to ask.”

“How come?” you ask, to gauge where he is with it. 

“It’s different, to ask. Girls– women are expected to do certain things, but I’ve never expected anything of you. I still don’t. I figure if you want to, you’ll ask me, and if you don’t want to, it’ll never hurt anyone that you don’t.” 

He’s so, so sweet. The thought of him being too shy or too unwilling to be that guy makes you want to do it more. There is an expectation in contemporary culture, but it doesn’t mean the act itself between you and Clark has to have that connotation. 

“Can I blow you?” 

Clark huffs a quiet laugh. “You don’t have to, honey.” 

“Please?” 

Clark can’t hide the heat of his skin under your hands, but he’s putting up a convincing front otherwise. His hair has fallen into his eyes again, sweet knocked curls kissing a pale forehead. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to hurt anyone,” you say. You’ve both fallen into the quiet voices you use before you fuck, and he’s wearing an expression you’d find mirrored if you could see your own face, like he’s waiting for the next move, and then the next. “Okay? It’s not rough. Not unless you want it that way.” 

“Uh– I–” And while you’d like to say there’s something in him turned on at the notion, you genuinely believe that Clark Kent is astonished at the idea of hurting you on purpose. 

“You can tell me exactly what to do, or I could,” —you let your hand rest at his belt buckle— “do what I think you’d like. I can make you feel good, Clark.” 

Clark’s eyes fill with knowing. You’re seducing him and he’s being pulled in, but going willingly doesn’t mean he’s unaware. “Is that what you want? You wanna make me feel good?” he asks, teasing and testing. 

“Will you return the favour?” 

“I can lay you out right here,” he promises simply. Which is why getting on your knees in front of him is easy work. The eagerness on his face turns to worry, “Hey, you don’t have to kneel down there, we can move.” 

“It’s easier like this. Can see everything.” 

“Oh.” His mouth tightens.

“Not so easy, being seen up close,” you murmur. “But I know you’re pretty, Clark.” 

He’s hardening in his jeans. You readjust your position and use your weight to spread his thighs some, which helps to send a little more blood to his cock. You watch the fabric tighten a touch, watch Clark’s cheek dimple as he bites the inside of his mouth. 

“You okay?” you ask. 

“Hey,” he says, taking your elbows into his hands, “I’m fine, just trying to act like a gentleman.” 

Straightforward when he isn’t telling the flimsiest lies ever. You rally at his eagerness, holding his arms in tandem, fingers spread over curved biceps. 

“You really are something,” you mumble, letting your fingers trail down his arms. 

“Should I– can I take my belt off?” 

“Yeah, honey, open it up. Or I can?” 

He nods tightly. 

You slip the leather of his belt from the buckle, heat pooling in your abdomen at the clink it makes, and the quiet shush as you free it from a belt loop on either side. Your fingers are steady as you unbutton him, as you take the zipper between your fingers and pull it down. His legs widen to let you in, and you slide into the space as well as you can. His thighs are muscled, solid around you, squeezing you gently as you push his shirt up his stomach. 

“Lay back a li’l,” you murmur. 

Clark lays back. 

The erotica of his open jeans and his trimmed, dark tummy hair makes your eyes warm. Standing, you could rap your knuckles against his waist and hear it like stone, but there’s a new softness to his stomach when he slouches. 

You work your hand up to his bulge. 

“Are we done?” Clark asks, tipping his head back with a groan. There’s redness climbing his neck. “Fuck, let’s– let me take you to bed.” 

He’s mostly kidding. Careful, you slip your hand up his cock and back down again, marvelling the rigidity of it already, saliva pooling right behind your teeth. “Can I move these outta the way?” 

“Honey, don’t,” he says. Which means Honey, don’t tease.

“Baby,” you say, he’d felt it coming, but he still drags his head up to stare at you like you’re a dream, “do you want this?”

“Yes,” he says. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He’s not so pale in the face now. “Yeah,” he says, “please.” 

You take the length of his cock into a tentative hand and lean downwards. Clark makes a noise before you’ve so much as breathed on it, the red head of his cock dry but so full of blood it looks bruised as your fingers close at the shaft. You look up at him, and you feel his weight in your hand, angling yourself down to touch his cock to your cheek. Then you turn your face to brush it over your lips, and any cool Clark held swiftly dissipates. 

It’s slow to begin with, just kissing a mouthing at the length of his cock, feeling it twitch on your tongue, the heat of his blood in your palm as you drag it up and down. With enough kissing the skin is slick, and stripping it makes a sound that’s almost as lewd as his shudder when you take the head against your tongue for the first time. He smells so fucking good, he smells clean, and he smells like his skin and that sweat scent before it has time to sour, like he’s overheating under your hands, and he smells like precum as it begins to dribble from his slit. You press your nose to his cock, drinking up the gasp he makes, his thighs tensing under your touch. And it’s perfect, but he needs to relax.

“Baby, take your pants off,” you say, drawing back from his cock, spit wet on your bottom lip. 

“What?” 

“I can’t kiss all of you–”

“I don’t think–”

“Clark, I’m not going to break your trust, baby,” you say, giggling lightly, not gonna kiss anywhere he doesn’t what, “just– just get undressed. I can– I can be naked, too.” 

He’s better convinced. Clark shimmies his jeans off, then his shirt when you laugh. You strip out of your shirt and reach back for your bra, but Clark clasps your wrist and insists that the jeans be the first thing to go. 

“Idiot,” you murmur without heat, standing off your achy knees to unbutton your jeans. You roll them down your hips. 

Clark’s once over isn’t half as salacious as it could be. “Beautiful,” he says. 

“Thank you. You like the set?” you ask, turning to the side to show him your blue underwear. The panties have see-through lace squares at the sides and the bra’s slightly too tight at the band, but his gaze doesn’t linger anyplace. He finds your face. 

His eyes flicker to your panties and then back again. “Beautiful,” he says again. “Come and sit up here with me, sweet girl. Can’t do that to your knees anymore.” 

“It’s easier–”

“I can move, but you can’t sit down there anymore.” 

You love when Clark uses his voice like that. It’s like it’s not him anymore. It’s not, totally. Threads of his other half wrap you up, have you crawling onto the couch next to him to set yourself down across his thighs, left arm and shoulder leaning on his legs, right arm guiding the head of his cock back into your mouth. 

“Guide my head,” you murmur around him. 

He gives his sharpest pant yet. “What?”

You grab his hand and press it to your neck. “Move me onto it.” 

“I don’t want to choke you.” 

“Then be gentle,” you advise softly. “I won’t let you choke me, babe, I just need help finding a rhythm.” 

For some reason, that’s what gets him most. Clark dissolves back into the cushions with his hand grasping your neck, guiding your head as you take his cock into your mouth. It’s all hot and humid and his crotch is quickly wetted, spit under your nose and on your chin, eyes misty as he brushes the back of your mouth with his cock. You refuse to choke and scare him off, so whenever he guides you down too close, you pull away. 

You hold the swell of him rather sweetly, rubbing a thumb over them each time you pull off his cock. He’s eager to fuck against your warm tongue, just a little too much, and you’re staring up at him with your mouth full and your nose wet when his eyes go silver. 

“That’s perfect,” he says, his pelvis flexing, “just like that– just– you’re perfect, I swear–”

“Love you,” you say, sniffing the heat that’s gathered in your nose away gently. 

“I love you.” He grabs your cheek in his hand. “I love you more, honey, you look insane like this, I didn’t realise…” 

“This is why people like it so much.” 

He adores the hint of shyness he hears in your voice, you can see it in his smile. You can almost see his teeth. But behind his smile there’s a need there, something anxious, so you lean your face against his hip and begin pumping his cock in a slick hand. “Let me make you cum,” you say softly. 

Clark doesn’t answer. He gives you this besotted leap-of-faith kiss pressed to top of your head and nudges your mouth back toward his cock. “Kiss, please,” he begs. 

You press tens of little kisses into his cock, letting precum bead up and drip onto the tip of your tongue. 

“Clark,” you say, licking the salt from your lips as his breath starts to stagger, “you can cum, honey, do you want to? You can cum in my mouth.” 

He shakes his head vehemently and covers your hand where it’d been pumping his cock. For a second, things are stopped, but then he drops his head back against the cushions and uses your hand under his to jerk his full length, sticky heat pressed into each finger, the pressure of each strip like a lick until he’s suddenly over the edge. He brings your hand up and tugs at the tip of his cock, cum dripping down your knuckles in fat rivulets. 

You give an experimental pull.

“Fucking–” He moans your name like an afterthought. “Ah, baby, baby–”

“Sorry,” you say. 

Clark catches his breath for so long you worry you’ve permanently maimed him. He’s still holding your sticky hand to his cock, letting it drip down his front and his hip the longer he leaves it alone, but who are you to judge? You force him to free your hand in search of a discarded t-shirt. 

When you’ve managed to clean off your hands and Clark’s abdomen, he lifts his head from the couch to deliver a suspicious glare. “What the hell, babe?” 

You startle. “What?” 

“How’m I ever supposed to get off by myself now? I think you just ruined me forever.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be okay. Idiot.” 

He wipes his hands again and before he takes your face into both hands. “Kiss, okay?” he asks, pulling you forward. 

“Mm,” you affirm against his lips. A kiss is sorely needed. 

It’s an unashamed kiss that spans a half-second too long, like he’s forgotten you need to breathe to survive, but he says sorry with a chaste peck pressed to the very corner of your eye and one of his great groaning sighs as he gets an arm around you and manhandles you into his lap. 

“Watch your dick, baby,” you mumble, ready for the quiet, dizzy afterparty that comes whenever you both fuck. 

Clark just laughs under his breath. “It’ll be fine. Now let me see these,” he says, tipping you back enough to bring his free hand to your thighs. His thumb brushes the bump of your cunt. “I don’t think you can take these off. That’s, like, not even federal at that point. It’s international.” 

“Crime to undress me?” you ask, not bothering to click into the conversation fully. Clark’s barely any better, all mumbly and sluggish as he brushes a hair off of your cheek.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t bode well for me, would it, beautiful?” 

You wrap your arms around his neck to nuzzle under his jaw. 

And Clark? He lets his head fall back again, sighing with the same dizzying pleasure he’d shown with his cock pressed to the roof of your mouth, as though he finds your affection just as heavenly.

“I owe you a debt,” he says to the ceiling. 

You kiss his Adam’s apple, unhurried. As far as you’re concerned, he’s paid it forward greatly, 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

[whiskeyghoul]

When you and your mutuals constantly reblog from each other, but never speak

[whiskeyghoul]

I Only Want Sympathy in the Form of You Crawling Into Bed with Me

Dr. Gregory House x Doctor!Reader

Summary: Reader gets all dolled up for a night out on the town with a new date. Until he blows her off last minute. Now, all dressed up and no where to go, House invites her out for drinks with he and Wilson.

CW: implied age gap (not much tho), kinda mutual pining, drinking, drunk!Wilson, bathroom hookup, oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v, some spanking, creampie

a/n: my titles are getting as long as fall out boy titles lmao (ironic since this title is from one of their songs)

title track 🎶🥃

~~~

“I HATE MEN,” you shouted into the phone as your heels clicked against the cold pavement. Soft chill of the night breeze making its way up your dress, freshly shaven legs more sensitive to the cold. Coat draped over your shoulders.

“No, you hate boys,” Lisa Cuddy said with a smirk on the other side of the line, “A real man wouldn’t blow you off ten minutes before a date.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved off her logic, wanting to be angry. Taking the turn before facing the hospital. Where you spent your days and some nights. Most people would want to stay away from work, but it was a comfort for you. When nothing else made sense, work did.

“You didn’t even like the guy—“

“THAT MAKES IT WORSE!” a defeated laugh escaped you. Hearing Cuddy snicker at how distraught you were. She knew how you got when things did not go according to plan. Entertained by the way your voice jumped an octave with each sentence.

“Well, I’m sure you look hot. Go out and find a new guy. Just blow some steam off or something,” she encouraged.

You sighed. Stopping directly in the glow of the neon sign. Staring in through the glass doors where people inside never sleep. Always a new problem to solve, always new people to treat. You liked it that way.

“Thank you, Lis,” you smiled. Refusing to admit to her that you would simply waste the night away looking through case files. Better for her to believe you were getting drunk and taking guys home. Clicking your phone off when Cuddy excused herself as someone came into her office.

Smell of sanitizer and medical equipment greeted you. Familiar. Comforting in a way. Making a pit stop by the cafeteria before heading up to your office. Since your dinner plans had been canceled and all. Options limited due to the hours in which you were here. Grabbing some leftover fruits and a pre-wrapped sandwich.

Trying your hardest to ignore the way everyone’s eyes widened when they saw you. Not usually being one to be all dressed up, so the sight of your dress had people in a judgmental frenzy. Eyes narrowing in on you as you passed familiar faces. Barely skirting past Wilson’s office. Throwing an off handed wave at he and House as you hurried to your own office.

“Was that Y/L/N?” Wilson’s brows furrowed.

“I believe so,” House said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “In a dress… Above the knee.” Big blue eyes looked back to Wilson. Intrigue across his brow.

“She went home at five,” Wilson redirected his attention onto the papers in front of him, “At least she was supposed to.”

House hummed in response. Quickly rising and heading to your office.

You did not even bother clicking on the overhead light. Opting for the soft orange of your lamp. Laying out all the food you had grabbed. Grabbing a green apple first. Barely having sunk your teeth in when your door swung open. Startling you slightly. House stood in the doorway, hand wrapped around his cane and the other leaned against your doorframe. Studying you across the room. Drinking in what little of you he could see. The way your breasts peaked from the low cut collar. How different your hair looked down. And the fact you had a full face of makeup on. Looking ethereal as you basked in the soft glow.

“Aren’t these things supposed to keep people like you away?” you said, tossing the apple into the air and catching it.

“People like… me?” House’s grip on his cane tightened at your insinuation.

“Doctors,” you said simply.

House’s head fell at the realization. Tongue wetting his lip as he chuckled. Brows bouncing before knitting together as he caught your eyes again. “You know,” he entered, closing the door behind him, “You’re one of those too?”

“Not tonight. Tonight, I’m a girl who just got stood up by her date… ten minutes before the date was supposed to start. And now, I have nothing else to do. So here I am. One wasted evening and a shot of vodka later,” you smiled. Hiding the way your shoulders wanted to sag and face droop.

“Thought you were taking a low blow there,” House said as he sat in the chair across from you, motioning towards his bad leg. Feet propping themselves up on the wooden desk. Eliciting a dirty look from you.

“Yeah because I do that so much,” you rolled your eyes.

“Well, you have been spending a lot of time with Cuddy,” House smirked. Jabbing at you. Trying to in his own way to get you in a better mood. Unsure why he cared. Happy he did.

“You could always come with me and Wilson,” House suggested nonchalantly.

“If this is your way of asking me to be your third—“

He laughed. Head thrown back slightly and eyes shut. Pushing his lips together as he looked back at you, “You know Wilson gets jealous when the third is prettier than him.”

You rolled your eyes, returning his look with blushing cheeks. Believing this to be another attempt at making you smile. Hoping, deep down, he meant it. Maybe he did think you were pretty.

You smiled at him. Pulling the same expression across his face. Not acknowledging what he had just said. Sitting forward to get him to continue. Proving your interest.

“We’re going out for drinks,” House sat up, “You should come. Hell, we may even get you laid.”

You scoffed at that. Widening your eyes at him. Seeing his cocky grin curve at the corner of his mouth. Loving how your cheeks glowed.

“Especially with you looking like that,” House’s eyes rested on the exposed bit of cleavage showing from your dress. He stood, bouncing his eyebrows at you with a grin. Liking the way you scrambled to cover your chest. Chuckling to himself as he began out of the room.

“You’re a real charmer, House,” you joked, unable to hide the laugh that had creeped into your throat.

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” House said rather loudly as he exited.

You exhaled with a smile. Looking down at yourself. Confidence boosted from House’s remarks. There was no question that you would go with them. Opting for a night of fun rather than one alone.

Casualty of the pet name had butterflies flapping around your guts. Hating that Dr. Greg House, of all people, had this kind of hold on you. Allowing yourself to develop some deeper feelings for him. Unable to forgive yourself for that.

Abandoning your makeshift dinner, walking over to Wilson’s office. Making sure your hair looked good, dress was patted down, and heels adjusted. Leaning against his doorframe the same way House had done yours. Catching both their attention.

“Wow,” Wilson said, stiffening his back.

“Keep your pants on. I’m crashing your date tonight,” you smiled, walking over and taking the seat beside house. Propping your legs up on his lap so that your dress hiked up a little. Exposing mid-thigh. More skin than either of them had ever seen on you.

House’s eyes cascaded up your body. Taking in the sight of your legs over his own, pretending his dick did not jump at the contact. Eyes meeting the bit of parted dress he could see up, not enough to reveal anything but still a tease. Ending with hooded ones looking into yours. A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. One hand flattening against your leg, gently stroking the soft skin.

House looked over at Wilson in a silent brag.

“I thought you had a date tonight,” Wilson questioned, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.

“I did,” you gritted your teeth, “No show at the last minute. It’ll be more fun to run around and see you drunk anyway.”

“Did you tell everyone about the date, but me?” House widened his eyes at you, faking being offended. Earning a shrug from you in response.

“Well, nonetheless, I’m happy you’re coming with us,” Wilson rose from his desk. Removing his lab coat, replacing it with his actual coat. Yourself and House following along with his movements. Deciding to all ride together since you had walked anyway. Not like you lived a crazy distance away, but really you had kinda blacked out and began walking to work when you got left high and dry.

The Bar was expectedly crowded. Bodies pressed tightly together along the dance floor. People piled together in each booth. Stench of beer burning your nostrils. A few stools remained at a corner table. A good walk from the bar itself. Perfectly spaced so all three of you could face one another around the round table. Taking the chair closer to House, back to the wall.

“I’ll go grab us something,” Wilson said, hurrying off before you could even hint at what you wanted. Chuckling softly at how eager he was to get some liquor in his system.

“He doesn’t even know what I like,” you sighed, eyeing House beside you.

“Wilson’s got a way of knowing what everyone will like. Some nonsense about being able to ‘read people’,” House said, fidgeting with the napkin holder at the center.

You silently nodded. Watching Wilson across the room, redirecting your attention to House, “So. Tell me, what drink does go well with Vicodin?”

House’s eyes bounced up to read your expression. Noting the smug smirk across your lips, hooded eyes looking at his. “Ooo. Cold,” House chided with a slight grin. Brows pushing together when he straightened his back. Lips puckering as he blew out a breath, “Cuddy teach you that one?”

“Anyone with eyes would know,” you jokingly mocked. Leaning forward to close the gap between you both. Learning the details of his scruff, all the stress and worry lines beautifully decorating his forehead, and how blue his eyes really were. Cheeks suddenly heating up when his eyes met yours so strongly. Pupils dilating as he analyzed your figure.

Being interrupted abruptly by Wilson sliding shots to both of you. You side eyed House, reading right through his bullshit about Wilson ‘knowing’ what people would like. His brows bounced when you eyed him, smirking at your annoyed glance.

“What is this?”

“Just drink!”

You smiled as you clinked your tiny glass with the other two doctors. Throwing back the stout liquor. Burning down your throat. Nostrils suddenly tingling from the potency. Sucking your teeth as you tried to hide a cough. Blinking away the burn when you saw Wilson throw back a second shot.

He was not playing around tonight.

Giggling to yourself at how his cheeks immediately flushed. Continuing to drink as some time passed. Wilson having an obvious affiliation for shots. Losing count as he continued back and forth to the bar. You had ordered yourself a cocktail that you had been nursing for the last bit. House with his whiskey. The two of you trying to hide your shocked and disgusted faces as you watched Wilson’s body wriggle on the dance floor. Your lip arched in pure amazement at the way the oncologist moved to the music. Catching the attention of all the younger women in the bar.

You looked to House, unable to hide your laughter at his expression. Horrified by the way his best friend behaved when drunk. The beat of a song from even before your time sputtered from the speakers laced around the bar. Wilson somehow having a preplanned dance number to it. House tucked his face into his hand in astonishment. Hiding himself from the embarrassment.

Accidentally allowing a snort to escape from how hard you were laughing. Cupping both hands against your mouth as you wide-eyed House. Seeing the gears turning behind his eyes as he planned a cruel joke to make at your expense.

Stopping himself when he saw the twinkle in your eyes. Cheeks glowing as you tried to hide your toothy grin behind your hands. The way your leg grazed against his under the table. How casually you held onto his arm as you both watched your coworker make his moves on the dance floor. Head falling on his shoulder when you would laugh. Tucking your face into him to try and hide it.

He hated how easily you had nestled yourself into his mind.

“Don’t you want to go join him?”

“Hell no,” House laughed, “Cane’s just gonna get in the way.” Spinning the wood at his side.

Apparently you were a giggler when alcohol entered your system. Everything would illicit some form of laughter from you. Smile permanently ripped across your face. Eyes softly hooded from the dark room.

“I’d like to see you out there with him though,” House snickered, taking a quick sip of his drink. Openly flirting with you in a way he never had before. Catching you off guard.

“I’m sure you would,” you laughed, shoving him gently.

“Wilson would too. Probably be happy to take you home with him,” House admitted, tinge of jealousy spitting from his tongue. Vein on his forehead throbbing as his eyes fixated on the ice cube in his glass.

Your nose scrunched up as you looked at your coworker, “Nah.”

“Nah?” House repeated the exact way you said it. Brows contorting in confusion.

“Wilson’s not… not my type,” you admitted, taking a swig of your mixed drink. Leaning closer to House as you finished the liquor. Scooting your chair so that you were face to face with him. House matched your posture. If the music at the bar was not so loud, you could have been whispering.

“You have a type?”

“I do,” your head fell to the side with a smile.

“Ah. The lady who can have anything— is picky,” House spaced out his last words. Cocking a brow at you when you giggled to yourself.

Shaking your head in disagreement, “Not picky. Just have someone else in mind.”

“The boy who blew you off tonight?”

You paused. Having already forgot about your absent suitor. Blinking with furrowed brows. “No,” you said plainly. Eyes now staring at one of the television screens across the bar. Airing some rerun of a soccer game. Seeing the way House’s eyes raked your body from your peripheral. Waiting for more than what you were giving him.

“Miss Mystery—“

“That’s Doctor Mystery, thank you,” you corrected in a playful tone. Raising your eyebrows as you glanced back over to him. He liked that you were not the type to throw it all on the table. Keeping some form of secret from him made him want to dissect you. Understand what makes you tick. Solve the puzzle.

“I know him, don’t I?” House began, wanting to break the truth free.

“Don’t—“

“We have to work with him. When else would you have time to figure out you like someone,” he rubbed his chin as he racked through his memory of everyone you worked with.

“I’m not going to tell you,” you chuckled at his grade school antics. Widening your eyes at him with a smile you could not rid yourself of. He was so handsome. Eyes stuck to you. Loving the attention he was giving you.

“Is it— NO. It can’t be,” House began.

Your heart sank into your stomach. Breath hitching in your throat at the possibility of him figuring you out. Not like you were exactly hiding it from him. In your mind, you basically had been throwing yourself at him.

“You’re into Cuddy?” House’s jaw hung open, clearly he was messing with you.

You exhaled hard. Pulse erratic. Pinching the bridge between your nose as you collapsed onto the table in front of you. Body shaking with laughter. Embarrassment clear by the way your cheeks heated up. “I didn’t know you swung that way,” House continued.

“Jesus Christ, Greg,” you breathed out, teeth shining with a smile.

“Greg? When did we get on a first name basis?” he chuckled, leaning down so that his lips were close to your ear. Heat from his breath tickling your skin. Using every tool in his box to get you a shriveling and babbling mess of embarrassment before him. Goosebumps cascading across your limbs. His hand splayed across your thigh as he leaned into you, smile matching the one you were sporting.

“Since you started prying into my personal life,” you looked up at him, not moving your head from its rested position. You loved seeing him smile so widely. Teeth on display and cheeks bulbing. You wanted to kiss him so bad.

And you would have. If he had not rose suddenly, “I’ll be back, Y/N. I’ve gotta take a piss.” House blatantly said. Walking into the single stall bathroom the bar had to offer. The way he had held his eyes in yours as he said your name made your guts tingle. Trying to understand what had just happened. Flustered and confused.

Making your most rash decision of the night. Following after him. Breath escaping your lungs as you held your fist up to the old door. Meekly, you knocked. Earning a ‘one second’ from House.

“It’s me,” you said.

A pause before the door creaked open. House had a curious expression written along his brow, eyes scaling you before him. “Just because I’m cripple, doesn’t mean I need you to hold it for me,” House smiled cockily.

Giving him an aggressive eye roll. Arms folded over your chest as you stamped your foot down. Shoe sticking to the residue across the floor. Doeing your eyes at him through the crack in the door. Placing your hand on the door so he could not close it.

Curiosity was one of his vices. And your silence was strange. He had to find out why you came knocking. Allowing you to step inside with him, backing himself into the small room.

“If you wanted to see my cock that—“

Your lips were on his. Shutting him up as you pressed his body against the wall. Hands flattening along his stomach, tongue slipping past his lips. Tasting the liquor on him. Making him taste even better than you had imagined. His free hand gripped the back of your head. Keeping his lips firmly to yours, tasting you. Enamored by the way your lips perfectly captured one another. Not taking the time to pull away before you were palming at his groin. Needing him worse than you had ever imagined. Receiving airy grunts and groans in between your lips. Conjuring slick between your legs.

Falling to your knees and you undid his belt, hastily pulling his cock out of his jeans. Member already swollen and hard, tip leaking slowly. Kitten licking at the head, causing House to lean further into the wall. Voice trembling as a satisfied groan escaped him. Stroking him with one of your hands, the other pushing your escaped hairs out of your face. Making sure you could look up at him as you went down. Taking just the tip into your mouth, tongue flat under the head. Curling and massaging the sensitive spot underneath.

House’s throat tightened as his hand braced itself against your scalp. Moaning when your nose met the base of his cock. Brushing against the soft, curly hair that peaked out. Sloppily bobbing your head up and down on him. Salty taste of precum overwhelming your mouth. Smiling when he bumped the back of your throat. Eyes locking into his. Blue orbs awestruck by the sight of you on your knees before him.

“Fuck,” he breathlessly whispered. His hand gripped your hair, using it as a handle so he could fuck into your mouth. Barely rolling his hips to meet your lips. Lost in the way your warm mouth perfectly sucked him in. Knowing if you continued he would be cumming soon.

Loosing your breath and having to pull off for a moment. Replacing your mouth with a hand. Curling around the spit covered member, continuing the same rhythm you had previously had. Heaving as you looked up at him. Lust filled eyes explaining yourself. Giving away any secret you had been hiding before.

“Guess I was wrong about the— ugh— Cuddy thing?” House snarked, mischievously looking at you. You nodded, putting just the tip into your mouth as your hand continued to pump him. Sucking the sensitive head, swirling your tongue around it. Collecting his sticky pre along your tongue with each swipe. His head fell back against the wall once more, jaw hung harshly open as he groaned.

“Yes, Y/N. Just like that,” House mumbled as you took him back into your mouth entirely. Losing himself to pleasure when your teeth would graze his length for a moment. Salty taste overtaking your mouth.

House’s hand urged you off. Sucking off with a soft pop of his cock. Fluttering your lashes up at him in confusion. Wondering if you had done something wrong. “Get up,” he groaned.

Obeying and standing to your feet before him. Burning of your knees overshadowed by how wet you were. Meeting his hooded eyes as you pressed a kiss to his lips. Hand cupping your cheek, snaking around to lace into the hair at the nape of your neck.

“Bend over the sink,” House breathed between kisses.

“You don’t owe me—“

“I want to fuck you,” House’s eyes narrowed. That shot electricity through you. Expecting him to be the type to take whatever he was given. Let you suck him off then return to the table like nothing happened. But this was much better.

You took your place at the sink. Hands grasping the quartz countertop, meeting your own eyes in the mirror. Looking like you had just been face fucked. Liking what you saw. Especially when House’s figure came into frame. The click of his cane echoed against the silent room. Large hands pushed your dress up your back revealing the lacy thong you had wore.

House chuckled to himself at the sight.

“Guess you planned on getting laid tonight?”

“No,” you admitted, “It just makes me feel sexy.”

“It looks sexy,” House’s eyes widened with a smirk. Grabbing a handful of your ass before smacking it. Earning a quick squeak from you. Sneering at him in the mirror which only made him smile wider. His finger looped around the thin fabric band, tugging it down. You spread your legs allowing them to fall down, stepping one foot out.

The air fanned over your slick folds. Sending chills down your body. House held himself by the base, slapping his cock against your entrance a few times. Breath shuttering as he felt how warm and wet you were for him. Blunt tip swirling around your folds, prodding at your entrance.

Finally, he thrusted slowly forward. Cock sinking inside your warmth. His brows furrowed as he watched his member disappear. Lips parted and tongue pressing into his lower one. House groaned when his hips met the swell of your ass. Holding steady as his head fell back in pleasure. Fingers digging little crescents into the flesh of your hip.

You moaned when he pulled back. Mouth hung open, desperate eyes catching his in the mirror. The corner of his mouth instinctively curved with a grin that showcased his teeth. Fleeting as he refocused on the feeling of you wrapped around him. Rolling his hips and finding a rhythm that had you both gasping for air.

“Greg,” you moaned when the curve of his cock prodded at a sensitive spot inside you.

“Where the hell has this been all my life?” he halfheartedly laughed, his mind going blank from how good it felt. Air struggling to regulate inside his lungs. Losing himself to pleasure. Almost forgetting about the sharp pain in his thigh for a moment.

The squelching sound of his repeated pistoning hips filled the space. Drowned out to any outside listeners by the bar’s loud speakers. His cock perfectly filled you. Stretching your walls with every rock of hips. One of your hands reached down to rub tight circles on your clit.

House could not remember the last time he had properly fucked someone. Let alone felt this much satisfaction from another. His entire body was warm. Heartbeat pounding against his eardrums. Veins flowing with pure desire for you.

“Y/N,” he said with a particularly low and sultry voice.

You could feel the coil inside you tightening. Knowing if he continued this way you would be cumming around him shortly. And it felt good. You could swear you had never had sex so good. Never expecting to be here with House.

“That stupid prick has no idea what he missed out on. You know that? Anyone would be lucky to fuck you,” House mindlessly praised. His balls tightening when your walls fluttered for a moment. Preparing for your orgasm to wash over you.

You panted and squirmed on his cock. His words settling perfectly in your core. White hot overwhelmed your body as you lost your grip for a moment. Falling forward as you came unraveled around him. House pressed firmly into you. Loving the feeling of you gripping down on his sensitive length. Barely rutting to fuck you through your high. His name a mixture of moans and babbling from your mouth. Back arched harshly as you came down.

House picked up his speed again. You cried out with each stretch. Louder than you intended, but not caring. The twitch of his cock told you he was close behind. Meeting each of his movements with your own. Coaxing him to his end. Cumming inside you in spurts of hot, sticky ropes. Coating your walls with his seed. Breathy, broken groans fell from his heaving chest.

Both of you tried to catch your breath. Your arms folded over in front of you as you rested your head on them. Sweat sticking to every inch of skin. House’s hand snaked around your front, urging you to stand at your full height once more. You made sure to pull your underwear back up and fix your dress before turning to face him. Small of your back meeting the countertop.

Your faces were flushed. Both of you smiling like lovesick idiots. House tucked himself back into his pants before stepping closer to you. His hand cupping your cheek to kiss you once more. Smiling as you connected lips. Giggling when he pulled away. Resting his forehead to yours, eyes latching onto yours.

“Kinda whorish to let your friend fuck you in the bathroom at some bar, don’t you think?” House snickered, pushing his lips to yours again.

You laughed, nudging him with your palm as you rolled your eyes. There was the House you knew. Arms lacing around his neck as he let his weight fall into you. One hand tightly holding onto your hip. Lips falling against the space between your neck and ear.

“You’re one to talk,” you snickered, “I think cumming in your friend is far more whorish.”

House pulled back to meet your eye, “Fair.”

He kissed you again. Memory of his praising words still fresh in your mind. Wondering if this would become something more. Or if you were overthinking things as you usually did.

“Wilson is probably wondering where we both ran off to,” you said, one of your hands playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

House growled, “Probably hasn’t noticed.”

His big blue eyes stared into you. Wide like he was trying to engrave every memory of you this close to him. Tangled in his arms. Freshly glowing from sensual satisfaction. Cheeks still warm and smile still wide.

You pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, “You’re cute.”

House rolled his eyes with a scoff. Looking back and smiling at you. Your compliment making his heart pound harder. Accepting his defeat and pulling away from you. Reaching back to take your hand in his and guide you out of the shared bathroom. Harsh blaring of speakers meeting your ears as he led you back to the table. Wilson had snuggled up with some girls on the dance floor.

House gestured towards him, “Told you.”

You laughed. Shrugging in defeat.

House gave you a closed mouth smile before looking back at Wilson. Both of you watching him sexually grab on a stranger who you knew he would not remember by morning. Rocking hips and whispering into her ear.

“You know,” House turned his head to meet your gaze again, “We could always go fool around in Wilson’s car.”

You snorted, hand coming up to cover your mouth. Eyes wide with shock from the suggestion. Two pinched fingers dangled his keys in front of you. Jingling them with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Oh. Naughty boy,” you teased with a click of your tongue.

House shrugged, “It’s who I am.”

~~~

[END]

// Thank you for reading! I have had this one in the works since before I finished my first House multi-part fic, so it’s been a long time coming. I just love writing for House bc he’s such an ass. As always, my inbox is always open for requests! Reblogs and Comments are appreciated! //

{tags}

@megangovier ~ @person-005 ~ @houseslollipop ~ @bitchy-bi-trash ~ @iwmflbb ~

[whiskeyghoul]

its literally like midnight and my brain has shut off

— — — — — —

hear me out!! being house’s controversially young gf ?? (aka my fucking dream)

• the first time people found out? TOTAL MASS panic.

• everyone assumed it was some weird fling, a dumb rumor.

. . . until you actually showed up in his office, sitting on his desk, swinging your legs, all casual while house is leaned back in his chair, grinning like a smug bastard.

• cuddy 100% nearly had a STROKE.

“you—you—house—you can’t just—??”

• “I can’t just what, lisa? Have a hot, young girlfriend who’s way too good for me? yeah, I know. tragic.”

• foreman thinks it’s insane and he would totally be the biggest hater. Cameron is lowkey jealous. chase is just fascinated. taub? oh, he’s taking NOTES

• Wilson, bless his soul, literally sits you down like a concerned dad and tries to have The Talk™.

• “you know he’s… house, right?” wilson spoke carefully, leaning his forearms on his desk looking you straight in the eye with a frown.

“I just mean, he’s difficult, he’s complicated, he’s older—”

“You forgot rude and insanely sexy.” we all know house. where did he just come from? who knows. but he’s ALWAYS going to be there to annoy wilson.

“Right. Those too.” and poor wilson is traumatised, exhausted, and fucking confused?? i mean- who wouldnt be??

• everyone assumes you’ll break up with him in a few months, but joke’s on them—you’re just as unhinged, just as stubborn, and you get him in a way no one else does.

[whiskeyghoul]

[whiskeyghoul]

Welkom, welkoooooooooom!!! 🐷🐷🐷

[whiskeyghoul]

bestie some ghost the band dividers ?? Please????? If you want to!!! No worries if not! Thank you I appreciate you!

hi hi! and omg yes avo - I would love to make some Ghost dividers for you!! 💖 here you go!

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

[whiskeyghoul]

Father Figure (1/2)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Spencer becomes an unlikely source of comfort after his son breaks up with you. (PART 1 of 2) Category: Mature (18+) Content: Adults w/age gap, perv!Spencer strikes again, masturbation, drinking, kissing. Word Count: 6.2k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Pushing the hot old man agenda once again, I'm not even sorry about it. Smut will be in Part 2, which I'm almost done with--I just have to workshop the end a little bit. And remember, pals: If he wanted to, he would. And if he won't, then his dad will (AKA the quote I saw on TikTok that inspired this fic lmao) Also, I apologize if adding a real song with real lyrics in the middle of this is cringey, but I had A Vision, and I needed it to be realized, okay? Let a girl have some fun!!!

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

...THE COFFEE SHOP

Spying on his son was never exactly a pastime of Spencer's, even less so now since the kid is not really a kid anymore. Still, when that kid breaks up with his long-term girlfriend of four years and then goes on a first date a day later, a father is left to wonder...

He feels bad especially for the ex-girlfriend, who had been nothing but an absolute joy; always bringing gifts and snacks to the house, celebrating the Reid boys' birthdays with extra love and care, and bringing a warm and happy energy that demanded love and care right back.

He can't imagine how you must be feeling.

Your face dances in flashes behind his eyelids as he pokes around the corner of the coffee shop, wondering what could possibly be so enticing about this other woman that his son would throw away something so extraordinary.

Even as he spots Cameron, beaming and eagerly listening to the beautiful young woman in front of him, it pains Spencer to imagine the other side of the coin.

He sighs and turns away, wondering what could have changed his son's mind, but understanding that ultimately it's not any of his business. From what he knows about the breakup, Cameron had been kind and forthright through all of it, offering his father the simple explanation of, "I don't dislike her at all, she's a nice girl... I just don't love her anymore. That's all."

That's all...

When you've spent the first half of your young adult life with the same someone, that logic isn't impossible; Inevitably you'll meet new people and feel bright, new feelings, and old feelings can dissipate just as quickly.

On every logical level, there's nothing inherently wrong with this situation, and still, Spencer can't fight off the uneasy tension in his chest as he sits with it.

As he turns the corner and begins to try and place where exactly that feeling might come from, a loud gasp stops him in his tracks.

His eyes take a moment to look you over, looking to anyone else like he might need some time to process that it's you, but really, his brain knows it right away. Admittedly, he's just glad to see you. Though right now you're visibly shocked and perhaps a little embarrassed, you still radiate that undeniable warmth that brings a slow smile to his face. The tension he feels doesn't fade so much as it shifts, from uneasy to something more electric. More problematic.

What the fuck is your problem? his inner-voice barks, so loudly he almost thinks he's said it out loud.

Spencer shifts direction quickly, reminding himself how to act like a normal human being, and more importantly, how to act when faced with his son's ex-girlfriend, who is clearly doing the same thing he's doing.

"What a pleasant surprise," he beams reaching forward to offer a hug, which you take. Perhaps a dumb move considering the funk he just had to snap himself out of, but if he can carefully guide you in the other direction to save you the spiral of spying on your ex-boyfriend's new date, then so-be-it.

You pull away and he does too, his hands lingering but not touching you. Still, he feels you just as vividly.

"Doctor Reid, what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to hold his eye contact but ultimately succumbing to the urge to glance at the window behind him.

He sighs, offering a sympathetic smile. "The same thing as you, I'm afraid..."

The horror on your face makes his stomach churn, but then it's gone in an instant, replaced by an eye-crinkling laugh that takes him by surprise.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about!"

You're trying so hard to convince him, and probably yourself as well, and it unfortunately amuses him. Your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, not bright and genuine like he's always known, but it's still beautiful. His gaze lingers a little too long on it before he meets your eyes again, watching them flash with something petrified as he grins.

"Clearly..."

You cross your arms, jutting your chin out and attempting a new tactic. "Look, I'm not that pathetic, okay? I don't like what you're implying. Besides, why are you spying on Cam, huh? It's not like he broke up with you to be with your best friend..."

The smile slowly disappears from his face as you speak, that sharp sense of unease creeping back into his system and curling up through his lungs like cigarette smoke. "What?"

You don't bother trying to hide it anymore, a sad shrug weighing down your body as your face softens into something melancholic and distant. Your voice is barely there when you speak, the sound of nearby traffic nearly drowning you out. "Guess he didn't tell you that part, huh..."

"No, he didn't."

You sigh and tighten your arms, seemingly holding yourself together as not to fall apart at the seams. "Did you see them? Did they look happy?"

Spencer's stomach churns again, and he shakes his head incredulously. "Hon, maybe you should—"

"Did they?" you ask again more desperately, your voice cracking between words. He can hear the sadness in it, the devastation and the confusion, the need to understand...

An irrational anger starts to brew somewhere in the depths of his being, even though he knows he doesn't have the whole story. But he firmly decides that he can grapple with Cameron and his choice of a girlfriend at a more appropriate time, and probably even have a man-to-man conversation with him about the whole thing... He also firmly decides that the arrival of these indescribable tense feelings should also be dealt with, though preferably in his next therapy session and not right this second.

Because right now, there's a bright young woman on the verge of tears right in front of him, her sparkle dulling with each passing second, and the best thing to do is to get her away from the problem at large—Not to do anything that will only make it worse.

Spencer rushes to you and gently scoops you into another hug, your body nestling into his with an exhaustion that he fears he knows all too well. As you squeeze his shirt and start to cry, he leads you away from the building and down the sidewalk, wondering if you can hear how loudly his heart is breaking for you.

Eventually he leads you away from public eye, a small clearing about three blocks away and beyond some trees. Being late August, they've started to change color, but not by much. By now you've removed yourself from his full embrace, but still cling to his arm as you find the room to calm down, looking up at the trees.

He walks silently beside you, giving you the space to breathe and think. To rest. The sun is high in the sky, bright beams poking through the leaves and limbs, and when you finally stop walking, one of them catches your eye. It glistens with tears that haven't fallen yet, and when you stare up at the sky and close your eyelids, a small droplet finally strolls down your cheek.

Your arms tighten around Spencer's and he fights the urge to wipe the tear from your face with his free hand.

"I'm so sorry," he says instead. "I wish I knew what to do."

You open your eyes then, a small breeze picking up and rustling the trees. He can hear wind chimes in the distance, he thinks, or maybe it's just a figment of his imagination—a manifestation of the dulcet, melodic comfort you've brought to his life over the years. In a strange way, he supposes you do somewhat feel like home to him. Normalcy. Softness. Beauty.

He hadn't even realized it until your sadness had overwhelmed him.

"Thank you," you tell him, pulling away finally to look him dead-on. You smile again, and though it's sad, and still beautiful, this time it finally reaches your eyes. "You're a good man, Doctor Reid."

He certainly doesn't feel like a good man.

Not when you reach up and hug him with your arms draped over his shoulders. Not when his hands feel right at home at the small of your back. Not when he can hardly breathe as your mouth murmurs another, "thank you," into the crook of his neck. Not when you start to pull away, sliding your soft hands down over his shoulder blades and tilting your head. Not when your thankful lips make contact with his cheek, featherlight and heavy all the same. Not when, even after you pull away completely, your presence is still with him, making him warm and fluttery and stupid.

Not when he misses you, hours later, still buzzing from your touch...

And when Cameron comes home that evening, practically walking on clouds and beaming with lovesick stupor after his day out with your best friend, that tension and irrational anger starts to grow stronger, muddled with confusion.

No. Spencer Reid is convinced that he is not a good man.

If he was, he wouldn't be laying awake at night, absentmindedly caressing his face where your lips had been hours before, staring at the photo on his bedside table of the three of you just a year ago.

Right after you and Cam had graduated college, you all took a road trip to the Grand Canyon and a stranger offered to take your photo. You were happy and in love, holding on to Cam's arm the same way you held onto Spencer's earlier today. The sun was shining on your face, though back then it wasn't illuminating drying tears. Your smile reached your eyes, but it wasn't masking profound sadness.

If Spencer Reid was a good man, he would be letting it go and moving on instead of vowing to spend eternity trying to mend a heart he didn't break. He wouldn't be exacting his own twisted form of vengeance under the covers, stroking himself to the thought of you—to the thought of treating you right.

If he was a good man, he certainly wouldn't be staring at your photo on his bedside table as he did so, calling out your name in a hushed whisper—a prayer.

And yet, here he lays, the thought of you bringing him to completion.

"He didn't deserve you, sweet girl," he confesses breathlessly, right at the precipice. He comes in hot ropes over his bare stomach, visions of your bright eyes and warm, beautiful lips helping him right along.

His first exhale of breath as the high subsides comes out as a form of maniacal laughter; Not only is he now stuck with a mess he has to clean at almost two in the morning, but he's also devolving, clarity smacking right into him like a freight train.

Spencer swears, wishing he'd simply ignored the feeling that urged him to follow Cameron on his date earlier that day. He wishes he'd let it go.

He looks at your picture again and sighs, laughing to himself. "I don't deserve you either."

...THE BAR

Two weeks and two therapy sessions later, and Spencer doesn't feel any better, really.

He hasn't seen you since that day at the coffee shop, but it's like he sees you every day anyway. You're there when he sleeps, mostly. He meets you in dreams, wiping your tears and kissing you better. Each time, you gladly return the favor, kissing him back and subsequently healing some deep part of him he hadn't even realized was ailed.

But obviously that's just a product of this strange, pathetic, fucked-up obsession he's spiraled into, and not anchored to the truth in any way.

That's what he tells himself, at least... no matter how badly he wants there to be truth in it.

Still, it's hard when even the time and distance between you can't seem to shake your effect on him.

Though, perhaps Cameron's role in all of this could be the key to this lingering feeling. He is a common denominator, after all, and the knowledge that he'd chosen to be with your best friend instead of you so soon after breaking it off still rubs him the wrong way. Which, in all honesty, is a conversation he doesn't want to have just yet; It would probably be best if he had a clear mind, one not constantly plagued by daydreams of railing you under the trees in the clearing where you last touched him.

Spencer sighs and takes his glasses off, tossing them aside. He presses his palms into the sides of his face, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he can until he sees stars, and promptly decides that he needs to leave the house.

Fresh air usually does the trick, but for whatever reason, this long walk to the park is not doing him any favors. The way the leaves rustle in the wind only brings him back to that fateful moment with you in his arms, seeking comfort, and quite frankly, the August heat is making him more irritable.

So, he wanders off to uncharted territories: a random bar that should be pretty dead on a random Wednesday mid-afternoon. He's not exactly sure what it is he hopes to find, but as long as it's a good enough distraction, or even some peace and quiet, he'll gladly take it.

The place isn't very busy, or bright. Neon signs and dim table lamps are about the only sources of light, but compared to the sun outside, Spencer finds it more than comfortable. Some Country duet he doesn't recognize booms over the speakers, low-tempo and sad, but not horrible. The melancholic melody swims nicely through his brain, setting the scene as he sits down at a random table somewhere near the back.

A hostess is quick to ask him what he wants to drink and offers a menu, but all he orders is a glass of water. Whether she questions it or not, he doesn't pay attention. But when she returns about a minute later with his glass, he does notice that the song has finished and started over.

"Hope you don't mind the song," the hostess says with a sigh, noting his quiet curiosity. "Poor thing over there requested it on a loop until she got drunk enough to forget about it..."

Spencer's eyes follow her head-nod towards the corner of the room, where a girl sits slumped over the table with her chin in her hand, the other hand tearing at a napkin.

His heart sinks and skips at the same time as recognition strikes him like lightning.

The hostess has walked away by now, and his still gaze can't seem to wander anywhere else. The odds of him going somewhere random to distract himself from thought of you, only to be graced with your presence, feels too coincidental. It's too good of an excuse to just ignore, consequences be damned.

Right?

Should he say hello? Should he offer to get you home before you truly do become too drunk to be aware of your surroundings?

Regardless of how he feels about you, that would be the responsible, parental thing to do, right?

Jesus fucking Christ, he sighs to himself, downing his water before getting up to see you.

As he gets closer, he hears you humming along to the song, sighing dramatically in between breaths, until you look up to finally meet his eyes and it becomes a gasp.

"Doctor Reid!" you exclaim, sitting straight up and thrusting your arms out in welcome. Your smile is tired, but life has ever-so-slightly begun to creep back into your features. The thought of being a familiar face, and a pleasant one at that, to bring you that life does more to him than he should admit out loud.

A warmth settles into him as your eyes rake over his figure, half-like you can't quite decide if he's real and half-like you might be checking him out.

Don't be weird, he scolds himself, though he's still unable to keep the amused grin from his lips as he greets you gently. Cautiously. "Hello again, sweetheart."

"I'm not spying on Cameron this time, what's your excuse?"

It doesn't entirely make sense, but he understands what you mean. Still, it's not like he can tell you that he was trying to distract himself from thinking about you, so he simply shrugs. "Felt like a change of scenery. I don't get out much."

You giggle a little and slump back down, resting your chin against your hands, still smiling. "Yeah, I know. Are you sad about something, too?"

Spencer shakes his head. "No... Just... bored, I guess."

"Well, you're welcome to join me! I'm not much fun like I used t'be, but the company'd be nice."

How could he deny your invitation, when you're exaggerating a toothy, tipsy smile and batting your eyes like you want something? It charms him almost as much as it scares him.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," he tells you, pulling up a chair across from you and sliding in. His leg accidentally bumps into yours, and it sends a chill through him. He tries to keep himself calm and collected, but wonders if he looks spooked, because you give him a look.

Turns out, it's just an inebriated look of disbelief. "No, I really am pathetic these days... You don't have to be nice to me, I know it's the truth."

He knows better than to argue with a woman, especially on a subject so sore, so he takes a different approach. "Well, pathetic or not, I still care about you anyway. So I'm more than happy to sit with you for however long you need the company."

You consider his words and then pout, finishing off your drink before you loudly wave your desire for another drink. "And bring one for my new best friend, too!"

Spencer can't help the laugh that leaves him, though you're too caught up in your own little world to notice it.

The same hostess brings over two drinks, eyeing him suspiciously, but before she walks away, you laugh. "It's okay, Anna! That's Doctor Reid, he's my best friend now. My old best friend is out screwing my ex-boyfriend."

"Who happens to be my son," he offers as a more clear explanation as to why he's taken to 'befriending' this drunk woman in a near-empty bar.

Anna looks between you two and nods, amused but not questioning the drama. "Gotcha. If you need anything, just holler."

The song has started over again by this point, and though Spencer's had a bit more excitement than anticipated, it's not enough to forget about it. He recalls Anna's words and the pitying tone in her voice, and tilts his head, watching as you take another sip of your drink. "How many times have you heard this song today?"

"Dunno," you sigh. "Lost count. Cam and I used to sing it together all the time. Not very well, but it was our thing..."

"Hmm, I didn't know that... I don't think I've heard it until today."

"Yeah, well you don't get out much."

A laugh bubbles up out of him involuntarily once again, your charm—even influenced by alcohol and misery—a natural harbinger of joy. The fact that you probably don't even know it only adds to the experience.

Even the way you laugh at his laughing is infectious, until the two of you are mutually giggling and sipping your drinks, and while the song is not forgotten, it's at the very least drowned out by the sound of laughter. Alcohol still may be involved, sure, but where you'd been tired and lost before, the weariness has been lifted by his hand, if only for a moment, and so for now that would have to do.

Eventually, there's a rather quiet moment between you, a lull in conversation that isn't driven by awkwardness or boredom, but by something else that Spencer can't quite put his finger on. He's not entirely convinced that you've sobered up at all, but the hazy look in your eyes isn't so much drunkenness as much as it is mystified. By what, he doesn't know, but it's making him warmer inside than a singular ounce of any alcohol could ever accomplish.

The thought makes him set down his glass; Perhaps he's had enough.

"What's that look for, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, a little too afraid that he should have omitted the nickname. Where it'd been intended innocently before, this time it comes out entirely different, his enamored, lust-drunk curiosity getting the better of him before he can think differently.

His stomach twists.

Still, that look on your face intensifies, and your head tilts thoughtfully, eyes studying him again. Their trail winds everywhere, from his mouth to his hands to his neck... When you finally meet his gaze again, you lean back in your chair. A smile unlike any other he's ever seen adorns your face and sends a jolt through his nervous system.

"I like when you call me that, you know..."

"Yeah?"

Stop it, Spencer...

You nod slowly, never taking your eyes off of him.

If he were a good man, he'd blame it on the drinking and tell you to get home safe, being on his merry way, considering the fact that you're probably just hurting and desperate to get back at Cameron somehow, and that he's a convenient means to a sweet, revengeful end.

He lets the moment hang in the air for a while, holding your stare and feeling his resolve start to crumble beneath the weight of it. That damn song still drawls out beneath the sharp, distant clatter of dishes and late-lunch conversation, and your pretty eyes are easily the brightest source of light in the whole place, begging him to make a move and singing just as loudly, too. They're waiting. Eager. Hungry... All of it is almost too much to take at once.

And then...

"Let me take you home, sweetheart."

He knows it's mean. He also knows that it's going to hurt. But if he doesn't, he knows he'll end up regretting it.

Spencer helps you out of the building and gives Anna a twenty-dollar tip on the way out.

You're more stable than he thought you'd be, walking in a straight line and not stumbling at all as he takes you to your car. He holds his hand out for your keys, to which you oblige without problem, letting your touch linger. As he helps you in the passenger seat and buckles your seat belt, he notices your eyes are closed, but that you're smiling.

"Something funny?" he asks, getting the buckle in place. Still he remains there, arms trapping you into the seat.

You shake your head and open your eyes, searching the features of his face and sinking further into the upholstery. Your smile softens, but doesn't waver in its genuine joy, which is why it breaks his heart when you reply, "Nope." The word is quiet. Serious. The moment is everything he wished it could be, your eyes swimming with some form of devotion that calls to him like a sirens' song.

Only, he can still smell the inebriation on your breath, potent and grounding him to reality, and so he must continue to be mean.

He smiles at you before pulling away and closing your door, then walking to the drivers' side while taking the deepest breath of his life. It's courage and disappointment and humor all in one fucked-up intake of oxygen, but it gives him the push he needs to finally open the car door and begin your journey home.

The ride is mostly quiet, though, save for your humming. The haunting melody will stick around in his head for weeks, he's sure, just another thing to constantly remind him of you, and another thing to break his heart every time he sees his son's smiling face.

Even though he can feel the fury and confusion and lust swimming around in his body like a whirlpool, Spencer manages to walk you up the stairs of your apartment, and to your door, without losing any ounce of control. He leads you gently through your home until you've reached the bedroom, and even then he doesn't falter.

It does make him nervous though, feeling your hands on him. You're a little more unsteady now, though he attributes that to the soon-to-be broken, unspoken promise of sex. It pains him, knowing he used your influenced in-the-moment attraction to him as an excuse to get you safely home. But had he simply left you there to suffer alone, at the mercy of substances and strangers who might not have been so kind, he would have felt worse.

He helps you take off your shoes and puts your belongings on the bedside table, feeling your eyes on him and hoping you won't remember enough of this later to hate him or hate yourself after the fact.

When Spencer turns around, you're already sitting on the bed, and while the sight of it entices him more than words could accurately say, he refrains. He puts on his most fatherly face, crosses his arms, and braces himself for the blow.

"Come on. Under the covers."

"It's only like noon."

Not quite the response he was expecting, but he can work with it. He smiles, just a little. "It's almost Three-PM. You should really get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Your eyes drop to the floor, and Spencer can feel his heart drop there, too, when you say quietly, "I haven't..."

Against his better judgement, he steps forward and catches your attention again, your head lifting to meet his eyes.

"I know, sweetheart. Sleep."

Your response is a shaky breath and big, watery eyes, the last few weeks of sadness catching up to you. Watching it unfold in real-time is utterly heartbreaking, so much so that when you ask him an unexpected question, he doesn't have the heart, or the brain, to say no.

"Will you sing me to sleep?"

"Of course."

You lie down then, shuffling your way under the covers as Spencer sits down beside you, helping you settle in. His hand instinctively reaches out to gently massage your scalp, something that had always put Cameron to sleep when he'd wake up with nightmares.

Though, he never sang to him. He never was good at it...

Still, because he can't seem to resist your charms, he tries anyway, singing the only thing he can think of at the moment. A newly familiar smoky tune that he now knows every single word to.

"Every woman deserves a moment of weakness. Last night with me was yours, I guess. I must have whispered what you wanted to hear. And when I asked you, you probably said yes."

Softly, you hum along with him on the next part, a duet of desperation and longing that definitely sounds better over the bar speakers, but feels more accurate in this small, sorrowful bedroom.

"Cause it sounds like something I'd say, in the midst of lonely and the Marlboro haze. It sounds better in the dark than in the light of day, but it sounds like something I'd say."

With your eyes closed, you smile, breathing a small laugh through your nose. "You're better at it than he was."

Spencer is surprised by your words and how much they twist this serrated, beautiful knife. They only remind him of the gravity of the situation at hand—at how badly he shouldn't be here right now... He shouldn't care so much, he shouldn't revel in the fact that you're actively feeding into this fantasy where he's healing you and fixing the mistake that his son made...

He shouldn't be falling in love with you.

Of course, he refuses to even consider that possibility, even though he's feeling things around you that he's only ever felt for a few others.

Still, it rattles him enough that after you've finally fallen fast asleep and he walks home, he schedules an extra session with his therapist and takes a long, hot shower, hoping to wash away any lingering trace of you.

Naturally, no amount of scorching water, soap, or steam seems to do the trick.

He wonders if it ever will.

...THE CLEARING

Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest, and in your brain, and in your fingertips... You can practically feel it thrumming in every part of your body as you sit on a log and soak up what small rays of sunshine manage to find their way through the trees.

Thank you for bringing me home earlier... I'm sorry if I made your day weird or inconvenient.

The world around you is beautiful, bright, and lively, though something nameless is missing. You know whatever it is will appear with vivid recognition when he shows up, but there's a small lick of fear creeping up the back of your neck and finding its way into your brain that wonders if he won't... That somehow you've fabricated this whole thing—plucked out imaginary moments of warmth from a desperate place in need of comfort, and neatly placed them in the massive hole left in your heart by Cameron and Danica and their betrayal.

It's not a problem at all. I'm glad you got home safe. Rest, and remember to take your time. These things don't heal overnight.

You hadn't expected Spencer to text you back right away, given that it was just after midnight and you'd never really known him to be much of a night owl. Not to mention you probably should have deleted his phone number after the breakup in the first place. Sure, he had been kind to you after everything which was a relief and a comfort, but there had to be some unspoken rule about late-night texting your ex-boyfriend's dad and expecting a response, much less right away.

But then, your phone lit up with his message almost immediately, and there was an odd clenching in your stomach that refused to subside even long into the early hours of morning.

Your fingers moved in response before your brain had a chance to think it over.

Did you sing to me or did I make that up?

There was a bit more time after that until he responded, and you swore you'd fucked it all up. You threw up and downed a glass of water, but when you picked up your phone again, his name was there. You were suddenly nauseous again, but at the mercy of something else, something familiar and foreign all at once.

I don't know if I'd call what I did "singing"... But sure. Ha

God, you hadn't smiled so hard in... Could you even remember how long it had been? Even now, you think on it and can't even come up with a ballpark answer, which should sadden you but only makes your heart flutter once more. In that moment, reading his words, memories came flooding back. Flickers of your drunken afternoon with Spencer started to string together, feeling more like a movie and less like a silly revenge fantasy.

Without even thinking, you texted him with the truth, even if you didn't quite know what it meant yet.

Either way, I like hearing your voice. It'd be nice to hear it more often.

His response made you laugh so hard you almost threw up again.

Are you still drunk?

You weren't, and you aren't, but you may as well be. Merely the thought of him has you dizzy, and every day it grows worse and worse as you text and talk on the phone like you're best friends.

This morning's message still sings in the back of your mind as you wait for him, melodically bright and filling in the gaps of silence where the trees don't rustle.

Is it weird that I really want to see you again?

You replied, Is it weird that I don’t think that’s weird at all?

And since then you’ve wondered, is it even weirder that you’d go so far to say you’re so incredibly flattered by his words that your entire body pulsates with a violent wave of heat just thinking about seeing him face-to-face again?

The gentle breeze does nothing to cool you down, the sweet, damning effect of Spencer Reid burying you alive even hours later.

When you spot him, the world stops rotating. He’s bright smiles and warm eyes and long, fluid limbs, and as he makes his way towards you, you forget how to stand. Your ass is completely glued to its resting spot on the log, and your legs are of no help. All you can do is stare at him and feel your heart flutter rapidly in your chest. You’re not even sure if you’re smiling, though the thought of being caught just staring at him with your tongue practically hanging out is embarrassing enough to pull one from you anyway.

Only when his hand extends to help you up do you finally snap out of whatever dream-world you’ve put yourself in and clear your throat with an avoidant laugh.

“Hi,” you greet him stupidly, still too overwhelmed by him to try anything more interesting.

Spencer grins down at you, your gaze trailing softly upwards along the length of his face until you meet his eyes, and only then does he reply, “Hi.”

The word is infinitely more interesting coming from his well-spoken, experienced lips. They even go the extra mile, twitching up into a larger grin at your silence.

You’re lovesick, he’s amused, and this is entirely fucked.

“What were you up to today?”

Thankfully, even your poor attempt at small talk is merely a small embarrassment scrawled in sand and violently washed away by the tides of his voice. When he speaks, it cleanses you. Clears your mind. Offers a clean slate.

“Nothing special… Read a couple books, made some lunch… If I’m being honest, I mostly just tried to occupy my mind while I waited to come see you.”

Despite the clear setup for him to be cheeky or smug about it, Spencer’s words only exude comfortable honesty. He doesn’t tell you this to get you blushing or to take advantage of this situation. No, every word is spoken without an ulterior motive at all. Though, his sparkling eyes seem to tell a different story.

“Same,” you confess through a small laugh. “I know I joked about you being my new best friend at the bar, but these days it really does feel like it.”

“So you do remember that day…”

“Most of it, yeah. Kind of embarrassed about that to be honest…”

Spencer doesn’t say anything, only hums consideringly as he squeezes your hand. The small gesture suddenly reminds you of his physical presence, and a rush of warmth pulses at your fingertips.

“Truthfully, I am, too.”

This takes you by surprise. “How?”

He seems to regret saying anything, a quick flash of panic in his eyes before he sighs and squeezes your hand again. “Knowing it was my son who did that to you, and not understanding why… You have no idea how much I… I hate that I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s not your responsibility… I guess that’s mostly why I’m embarrassed about the whole thing. You shouldn’t have to fix something that you didn’t break.”

“Didn’t I, though? In one way or another?”

The intense emotion swirling in his eyes takes over you like a tidal wave, and suddenly you’re heartbroken for another reason entirely.

“Don’t get all philosophical on me over this,” you say firmly, squeezing his hand back. “Cameron made that decision, not you. You’re not him.”

“But he’s part of me.”

“So? You didn’t break my heart, he did. And I don’t care what you have to say about that. You are a good man and a good father, and you shouldn’t doubt that.”

You aren’t sure what you expected as a response, but it surely wasn’t the bitter laugh that tumbles from his lips.

“What?” you ask sharply in desperation, grabbing his other hand and practically begging him to listen to you. “What’s so funny?”

Spencer sighs, pulling you flush to his body and taking your breath away in one second flat.

“I doubt those things every damn second I’m with you…”

Not only is your breath gone, but now the ability to think has gone with it. All you know is Spencer. His eyes are pulling you in and daring you to look away. His hands are sliding up the expanse of your arms, and chills erupt in their wake. The world around you has faded to a nothingness that isn’t even scary. It’s just forgotten. Irrelevant.

The only thing that feels natural is the way you tilt your head to brush your lips over his. Just lightly, barely even a touch at all. Still, the intimate contact shocks you at first, bringing you to life in a way you hadn’t thought possible. Slowly, you lean into it, and he does, too. With each second that passes, this one press of your lips against his becomes stronger, the two of you drawing more and more near until it’s all there is.

And then, when his mouth parts, inviting you deeper, it’s like he swallows you whole. Your body melts into his as he welcomes you into his entire world, hugging and kissing you at the same time. Behind closed lids, your eyes flutter to the back of your head, a soft whine escaping your throat and feeding Spencer’s desire until it becomes heavy.

A slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue into your mouth and the sudden press of his erection to your thigh is what jolts a sense of reality into you, and as much as your body is screaming at you to indulge, you know there will, in fact, be consequences.

You pull yourself away from him, just enough to disconnect your lips and remove yourself from the world of lust he’s opened for you. Still, his arms embrace you, loose and comforting and ready to conform to however you see fit.

Spencer stares at you, waiting, studying your kissed-out, panting lips and the panic settling in your eyes as the reality of the situation catches up with you.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp, still clutching onto his shirt and then letting it go to smooth it out. “I… I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

When you meet his eyes again, they haven’t changed. A vibrant chill runs through you again, but you’re still cognisant— Still worried about how fucked it is that you’ve just made out with your ex-boyfriend’s father. Still praying to whoever or whatever is listening that you didn’t just ruin this beautiful friendship you’ve started to form—the one thing that was beginning to pull you out of the darkest period of your life thus far.

You’re scared, you realize, as you stare into Spencer’s eyes, charged, unresolved need hanging thickly in the atmosphere around you. 

You’re terrified, and yet something urges you forward.

Whether it’s insanity or stupidity or desperation to feel something, you don’t know, but the way he practically catches you and welcomes you back without stumbling is satisfying enough to quell the need for answers.

Besides, his lips are the only answer you want, frankly.

You lunge and kiss him with a fervor that makes you question everything about your previous relationship and this new bond you’ve started to form with Spencer after the fact, but only for half a second before his own fervor only rivals it. In fact, the way his mouth possesses yours—coaxing your submission from you with just a few meticulous strokes of the tongue—has you wondering if perhaps he’s going through a similar dilemma.

How long has he wanted this? Has he dreamt of it? He sure as fuck kisses you like he has, but how much of that is truth and how much is merely a product of your unspoken, deep-seeded desire to get Cameron back for what he did to you?

And would he actually be willing to offer you that satisfaction, if you asked?

Perhaps you’ll ask him these things another time, but at the moment, your brain is more than ready to grow numb at the mercy of Spencer’s kisses.

[whiskeyghoul]

~In the middle if the night, it feeds

In the middle if the night, it eats you~

Im so normal about this band💔

update: FORGOT TO MENTION- i did the whole piece with a greyscale filter on so i 100% didnt rlly know what the colors were gonna look like until i took it off!! after a few lil tweaks, it ended up gorgeous 💕

(SHAKING THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE VIOLENTLY)

reference!! ⬇️

[whiskeyghoul]

These photos are by Ross Halfin, and we’ve all seen them probably, but I love them so much I’m just going to catalogue them here.

[whiskeyghoul]

can we talk about this shot? can we? because it's absolutely making me go insane

look at the body language. this is not perpetua standing on stage. this is tobias — shy, fidgety, slighly awkward tobias — standing on stage in his hometown and breaking character for just a few moments because he loves this place so much and he can't not show it

[whiskeyghoul]

[whiskeyghoul]

Why does he look good in EVERY GOD DAMN PHOTO

CR: Ryan Chang