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butlersxbirdy · 2 years

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You Light My Morning Sky

Part 2: But If You Hold Me Without Hurting Me You'll Be The First Who Ever Did

Warnings: Extreme angst, sadness, comfort, mentions of Gladys and Lori, mentions of The Photoshoot(tm)

The day had started out perfectly.

Austin had woken up feeling ready to take on the day and take care of you a little. You woke up with your bathrobe all laid out and ready for you, and the smell of breakfast cooking. You got up and asked him if he wanted to eat first or shower alone. He reached forward to give you a kiss and spin you close, sweeping you off your feet.

"Well good morning to you too," he smirked in response to your abrupt greeting, and served you your favorite light breakfast. He wanted to stay close but he wasn't feeling as submissive today, allowing you both to just be together and do things for each other. He painted your toenails, and you did his skincare, all in preparation for the photoshoot.

Part of what had Austin vibrating with excitement was the fact that you were going with him to the shoot today. He couldn't be happier to have you come with him and praise him when he did good or looked particularly sexy.

"What are you gonna wear, Mamas?" He asks, getting dressed in sweats and a t shirt.

"Baby, its a photoshoot of you. I don't think it matters much what I'm wearing," you laugh, and suddenly he's right beside you, hands holding your face as though he's about to kiss you.

"Yeah..." he leans in, lips hovering above yours. "I suppose no matter what you'll still be the sexiest thing there. I knew what I was getting myself into when I chased your tail like a puppy dog," he smacks your ass and kisses you tenderly. You kiss him back, pulling his hair a little, and he moans.

"Mmm... Mama, you do that, and I'm gonna make a big mess before we have to leave," he bites his lip, and you kiss him softly.

"Sorry baby. I know you've been looking forward to this, do you wanna pick my outfit? You did such a good job painting my nails," you smile and he blushes, head bowing, and he bumps you with his head, nuzzling you and the move is familiar.

"You've been hanging out with Timmy too much, turning into a pony like him," you giggle, and he winks at you, his trademark goofy wink.

"How about now?" He asks, and you kiss his chest softly, just once.

"There's my Aust," you hum and he holds you close while picking out some comfy crossband leggings that always make you look amazing and one of his loose plaid button downs. He hands you a ribbed bralette in your favorite color, and puts the oversized flannel on you over the small garment. He rolls up the sleeves to your elbows for a slouchy look, and adds some of his jewelry to your wrists, making sure the necklace he gave you is on your neck.

"There's my girl," he grins, kissing your neck where the chain rests.

"I need panties still," you smile, holding the leggings he picked out in your hand. He knows you're trying to keep it together, and he smiles broadly.

"I know, Mamas," his voice is low, and alluring, but his body language is efficient and focused. He wants to make you look and feel amazing. He goes to the dresser and grabs your favorite comfortable but sexy panties, and he kneels in front of you with them, putting them on you slowly, kissing your skin as he slides the material up your legs and over your hips.

"Okay, I don't think I can get your leggings on you without both of us falling over," he laughs and you nod, both of you dissolving into giggles. He pulls you on to the floor and you wiggle into your leggings while he caresses and tickles your skin. Breathless with laughter, you finally finish dressing. Austin helps you up and checks you out, and you check yourself out in the mirror, adding some platform wedge sneakers for a slight edgy addition to how effortlessly sexy you look.

"Do I have time to put on makeup?" You ask, and he bites his lip, looking at you.

"Can I do it?" He asks, and you can't help but melt a little at this man. It never ceases to amaze you how much love he has for you. You sit down so he can work his magic. He concentrates on every detail of a natural look on you, which he seems proud of.

"It looks so good, Baby," you grin, and immediately post pics of your look, and one of the two of you kissing, with the caption: "Always lookin good when my baby dolls me up 🥰 #loml #dreamman #burninglove."

Austin didn't always love social media, but he knew you did, and he loved when you'd post occasionally about how much you love him.

"This okay?" You ask, showing him before you post. He leans on you and nods, consenting to being included.

"Thanks for asking, Mamas. Love you," he says warmly, and gives you a loving kiss before you head out the door.

The photoshoot set was slightly less chaotic than usual when you arrive, but he still holds your hand tight as you navigate the studio.

"Austin!" His assistant comes over to both of you, and greets you warmly as well. "You brought Memphis Mama," he says, pumping his fist triumphantly.

"Oh? Memphis Mama?" You ask, looking at Austin.

"Your codename at the office," he blushes and you roll your eyes but you can't help but smile.

"There's room for you to be with him in the makeup and wardrobe trailer, lets get you over there," his assistant suggests, clearly wanting to get started. You get Austin situated, holding his things and checking your phone as he gets ready- hair styled, eyes lined slightly, lips glossed. He looks angelic, and if you didn't want to set everyone back a few hours, you'd push him to his knees and ruin him. He sees your appreciative looks and blushes, mouthing "you're prettier" at you in the mirror, which makes you blush and trace the pendant on your chest while he watches, gaze unwavering. He knows he owns you as much as you own him.

His outfit is next. You watch carefully as he gets dressed. In high waisted, wide-legged pants, flashy belt, and a mesh tank top, not to mention the new jewelry adorning his hands and wrists, he looks stunning. He looks at you, and his eyes burn. He wants you to tell him what to do next, but there's people around. He's aroused, but he's also afraid. You walk up to him and take his hands, assuring him.

"I think its time to get you in front of a camera, don't you baby?" You ask; your words signal nothing of his submissive nature to listening ears, but he knows its a command. He instantly relaxes and smiles gratefully.

"Yeah, it is. Thank you," he whispers, and you walk out with him to where the photos will be taken. You hug him close, squeezing his neck a little, and he makes a soft contented noise.

"I love you. Glad you're here," he hums and then its time to go to work. He starts strong; they have him do a few test shots, then do some shirtless photos with a jacket, then they put him back in the mesh. He seems to be thriving, barely looking at you, which is good. To see him happy and relaxed sends you into a wave of peace, and as the adrenaline leaves your body, you become aware that you've neglected to attend to some needs of your own. For one, you need coffee. You're practically falling asleep on your feet, and you wanted to be able to watch Austin closely. That was easy enough to fix; you ask one of the set assistants in a low voice, and he runs off on your behalf. The second thing, more immediate than the first, was that you had to pee. You tell Austin's assistant where you're going as you scurry off.

Austin is feeling great.

The pictures are working for his personal style and sensibility, and the clothes are comfortable but sexy at the same time. When he looks over at you, you're smiling proudly, and his heart soars.

"Okay, Austin, we're going a different direction next. We want quiet desperation. Submission, if you can. Clasp your hands, show off your jewelry," the director of the shoot says. Austin swallows, looking to see your reaction. He couldn't find you. Where are you? He thought, trying not to frown on camera. He wanted you here for this. In the absence of your approval of the shot, he complies. His hands clasp and he tilts his face up, pretending he's looking at you. Apparently that does the trick, and he can't help biting his lip at the praise from the director. He knew Mama would be mad to know that he was biting his lips because of someone else. He'd be in such trouble. If only you could see him.

The thrill is over quickly, however.

The director has him kneel, and unbutton the pants, asking him to play with the belt. While he's on his knees, they start fixing his hair. He's acutely aware that his Mama isn't near now, and its less thrilling. He craves you. He's going to be almost naked if this keeps going, and sure enough, the poses get more and more intimate. Pants open, laying on the ground, legs spread. He tries not to tremble and whine, but his vision is tunneling.

"Okay, Austin, good. Very sexy. We need to see some emotion while your body is in this pose, looking so vulnerable. Let's see it in your face too," you overhear as you come back down the hallway. You'd gotten lost on the way back from the bathroom and are now racing back, especially hearing the directors words. What positions were they putting your baby in? You come back into the room to see him laying back on a piano bench, legs spread, shirt pulled up, and his face looking thoughtful. It was a beautiful, brooding shot, but something is off.

"Almost, Austin. Really get in that vulnerability. Think about your mom, or even Gladys," the director suggests. His assistant gasps and groans, knowing what you're about to do. Austin's eyes fill with tears.

"N..no," he stammers, looking wildly around for you. His eyes find yours and his lips part as his hands come up to reach for you, but you're already running over. Your place is between him and anything that could hurt him, which at the moment is the camera, and the makeup artist incoming to do touch ups.

"DON'T say that to him. Don't touch him," you say firmly, almost yelling. "The shoot is over, you can't say that to him for entertainment. You can't do that to a person, especially not my Austin," you yell, shaking a finger in the directors face. When your rant is done, you turn to face your baby boy. You lean over him, guarding him with your body. Your hands are unconsciously stroking his cheek, and you look into his eyes. There are tears there, and you wipe them away.

"Mama... you left me..." he mumbles. He is not fully present- the sadness, grief, longing, and ice cold feeling of you leaving him have clouded his thoughts and all he can do now is beg for it to end.

"I'm sorry baby, it was an accident, I'm never leaving again," you soothe him and he sits up, reaching for you.

"Why would they mention her?" He asks, face pressed to your chest. You're aware everyone is watching. You don't care.

"I don't know, baby. I'm here now, I promise. I'm gonna take you home," you say softly. You help him stand on shaky legs and look at the director of the shoot.

"You're done," you say firmly, and you lead him, by the hand, to get changed. When in the trailer, you let him hold you while you undress him, and get him redressed in his own clothes. You carefully remove his makeup and jewelry, and you pull one of your pendants from your mother out of your purse where you keep it in case of accessory emergencies. You put your necklace on him, and kiss his chest, biting a little at his skin.

"Mine," you growl, and he sags against you, sighing with relief.

"Mama..." he sighs weakly. "They praised me, I bit my lip, I'm so sorr-" he starts and you kiss away his fears.

"You're my good boy. The best boy. My favorite man on the planet. Don't you worry about a thing," you assure him, but firmly to get your point across. When he's ready, you lead him out and you both get in the car. You put up the divider so the driver can't see you, and you lay him down on your lap. He curls in to you, face pressed against your stomach, clinging to your shirt.

"I'm here," you assure him again, lost in thought as you stroke his hair.

"You weren't," he pouts up at you. Your heart sinks.

"I know, honey... I'm so sorry," you say quietly. "I didnt mean to get lost, I know it doesn't fix it but I didn't mean to leave you."

"I know. I'm sorry," his face crumbles.

"Its okay, baby, that was really upsetting," you soothe him gently.

"They were just pushing my limit. There's a line, you know. Stuff I'll only do for you. And then using my mom... using Gladys," he sighs heavily, and he picks up your hand and places it in his hair again, disliking the loss of contact when you stopped.

"I know honey..." you hum, petting him gently. "Is there anyone you wanna talk to? Someone who makes you feel better about the character bleed stuff? I know filming brought up some old grief," You suggest, completely oblivious to the position he holds for you in his heart.

"Yeah," he frowns. "You."

"Oh... oh." You exhale. "I love you, Baby boy," is all you can say and when you get him home, you take him to bed immediately, undressing him completely except for your mother's necklace, and you help him into the blue shorts you bought him when you discovered how much he truly loved and needed you.

"Mama, you protect me," he smiles. Its a small smile but its a real smile. "You give me so much joy. You're my life. I only need you," he explains. "You hold me without hurting me, you're the first who ever did," he hums, his adoring eyes never leaving you. Your heart melts and you kick off your shoes quickly to get in bed with him, still fully clothed yourself.

"I know, bub," you say quickly, letting him know you never doubted his affection. "But I didn't know your needs until after it was all filmed and done. I wasn't there for the character bleed, the heartache, or the joy. I just wanted to make sure I was the best person for the job," you say softly and he grimaces.

You were there. And you didn't stay.

The weight of this crushes him all over again, and he hides in you, from you, not knowin where else to turn.

"Don't remind me," he whines. "When I dream of that time, you're there. My mind places you on those beach night drives, that hotel stage set, the highs and lows..." he explains, and his hands trace your lips and eyes and chest, cupping your breasts, not for any particular purpose but his comfort. He's lost deep in thought, but then his eyes light up suddenly,

"Mama, will you go somewhere with me? Soon?" He asks and I smile, running my hands through his hair.

"Of course bub... where are we going?"

He leans in and places a biting kiss on the hollow of your throat before looking into your eyes.

"I'm taking you to Graceland."

Thanks for reading!! Let me know if you wanna be on the tag list!

Tagged blogs: @pennyroyalcreep @flwrs4aust

#austin butler #austin butler imagine #austin butler elvis #austin butler fanfiction #you light my morning sky #austin butler fic

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odysseus-thecunning · 1 year

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{ RISH SHAH, 22, AGENDER, THEY/THEM } Is that ODYSSEUS “ODIE” REZA? A SENIOR originally from BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, they decided to come to Ogden College to study ASTROPHYSICS on a FINANCIAL SCHOLARSHIP. They’re THE SLACKER on campus, but even they could get blamed for Greer’s disappearance.

INSPO | PLAYLIST (WIP)

the basics

name: odysseus “odie” artharvaa reza age: twenty-two birthday & zodiac: october 11th. libra sun, scorpio moon, aquarius rising. virgo mercury, leo mars, sagittarius venus. gender: agender sexuality: bisexual positive traits: witty, debonair, honorable negative traits: jaded, antagonistic, sardonic

the surface

faceclaim: rish shah. height: 6′0 ft. weight: 170 lbs. eye color: umber brown. hair: coarse, naturally dark colored and cool-toned, clipped short. semi regularly bleaches and dyes hair different colors, mostly blues, greens, and purples. style: sleek, cozy, slouchy and simple. baggy, vintage tees and loose trousers. black and khaki cargo, flannel, and chunky sweatshirts. definitely thrifts most of their ensemble pieces, so lotsa timeless looks. wardrobe lacks a severe amount of colors; browns, 69 shades of grey, earthy greens, and black, black, black. can be described as some hybrid of soft punk, skater, & goblincore. distinguishing features: dark, alluring eyes. gloomy aura. prominent jaw & a cute lil forehead freckle occupation: line cook at a local diner. intern at a software company. status: single, broke, & fabulous. trope: THE SLACKER

When did Odysseus’ days as a child prodigy end? Instead, falling short of every single expectation their intellect bore from their youth. Partially thanks to the excessive drug use at an early age and what was likely undiagnosed ADHD, Odie struggled in school since their pre-teens. School was boring, and the teachers were too busy catering to the dumbest kid in class to notice the link between Odie’s fulfillment and their behavioral problems.

The schoolwork didn’t interest them, and despite the many lectures given to Odysseus about the importance of work ethic, the lessons never stuck. Though, their learning didn’t stop. They catered to their own niche interests outside of school, spending hours at the public library teaching themself computer language. Despite their insistence to avoid schoolwork, they aced every exam and kept up (or often lead) academic discourse about the subject.

Adults recognized this potential, yet no one possessed the patience to truly tap in to it. Instead, Odysseus was dismissed as a basket case, a know-it-all troublemaker with a chip on their shoulder against authority. Not only were they infamous for unfinished work, but Odie was labelled a disturbance for their classes.

This bred a resentment toward education, which in turn fostered their procrastination and lack of effort. Nothing could convince Odysseus completing a redundant study guide was anything but an absurd waste of time.

College, thus far, has been somewhat of a success story for them, largely in part to Odie being in control of their own curriculum. Odie never intended to go to college, yet their beloved high school physics teachers paid for the application fees himself and insisted they apply to a few schools in the area.

To this day, they are a frustrating, talkative, unfocused student, yet their contributions are often applauded for their depth. Odysseus is constantly hounded by their friends and family for not applying themself, yet they prefer to think their priorities are just greatly misunderstood.

SECONDARY TROPES: badass bookworm, asshole victim, meaningful name, black sheep, antagonistic offspring, anti-hero, don’t you dare pity me, lovable rogue, sore loser, society is to blame, deadpan snarker, intentional heartbreaker, misanthrope supreme, child prodigy, anarchy is chaos

the depths

personality: arrogant, dogmatic, apathetic, forthright, cynical, protective, cruel, articulate, lazy, cerebral, impatient, adventurous, shortsighted, perceptive, resentful, clever, aloof, noncommittal, vindictive, sullen, opinionated, temperamental, gallant (in that sleazy aquarius sorta way), reserved, skeptical, proud, disobedient, unforgiving mbti: estp. the entrepreneur. extraverted. sensing. thinking. perceiving. alignment: chaotic neutral hogwarts house: slytherin hobbies: watching anime, skateboarding, reading, graffiti art, coding, video gaming, running. history:

The second child of the long-married Artharvaa and Ghanavi Reza, Odysseus inherited the same responsibilities and expectations of their older sister without any of the tools to achieve them. They were a moody child, often reprimanded for talking back and blatantly refusing to bend to their parents’ commands. Causing an upset became their norm, the only real validation they received from their parents in the form of long-winded speeches and cruelties posed as punishments.

Odie felt comfortable in the role of the black sheep, seeing firsthand how their parents’ expectations crushed the souls of their siblings. They were determined not to end up a carbon copy of their parents, despite how desperately their father clung to the idea. Yet, their bright intellect caught the attention of several teachers who pushed the hopes of Odie’s eventual success onto their parents, much to their dismay. They have potential, their teachers would preach, you just need to learn to nurture it.

Neither parent had a nurturing bone in their body, instilled with tough love and having raised their kids under the same conditions. Their toughness failed to motivate Odie, instead forcing them to harden and detach lest they crack from the pressure. So what if they were smart if they were just as lazy? They couldn’t be expected for greatness if they didn’t try. It became their unspoken rule of sorts; you couldn’t fail at anything if you never really started it to begin with.

Much of Odysseus’ adolescence was spent in solitude, the tall brunette declining every opportunity to involve themself in anything. Besides a good book. Odie spent more of their time hidden in the aisles of the public library prodding and surfing than they did with kids their own age, but this was a blessing if anything. People were complex, and they tended to lie. They didn’t see the point in entertaining meaningless connection, just as they didn’t see the point in building up a future for themself that was never gonna happen.

People born into a family like theirs never truly had a chance to begin with. It was a simple fact of life Odysseus accepted in middle school, a decision made of self-preservation. They hated the world for making it seem otherwise, and they hated the fools who bought into it even more. More than that, they hated their father, who was a strict devotee to the “American Dream” and the individualistic notion of picking up his own bootstraps by sacrificing everything and putting in the gruesome work.

Marcus was a street rat, just like Odie. He was smart too and just as troublesome. The two instantly clicked, and the rebellious boy was the first person Odie felt had the slightest inclination of how they felt. They were inseparable after their first few hangouts, which consisted of hours of endless rambling about the state of the world and the latest Rick Riordan novel they finished.

Marcus’ home life was complicated. He didn’t like to talk about it much with Odie, but from what they gathered his mother was a hard drug user, often times slumped over in the recliner in Marcus’ living room on their frequent house visits. It was almost a blessing in disguise for Odie, as the two could smoke carelessly in Marcus’ room and come in and out whenever they pleased.

He was only a year older than Odie, though it felt like a decade to them sometimes. Marcus was full of potent rage, though it was something Odie never saw unless provoked. Or if Marcus had a bit too much to drink. He could be so wise, which didn’t align with the reckless, boyish behavior Odie was used to. And somehow, Marcus always had enough money for both of their subway fares. When they would tell him they couldn’t afford to go out to eat after school, Marcus tisked and paid anyway.

In passing, Odysseus wondered how a kid like Marcus always managed to have a few bucks on him, but they hadn’t realized the extent their friend went to guarantee they could eat well. Until a friend of Marcus’ pulled up to his house and he demanded Odie stay in the room and keep quiet. They went back and forth in the living room, until his friend demanded Marcus ride along with him and the boy reluctantly agreed.

They were only gone an hour, if that. Marcus popping up again with his hair in a mess with no words of explanation for Odie, though they’d pieced together the semi-private meetings and his severe distrust of strangers. They kept silent, knowing any words of discouragement wouldn’t sway Marcus and may very well disrupt their space free of judgement. Marcus knew what he was doing, and who was Odie to tell him his methods were wrong?

(tw: violence) As the two grew together, Odie watched as Marcus fell deeper into the scene, his crew and duties practically engulfed his life by the time Odie turned fifteen. On the second week of summer following Odie’s freshman year of high school, they were jumped on their way home from a mutual friend’s house. It should have been a typical beating, retaliation for whatever profits Marcus and his crew swept from under their feet, but Marcus refused to stop fighting and the boys refused to relent.

(tw: murder, graphic injury, blood) With their face shoved in gravel and their arm pinned painfully to their back, Odie pleaded for Marcus to stop and stay down. Their eyes stung with tears and blood as they watched the stubborn boy endure strike after strike, still aimlessly swinging his arms and legs against the assailants. It felt like an eternity, watching the life slowly drain from their friend before he collapsed to the ground beside Odie, pale, bloodied, and out of breath. Only then did they release Odie, running into the black of the night and leaving the dying boy in the arms of his best friend.

Every bone in his face was broken, smashed out of place to the point of almost being unrecognizable. Odie sat beside him limply, cursing at Marcus, telling him what a fucking idiot he was, trying to figure out how to pick him up and get him back to his room without hurting him. It was only a few blocks. If Odie could just pick him up. He would be fine.

He didn’t make it past the end of the street, a broken rib jutted into his lung preventing life from finding him again. Odysseus trekked the path to Marcus’, collapsing in his front yard upon realizing they’d lost him. Odie yelled for Marcus’ mother, yelled for anyone to help them.

When his mother came out to her porch to see Odie holding her son, she became hysterical and charged at them, spewing accusations and beating on their chest. Odie didn’t flinch away from her anger, instead embracing every hit until one of the neighbors intervened and pulled them away. Why? They couldn’t say. Odie deserved to die right beside him.

The police released them of any suspicion despite their refusal to answer any questions, seeing Odie for what they were; a traumatized kid lost in a pit of darkness. Their mother was hysterical upon their release, giving one firm slap across Odie’s face for their apparent involvement in gang activity (they didn’t even try to argue) before sobbing and openly embracing them.

It was a rough few months following Marcus’ death. Their parents had them on lockdown, claiming it was for their safety but Odie recognized it as the consequence to their years of lying. Marcus’ mother never spoke to Odie again, except to let them know they were not to come to the funeral. And they didn’t. They mourned their best friend silently for years, though in all this time they never managed to accept they weren’t accountable for what happened to Marcus.

Graduating high school with a barely acceptable GPA, Odie had every intention of working their family’s bodega for the rest of their life or until it went out of business. By the grace of their favorite physics teacher, an application for Ogden’s financial scholarship (and a lengthy recommendation letter and explanation of Odie’s tremendously poor grades) was submitted on their behalf. Their teacher urged them to go and finish a degree, lest they allow the hard-earned money he spent on their application fees to go to waste.

So, Odysseus went to Ogden and has a relatively unimpressive track record at the school. Not much is known about the laidback STEM major, Odie much prefers to keep to their inner circle and is proud of their status under the radar. Yet as things grow more tense on campus, Odie seems to thrive amongst the chaos of the other students.

the connections

relationship to greer: ex-fling.

Much like it is at Ogden, everyone knew and aspired to be by Greer’s side. She was the spawn of two incumbents of old money empires, and the pinnacle of white privilege Odysseus learned to despise from a young age. They should have resented her, and by all accounts they couldn’t care less about the gossip and rumors constantly surrounding the Golden Girl.

They weren’t friends. They’d barely spoken all throughout high school, despite attending the same institution and their family’s bodega being a routinely, afternoon stop for her group of friends. Odie was civil, if not a bit indifferent whenever she came around.

One of the only parties Odie attended in high school was at the behest of their close friend, at the residence of one of Greer’s many minions. They couldn’t recall where the night went, but eventually they were stuck on the empty patio of the affluent house, with their ride battling alcohol poisoning in the bathroom.

Eventually, Greer stumbled upon Odysseus hiding out in the cold rather than waiting inside with the remaining stragglers. She sat down beside them and asked to hit the spliff in their hands. The words of a pretty face were always so much more convincing, and Odie found themself not hating the company of the girl they’d often sneer at in school.

They sat beside each other until the sun rose, bantering and flirting and debating the purpose of existence. She was easy to admire, and she shattered Odie’s cynicism against her with ease. They were so wrapped in Greer’s world, they failed to notice when their friend finally emerged from the bathroom and left assuming Odysseus had long since returned home.

In the safety of the daylight, a sleep-deprived Greer offered to walk Odie to the station. It felt surreal, being filled with elation in the presence of the most popular girl in town. They gave their goodbyes, but not before Odie leaned down and planted a longing kiss on the Golden Girl’s lips. They stepped on the train, leaving with a heart full of hope and a pretty girl’s phone number.

The next few days, Odysseus watched the clock in anticipation to see Greer walk through the doors of the bodega. When she did, she paid them little mind while she laughed and chatted with her other friends. They gave her a friendly smile upon checkout, one that was returned with a half-hearted laugh and a grimace.

They understood instantly what role they would play for her. A comfort in the night, a heartfelt conversation, warmth by her bedside. Yet, they would never be something Greer could love with pride. They were her shameful secret, a guilty pleasure she couldn’t help but feel magnetized too.

The next several months, Odie played the role exceptionally well. The two would sneak around, wreaking havoc in the night and sending gushy texts throughout the day. Odysseus didn’t complain for the most part, until it became increasingly apparent how serious Greer’s relationship grew with the Big Man.

When they expressed qualms about being a consolation prize, Greer caved and promised the start of her college years would be the beginning to bringing their relationship to the public eye.

Having Greer was never about placing a claim on her, but rather Odie couldn’t fathom her closeness if it was not motivated by their love. They swept much under the rug for the belief she felt the same for them, yet it was becoming increasingly clear they were just as meaningless as the rest of her superficial relationships.

When Greer started at Ogden, she quickly fell back on her promises to Odysseus. “Just another semester,” she urged, yet the end of the semester brought about nothing but the clarity Greer would never be willing to change for them.

Odie broke off their mostly-concealed fling shortly after the first semester of Greer’s freshman year. Since then, any trace of their history together has been wiped clean off Odie’s slate.

friends: tbd enemies: tbd romantic interests: tbd wanted connections: flings flings flings, nepo babies for them to hate<3, alt gang!!!, hate fuck, complicated fwb, casual enemy or two, academic foil (rlly smart/dumb kid who tries super hard), close friends, smoking circle, past situationships, one (1) best friend LMFAOOOO, someone to incessantly argue with, conversationalist, the calm of their storm

the education

school year: senior major: astrophysics extracurriculars: robotics club, chess club, track & field (sprints), boxing club.

#ogdenintro #tw death #tw murder #tw abuse #tw violence #tw depression #tw drugs

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mercurygray · 2 years

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Two of the folks on my groupchat are very into vintage fashion, and they share a great deal of it with me with little notes about how it reminded them of some of my characters. This isn't usually part of my creative practice, and it's so interesting seeing this texture be added to what I know about these characters.

Joan lives in little black dresses with daring backs. Marj likes shirtwaister dresses with novelty prints. Molly has an extensive collection of slouchy sweaters and flannel. Doris loves the New Look and dresses with bows at the waist. It's just kind of wild.

#meet my originals #joan warren #marjorie gordon #molly mahoney #doris russo

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marcopollio · 5 months

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Back to school y2k slouchy sweatpants hoodies nike comfy cozy flannel jeans all.

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angelandgypsy · 6 months

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Free People Double Layered Grungy Band Shirt Tunic NWOT size Large/X-Large.

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jlunnposh · 8 months

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Urban Renewal Remade Vintage Gray Flannel Button Down Cropped Ruffle Top Medium.

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lanejose4884 · 11 months

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How Versatile The Flannel Dresses Can Be: 6 Creative Outfits

The following components can be used with a flannel dress' adaptability to make a number of unique ensembles. For a glamorous yet comfortable style, team the flannel dress with black tights, ankle boots, a tailored blazer, and a statement belt. For an edgy and fashionable look, top the flannel dress with a leather jacket, combat boots, statement jewellery, and a denim vest. A bohemian-inspired look may be created by layering a flannel dress over a turtleneck and accessories with a floppy hat, knee-high boots, a fringed purse and a slouchy beanie. For a sporty yet elegant appearance, pair the flannel dress with a structured blazer, white trainers, a baseball cap and a denim jacket. https://www.flannelclothing.com/how-versatile-the-flannel-dresses-can-be-6-creative-outfits/

#plaidflannelshirt #womensplaidflannelshirtswholesale #womensplaidshirts

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nirvanamerchstore · 1 year

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Nirvana is a band that revolutionized the music industry in the 1990s. With Kurt Cobain as their frontman, the band brought grunge music to the forefront, inspiring countless other musicians and fans alike. Even though Nirvana disbanded after Cobain's tragic death in 1994, the band's legacy lives on through their music and merchandise. In fact, Nirvana merchandise has continued to influence music and fashion over the years. From band t-shirts to sweatshirts and posters, Nirvana merchandise has become a staple in many people's wardrobes. In this blog, we will explore why Nirvana merchandise continues to be so popular and how it has influenced both music and fashion.   1. Nirvana's Grunge Aesthetic: One of the main reasons Nirvana merchandise has become so popular is the band's grunge aesthetic. Grunge was a subculture that emerged in the Pacific Northwest in the late 1980s and early 1990s, characterized by its rough and unpolished look. Nirvana's music and image were the embodiment of this style, which included oversized flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and combat boots. This look was a departure from the glam and flashy styles that dominated the music industry in the 1980s and paved the way for a new wave of fashion that was more casual and accessible. 2. Kurt Cobain's Signature Look: Kurt Cobain, the late frontman of the iconic grunge band Nirvana, is remembered not just for his music, but also for his signature look. Cobain's style was often described as "grunge," and it reflected the DIY, anti-fashion ethos of the 1990s alternative music scene. His clothing choices were a mix of thrift store finds, vintage pieces, and items he customized himself. One of the key elements of Cobain's look was his hair. He often wore his blonde locks in a shaggy, messy style that appeared as if he had just rolled out of bed. He also frequently dyed his hair in bright colors, including pink, blue, and green. Another staple of Cobain's wardrobe was the cardigan sweater. He was often seen wearing oversized, slouchy cardigans that gave him a cozy, laid-back vibe. Cobain was also known for his love of vintage band t-shirts, particularly those featuring obscure punk and metal bands. He often paired these shirts with ripped jeans, Converse sneakers, and sunglasses. Another notable element of his style was the way he incorporated feminist imagery into his wardrobe. He was often seen wearing t-shirts with slogans like "Nobody Knows I'm a Lesbian" and "I Like Girls Who Like Girls." Overall, Cobain's style was a reflection of his values and his music. He rejected mainstream fashion trends in favor of a more DIY, anti-establishment aesthetic. His signature look continues to influence fashion and music to this day and serves as a reminder of the power of personal style to make a statement. 3. The Power of Band Merchandise: Band merchandise has always been a way for fans to show their support for their favorite artists, and Nirvana merchandise is no exception. However, Nirvana merchandise goes beyond just a show of support; it has become a cultural phenomenon that transcends the music industry. The band's logo, which features a smiley face with X's eyes, has become one of the most recognizable symbols in pop culture. It has been adapted and reinterpreted by countless brands and designers, further cementing Nirvana's influence on fashion and style. In conclusion, Nirvana's impact on music and fashion cannot be overstated. The band's unique sound, image, and style have continued to inspire generations of musicians and fashion enthusiasts. Nirvana merchandise is not just a way to show support for the band, but also a fashion statement that represents a cultural movement. From their iconic smiley face logo to their grunge-inspired fashion, Nirvana has left an indelible mark on the music and fashion industries. As long as people continue to appreciate their music and style, Nirvana merchandise will remain a beloved and influential part of popular culture.

To view Nirvana Merch's entire catalog, go to this website: https://nirvanamerch.store/      

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nurtelo · 1 year

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Free People Just Because Lounge Jumpsuit Romper One Piece Size M Leopard NEW.

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mcrocker1314 · 1 year

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Free People We the Free Jax Tailored Blazer.

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withered-rose-with-thorns · 3 years

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It was clear it was going to be very a confident look for her, and increasingly competent as she gets to know what it is to be a vampire. So with the sillhouettes of her clothes, we wanted it to be much closer to the body than before. When you think of the first Bella that we meet, she's kind of hiding in her clothes, she's in boyish flannel shirts, blue-cut jeans. And to see her go from that to this amazing, almost feline commanding physicality is incredible. − Michael Wilkinson, costume designer But it was also something that Kristen then played, it was the way she held herself. She was straight. Whatever kind of slouchy, old thing she was doing before, that's all gone. − Bill Condon, director

#userphe #twilightsagaedit #the twilight saga #bella swan #i absolutely love how she truly comes into herself when she becomes a vampire #mine #visionmcu #1k #2k

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fruitoftheweek · 3 years

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Little Cherry Book:

Chapter 4:Showered in Sin

Chapter 1 Here / Chapter 2 Here / Chapter 3 Here

Hey guys! I'm sorry that it has taken so long for me to update this. I had an idea of what I was going to write but I had a super hectic week so I wasn't able to write this till now. In order to make up for it, I have given you a treat. A 6,502 word chapter. It kinda beat my ass but I had so much fun writing it. It's sweet, it's spicy, it's all the goodness you guys deserve. I was listening to Duvet by Boa while writing this and I think you should too for two reasons. One, it helps set the mood, but also oh my fucking god it's such a good song. Also, Boa is just a fucking great band. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and message me if you would like to be added to the tag list! Love you guys

Pairing: Spencer Reid X reader

Chapter Plot: After a game of drunk never have I ever after a long case, Morgan locks Spencer out of their shared room. Shenanigans ensue and you and Spencer share a couple of firsts.

Series TW: 18+, smut, degradation, piercing, choking, knife play, mommy/daddy kinks, spanking, exhibitionism, Will update as time goes on

Chapter TW: smut, slight mommy kink, having body piercings, choking, slight blood kink (not really, it's just hard to explain), Shared masturbation (male and female receiving), pleading, multiple orgasms, cumming in pants, shower sexiness, aftercare

Word Count: 6,502

Your deep cherry lipstick painted the white seal of the wine bottle you held in your hand as you laughed at something Elle said. Spencer couldn't help but let a small smile pass his lips as he took in your form, hot from the day's work, small strands of your hair sticking to your forehead, a dewy glow illuminating your rosy cheeks.

After a long week, they had found Carl Arnold before he had been able to kill the Dunken family and even coerced a confession out of him. With spirits running high, Elle had suggested some much-needed relaxation before taking off the next day. Since you were rooming alone, you volunteered to host in your room. Morgan had arrived at your hotel room with two bottles of some sort of liquor, one clear and one amber, JJ trailing in toe with your bottle of red wine you had asked for. You pulled out your little corkscrew with the face of an old man on it, knowing she hated his weird little face. You brought it with you on trips, just in case the occasion arose.

And it did arise as Elle suggested a drinking game. Hotch had retired early after calling Hailey to get an update on his very pregnant wife, while Gideon preferred the solitude of a good book late at night. The rest of you sat on the floor surrounded by drinks and snacks. With the supervision gone, it almost felt like a high school party with no parents. You all had all settled on a classic, never have I ever. "We haven't played this in a long time because we already know so much about each other, but it's fun when we have a newbie around," Morgan said giving you a cheeky smile and bumping your shoulder. Already pliable after the couple of drinks you had while Elle explained the game, you nodded before tipping your lips to the cusp of Spencer's ear. "I'll try not to make it too hard for you, pretty boy," you said. The small puffs of air that left your mouth made Spencer's hair stand on end and his feet curl.

He knew you were teasing him that night and he loved it. He decided to keep his knees tucked to his chest for the rest of the night as to not expose the predicament in his pants. He watched the way you lightly sucked on the wine bottle as you tipped it back, a thin river of cabernet leaking from the corner of your lips and trailing down your neck. Spencer wanted nothing more than to lean over and lap it off of you just to see how you would react, but he knew it was the drinks talking. Despite your earlier comment, it was quite obvious that you were targeting him as his head started to spin gently.

"Never have I ever had sex with someone much older than me," Garcia said through her video feed with a cheeky smirk. Derek had insisted on including her even though she wasn't physically present. She sat bundled up in a comfy blanket in her office with a mug of some sort of alcoholic beverage. "HEY! No targeting! Plus, I told you that in confidence at ladies night. How much is much older?" You said, swaying your bottle towards the computer set up on the floor."You know how much older I mean sweetheart." Garcia said with a giggle as you groaned and took a sip."How much older is much older?" Morgan said with a cocked eyebrow, somewhere between impressed and surprised." I was a college student, experimenting with my professor. Not like an old man, but he was 20 years older than me. Definitely not my style anymore though." You said with a grimace remembering him.

Spencer had learned a lot about your sex life during that game, but some part inside of him smirked, knowing that the rest of the team would never know you as he knew you, not unless they too had read your journal. It was the only thing keeping his head clear of the idea of you with anyone else. Not that you were with him in any capacity, but the idea still made him feel something in his stomach. Not the sweet butterflies that came with your smile, but something more like idiotic hornets dangerously bumping against the walls of his stomach.

Spencer hadn't even noticed the uproar of everyone else around the circle at your comment and the second revelation that Morgan had drunk too. He was too busy watching how you had shyly tucked your hair behind your ear, finally letting it down out of your clips for once. You were wearing your pajamas, just a tank top, slouchy sweater, and flannel pajama pants, but somehow you looked more radiant than ever. He had come back down to earth after hearing someone call his name."Y-Yes?" He sputtered out, realizing you had been trying to get his attention."It's Morgan's turn, pay attention." You said, gently smacking your hand down on his thigh.

If he was riled up before, he was unbelievably undone at the slight sting from where your palm had just been. Light enough that it wasn't noticeable, but hard enough that it erupted a Shockwave through his body, centered on the location of the contact. He bit back the whimper threatening to escape his lips as he turned towards Morgan, trying desperately to not watch you from the corner of his eye.

"Never have I been a virgin at 24," Morgan said, beaming in his direction. Spencer took a big gulp from his glass of whiskey."You always do that one, I don't know why you think it's so funny, you're just trying to get me to drink" he said abashedly. He looked over at you, nervous for your reaction, but you seemed unfazed. "Hey, that's a wonderful gift to have, there's something so special about virgins. Maybe it's the idea that everything is new, but I like it. I love virgins." You said, taking a sip from your bottle, gently swaying. You had given up on never have I ever and just decided to drink whenever you felt like it. Maybe it was because you were tipsy, maybe it was the warm flush that decorated Spencer's cheeks, maybe it was the way he was looking at you with sultry, half-lidded eyes. You couldn't tell, but something made you want to find an excuse for you two to be alone.

"Geese, we seemed to have caught a succubus tonight." Morgan quipped."A suck-you-what now?" You said, cocking an eyebrow at him. " A succubus, it's a demon or supernatural entity in folklore, in female form, that appears in dreams to seduce men, usually through sexual activity. According to religious traditions, repeated sexual activity with a succubus can cause poor physical or mental health, even death. In modern representations, a succubus is often depicted as a beautiful seductress or enchantress, rather than as demonic or frightening." Spencer shot out. "Wow, even when you're drunk, your big brain keeps chuggin' along," you said, sloppily ruffling his hair "A beautiful seductress or enchantress, huh?" That time it came out low, inaudible to the others, but it pierced Spencer like a knife."Do you think that's accurate bout me?" you asked, staring up into his eyes, closer than you have been before. Spencer let a cartoonish gulping noise escape his lips as he held back his urge to lean into your touch.

"Ah, it's my turn," you said, leaning back into your spot in the circle and sadly, away from Spencer." Never have I ever done something naughty at our work," you said, looking straight at Spencer "I'll know if you're lying, I can sniff out a liar from a mile away," your cocky smirk leaking out of your mouth. Everyone except you and JJ took a shot."Wow, really you guys? Even you Spence? " JJ said in disbelief, looking around the circle."Never have I ever, my ass" Spencer mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, looking over at you, thinking about your pantieless escapades.

"Look at that, Doctor Reid, you need another drink, let me go fix you one," You said as you grabbed his glass in one hand, leaning and gripping hard into his shoulder with the other. It wasn't seen by the others, but between that and the fiery look in your eyes, it sent an obvious message,' keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it for you.' You used him as leverage to get up, nearly pushing him over as you gracefully stumbled to the hotel fridge. He knew what you meant, but he didn't care, your grip on him went straight into his imagination as he envisioned what that grip would feel like in other places. He kind of wanted to push his luck, just so he could see what he had in store.

And push it he did as you handed him the glass, reminding him that it was indeed his turn to play never have I ever. "Never have I ever slept with my professor," He said, obviously targeting you with a glint of mischief in his eyes."Oh yeah, well never have I ever been a virgin at 24." You said, swaying as you sat down."Morgan already said that, dummy. Never have I ever worn stupid dark red lipstick" He retorted, equally as drunk as you. At this point everyone else had zoned you two out and were focused on other things, refreshing their drinks, counting the ceiling tiles, humming a sloppy rendition of My My Miss American Pie, or in Penelope's case, all three."Yeah, well never have I ever been a complete and utter mommas boy!" You continued, the statement turning Spencer beet red. You watched him clench and unclench his hands, you had obviously struck a nerve. Just as you were about to apologize, he cut you off. "Never have I ever had nipple piercings!" He shouted, pointing at your chest, now drawing attention to the obvious balls framing your nipples that you had once been covered by your long-forgotten sweater.

As he said it, it felt like the world went in slow motion. You could see the instant regret on his face as you dropped your bottle in surprise. It had landed on Spencers discarded whiskey glass and both shattered, wine and whiskey mixing with glass to create a slurry on the ground between them. "Fuck! You Guys!" Morgan said, "You got it all over my clothes." "Me too," Echoed Elle as they both stood up in their soaked clothes. "I think that calls it a night." JJ said, closing the laptop on the image of an already sleeping Garcia." Bye you guys, sleep well," you called after them as you and Spencer rushed around looking for towels to clean up the alcohol with.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!" Spencer cried as you dropped the last of the glass in the garbage can. As you rounded the corner, you saw Spencer pulling a rather large shard of glass that you must have missed out of his thumb, blood pooling at the tip. Without thinking, you crouched down and sucked his thumb into your mouth." A-ah! What... What are you doing!?" Spencer asked breathlessly, looking down at you with a deep hunger in his eyes. You pop off his thumb and squeeze it at the base, slowing the blood flow."Shut up," You said," This helps slow the bleeding. The sucking applies pressure. My mom used to do this for me... And no, do not psychoanalyze that." You said, wrapping your mouth around his finger, sucking to provide some pressure to slow the blood flow. You could taste the iron in your mouth, but you didn't mind, knowing you were helping your friend.

You were helping alright, helping in more ways than you would ever understand. "Yeah, like I'm the only one here with mommy issues," he said distractedly, too busy surveying your lips wrapped around him. You slapped your hand down on his thigh once more, eliciting a small whimper from him. He couldn't help it, you were a sight of beauty, you always were, but looking down on you right then, Spencer wanted to bottle that moment forever. The tops of your breasts peeking out from the top of your tank top, your eyes filled with a hazy glow, looking up at him to make sure he was ok, and your cheeks hollowing out around his thumb as you delicately sucked on his wound. It was as close as Spencer had ever gotten to anything sexual. He could feel your tongue swirling around the cut, lapping up the last couple drops of blood. He couldn't help but imagine what it would be like if it was another appendage and not his thumb. You sucked on his thumb one last time, harder than you had previously, and before he even knew what he was doing, his hips bucked up, rubbing his hard cock against his pajama pants, finally relieving his mounting orgasm.

You let go of his finger with a pop as your tongue trailed off of the underside of his thumb. Spencer looked anywhere but you, as a wet patch formed through his thin underwear and pajama pants. He hurried to cover it with his sweater, shooting up from his seated position."Um, Um, I'm g-gonna go shower and go to bed." He said, hurriedly scurrying over to where he had left his room key." Sorry partner, I saw Morgan accidentally grab both of your keys on the way out. He's probably asleep by now." You said languidly, leaning back to take in the sight of the soft boy in front of you. Totally flushed with heat, small beads of sweat peppering his forehead, his hands twiddling suspiciously into his sweater in an attempt to conceal crotch, trying and failing miserably to hide his rapidly cooling cum.

He whined a little, lighting a fire in you. He looked so thoroughly fucked out, and all you had done was suck his finger. You knew that you just had to play with him some more. "You know, you can use my shower, doctor." You said, and he let out a small sigh of relief, heading towards the bathroom. "There is one condition, though," You smirked coyly as he halted his motions, his body facing away from you. It was almost as if he was ready to run away at any moment. You walked over to him, slowly, taking your time to tease him. The silence hung heavy in the air as you looked up into his eyes questioningly, waiting for him to ask. "Wh-what is the condition." He said, unable to return your gaze, hands fisted in the hem of his sweater, pulling it down even further. You smirked, dipping your hands up and under his sweater, nearly brushing his spent cock before gently placing them on his bare stomach, just above his waistband. He sucked in a tight breath as you gently swirled your fingers in the short hair that lead from his belly button down to happier places." Before I ask, do you know about the color scale?" you said, fingers smoothing out over his little stomach." Um, k-kinda?" He said, heat flushing his cheeks."Green means good keep going, yellow means slow down, and red means stop right now, ok?" You said, looking up at him as he nods."Come on pretty boy, I need verbal confirmation. I need to know that you understand, got it." You said with a little pinch to his tummy. "Y-Yes, I understand!" He blurted out, standing stiff as a board." Good boy. Now, for my condition. You can shower if you show me what you're hiding." You said, leaning close enough that if Spencer breathed, your chests would meet each other. "What color, Spencer?" you said, languidly drawing lines up and down his torso with your nails."G-Green, Very green." He sputtered out, finally meeting your eyes."That's what I like to hear, sweet boy." You said before your fingers danced below his waistline, now somewhat crusty from his cum."W-wait!" He says, just as you were about to take him in your hand. You instantly stopped and looked up at him gently."We can stop here baby, it's not a problem." You said, beginning to remove your hand from his pants. He grabbed your hand through his pants, stopping your movement."It-It's not that. I don't want to stop, I just want... well..." He said and looked down shyly. "What do you want baby, anything," You smiled up at him. "Um, I haven't had my first kiss yet and I kinda... Well... I kinda..." He said, shuffling his feet, face beet red. Your eyebrows shot up quickly in surprise before letting out a gentle smile."Do you want a kiss, pretty boy?" You said, gently brushing the hair out of his face. He nodded, and you grabbed his chin, bringing him close. "Use your words, pretty boy. What do you want?" You whispered, breath gently ghosting Spencer's lips as he took you in up close. He could see every little pore and dimple of your skin and every color hidden in the depth of your eyes and he knew he needed to have you.

He shakily leaned forward, lips gently meeting yours, so light that if you hadn't seen his actions, you wouldn't have even known if you had touched. You moved your hand down to his throat, giving a light squeeze."Come on genius, use your words," you said as he whimpered. "Please, can I kiss you, please, please?" He begged, leaning into your touch, pleading for you to squeeze again. His efforts shoot straight to your heart. You indulged him in a kiss, not as spicy as the situation would permit, more of a sweet heat. He came in too hot and heavy at first, but you kissed him languidly, gently stroking his cheek to get him in the rhythm. His arms were straight out at his sides, hands clenched as if he was willing every muscle in his body to not touch you.

You let out a small laugh as you melted into his kiss, soft, puffy lips dancing across yours. "You know you can touch me," You said, pulling back, smiling at the smear of your lipstick, now staining his lips, and the endearing puppy dog eyes he was giving you. "Where can I touch you?" He whispered out as if he were telling a secret. "Wherever you want, baby. Wherever your heart desires." You replied, bringing your arms up to wrap loosely around his neck, pulling your bodies closer. He was as stiff as a board as his hands flitted around trying to find a good place to land. He finally settled on weaving his arms around your waist and up to cradle your neck, gently carding his fingers through the hair that fell at the nape of your neck. There was something so sweet in the way he cradled your body with feather-light touches as if you would disappear like smoke if he lingered too long. You reveled in the feeling of you two pressed together, slightly uncomfortable at the stiff material of his pajama pants on your stomach.

"Hey sweetheart," You said, pulling away as he chased after your lips, "I'm feeling kinda sweaty from the day, would you like to join me in the shower? What color?" "G-green, yes please." He said, tentatively pressing a kiss to your collarbone, exposed as the strap of your tank top had fallen down. You unwound from him, taking his hand delicately in your own, instantly missing the warmth his body provided.

You lead him into the bathroom, carefully stepping over the wine-soaked towels discarded on the floor before shutting the door and turning to face him. "I don't want to take this too fast for you because I know it's all very new so always tell me how you are feeling and if everything is ok. I want this to be good for you baby, ok?" You said, squeezing his hand that was still intertwined with yours. "Ok, th-thank you," He said shyly.

"Now, what do you want to do first? You're probably pretty uncomfortable in those pants, do you want me to take them off you?" You said, hooking one of your fingers into his waistband, pulling on in slightly creating a much-needed separation between his sticky cock and his uncomfortable pants."Y-Yes please" He said as you turned on the shower, allowing it to warm up in preparation for cleaning him off before turning back to him. You gently grabbed the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head, leaving him shirtless in front of you.

Lean muscles were hidden under a layer of peachy soft skin highlighting the gentle trail of dark curly hair leading from his belly button down past his pants. His arms curled around himself as he watched your eyes carefully, ready for some sort of judgment. "I know I'm not really that s-strong or anything but I can work on it-" You cut him off with a gentle kiss right above his belly button, startling him. You looked up sweetly into his eyes and gave him a soft smile, saying "You are so beautiful, Spencer. Morgan calls you pretty boy, but he truly has no idea. I would have you no other way than you are right now."

You gently peppered his chest with feather-light kisses, making him blush. He finally understood why people liked hickeys because as you trailed down his chest, the little wine red lipstick you had left on your lips left marks trailing down his chest. Some part of him wished they were permanent, showing off to all that could see, and they would know exactly who he belonged to. You dipped your hand into his waistband, asking, "What color?" "Green, very green," he choked out as your breath ghosted across his abdomen. You looked so beautiful, kneeled on the floor in front of him, taking care of him so gently and treating him so sweetly that he could feel his cock begin to harden again.

You looked up into his eyes as you pulled his pants down. He let out a soft sigh of relief as he was uncaged from his unfortunate trouser situation. His cock flipped down out of his pants, nearly smacking you in the forehead as you looked up at it in awe. Even though it was only semi-hard, it was bigger than any you had ever seen before. Spencer looked down at you shyly "it's not that much, I-I know but I've been researching techniques to make up for it in order to give sufficient pleasure for you- I mean for whatever partners I may have, not that I am saying that I won't please you, I dream of pleasuring you! ... I'm digging myself a hole aren't I."He rambled, rubbing the back of his neck worriedly. "Spencer, you are huge. Way more than I have ever had before. See?" You said, standing up, gently lifting his cock in your hand, measuring it against your stomach.

Maybe Spencer hadn't noticed because it was proportionate to his body and his big hands, but being held in your petite hands and measured against your stomach, he finally did see how much he would fill you up. The tip of his dick just barely reached past the gems that decorated your belly button piercing. "W-Woah." He said growing harder at the thought of pushing so deep into you. He looked up to your face, which was preoccupied with looking down at how far he would reach up in you.

Tearing your eyes away from him and up to his own, you flushed, knowing that he had caught you staring. "What would you like me to do next?" You spoke softly. Despite being the only two in the room, you two both talked in hushed tones, worrying that anything more than that would burst the delicate bubble you two had created. "Can we match?" He said, and you instantly understood him, despite the odd vernacular. You began to slip off your shirt, but he stopped you with an arm on your shoulder. "C-Can I do it?" He said shyly. "Of course, pretty baby," you barely get out before he drifted his hands under your tank.

He slowly lifted your top over your head as he took in the soft smooth feeling of your skin against his, goosebumps pricking up wherever his fingers trailed. You stood in front of him, shirtless as he took in your form. He had imagined what your breasts would look like. Nipples always hard due to your piercings, what your jewelry would look like, but nothing could prepare him for the glimmering moonstone gems that adorned your nipples and navel. Everything matched exactly, including the delicate necklace you wore around your neck.

The only thing he liked more than the perfection of your body was the features that made you, you. Some might call them imperfections, but to Spencer, all he could see in you was beauty. The gentle bruises on your skin from tangles with unsubs, the soft stretch marks that adorned your hips like little valleys and winding rivers, the slight blemishes, and hairs. He loved it because you were the embodiment of the confidence he wished for in himself. While he was always nervous about his body and how others perceived him, you loved yourself for exactly who you were, and you loved him for exactly who he was.

He pulled down your pants, gently following the twist and turn of the stretch marks as they winded down your hips, making sure to kneel down to pull them all the way off of you as you delicately stepped out, gently grabbing onto his hair to keep your balance as you swayed. He moaned softly at the gentle tug of your fingers while he stared up at you in awe. You took his hand in yours, coaxing him to stand.

You both stood there, taking in each other's forms for a moment, hands still connected as if by a thread at the pinky before you spoke. "We shouldn't waste water. Let me clean you off, sweetheart." He nodded before following after you into the gentle spray of the shower, steam now filling the room. He marveled at the way that the water droplets cascaded down your body, gently running down your curves. "Come here," you said, pulling him into a gentle embrace under the hot water.

Your two bodies pressed gently together, and Spencer couldn't help but think that you were molded for each other. Not in the way that a sculptor may stick two unmatched pieces of clay together with slip, more like one rock that had been split by the earth finally returning together. Something about your touch felt like home as you gently cradled him under the water.

He was so enthralled in your being that he didn't notice you gently scrubbing him with a washcloth until the scent of your body wash permeated the air. You gently scrubbed his back, washing off the sweat of the day and replacing it with you. He melted into you as your hands reached up, lathering his hair with shampoo. He wasn't sure if it was because he realized you should probably be getting washed too or because he desperately wanted to ride his hands along the planes of your body, but he decided to lather up his hands and wash you as well. "You are such a good boy. Thank you for cleaning me up" You said, resting your head gently on his chest, softly swirling the soap around his back, now finished scrubbing all you could from that angle, waiting to turn him around.

He moved carefully, avoiding your butt, still too nervous to touch. "Make sure you get everything, sweet boy. I like to be clean when I go to bed." You said, gently grabbing his hand and pulling it down to cup your butt. He inhales a sharp breath as he indulged in a gentle squeeze, continuing to wash you. He washed your back but his hands would occasionally drift down to your ass, growing more confident as he unknowingly rocked into you slightly with every squeeze, letting out soft keening noises.

You peeled yourself off of him as he rutted into the air, whining at the loss of friction. "Slow down, naughty boy. Bad boys don't get to touch. Are you a bad boy?" you asked as you placed a finger on the tip of his cock, swirling it in the precum pooling there despite the water's efforts to wash it off. "No, no! I'm a good boy! You're just so pretty, and you feel so good, and you smell so nice, and I wanna touch you, and I want you to touch me, please." He blurted out, looking at you with hungry eyes, begging for more friction. "Where do you want to touch me baby?" you asked as his eyes raked over your body, taking in all of his options. "I want to touch your boobies and your- your-" "My what? You can say it, naughty boy." You cut him off in his stammering. "Your pussy, I want to touch your pussy." He said, the hot water spreading the blush from his cheeks down his chest, tingeing his cock with a pretty pink hue. "What naughty words from such a pretty boy. You can touch-" he cut you off, lunging towards your body before you grabbed him by the throat, squeezing experimentally. Not too hard, not too soft. He moaned, and you felt the vibrations traveling up your hands."Let me finish what I was saying. Naughty boys don't get to touch. They get spanked." You said as he mewled." What I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted was that you can touch, AFTER I wash you and after you finish washing me. Only after, you got it?" you said, squeezing a little tighter. "Y-yes." he croaked out. "Good boy," you replied.

You washed out the shampoo in his hair, replacing it with conditioner as he did the same for you. You squirted more soap onto your washcloth, preparing to test him. You took the washcloth in your hand, slowly working over his legs, arms, and chest, teasingly brushing over his overspent cock before returning to cleaning him. He washed you thoroughly, taking care to wash your legs before making sure your stomach and belly button piercing were thoroughly cleaned. Finally, he reached up to wash the leftover makeup off of your face. He touched you like a porcelain doll, worried that you would crack under even the slightest pressure, making you giggle. He flinched, thinking he hurt you, but you grabbed his face in your hands, delivering him a kiss that covered his face in soap.

You both stood there, laughing for a second, relishing the moment before you let out a shy smile. "You can touch my chest now, but make sure you clean my piercings carefully." He looked down at your chest, and now that he'd been given permission, he didn't really know what to do. You could see the puzzled look on his face so you grabbed one of his soapy hands in yours and brought it to your breast. He squeezed experimentally, and you let out a gentle moan. You had been keeping in your arousal to draw out his teasing, but you couldn't hold yourself back as you felt his large hands grasp around your chest and roll your nipple in his fingers.

There was a sweet dichotomy in the harshness of his grasp on your boob, coupled with the gentle twist of your nipple. It was as if he was worried to hurt your piercings, so he made up for it in his grasp. You brought the washcloth down to his cock, hard against his stomach, and began to work him. He whined at the harsh material. "I need to clean you up, baby. You still have a cummy cock. If you beg hard enough when I'm done, I will touch you." You said into his ear as he rested his head on your shoulder.

He was overstimulated, and you could tell, so you decided you wouldn't take as long as you wanted to tease him. But you would still draw it out for your own pleasure. He was bucking and mewling into you as you roughly got him off. It shot you straight to your core, the heat from the shower mixed with his grasp on you, physically and visually, had you closer than you wanted, and deep down you just wanted him to touch you.

When you deemed him clean enough you let the rag drop to the floor. "Beg" you moaned out. "Please, please touch me, I want your hand on me, that's all I want." He whined, bucking into the air. You took pity on him, grasping him with your soap-covered hand. He hissed as your soft touch replaced the rough rag and you could tell he was close. "Touch me, Spencer." You said and his hand shot to your core. His tentative moves giving way to a natural confidence. As he slipped a hand between your folds he could feel you dripping with desire. "O-Oh my god," was all he could stammer out before sinking two of his fingers into your depths, thumb circling your clit. You knew his fingers were long, and you had even fantasized about this exact moment, but nothing could prepare you for his actual length. He had said he did research but that was proven by how quickly he found your g spot and clit. You doubled over in pleasure as his fingers thoroughly fucked you out.

"Spencer, I'm so close, baby. Be a good boy and make me cum." You said, slumping against his shoulder, rubbing yourself against his hand. "Mommy, I'm cumming." He said, looking into your eyes as his body shuttered. His words ricochetted around in your brain, sending you over the edge as you cum all down his hand. You bit into his shoulder to muffle your scream, just as he matched you, cumming down your hand.

You came down from your high as Spencer nearly collapsed onto you. You took extra care in making sure he was all clean before helping him out of the shower and into a towel. He leaned against you the whole time as you got him ready for bed. You forced him to brush his teeth before dragging him to bed.

He sat at the edge, eyes bleary with sleep, taking in the events of the day. You sat behind him, gently toweling off his hair before brushing it and putting lotion on his body. He leaned into your touch, appreciating being cared for, feeling as if everything had been a dream. "C-Can I sleep here? I mean Morgan locked me out and I don't have pants and-" You cut him off with a gentle kiss."Of course, sweetheart, do you want to cuddle? It's ok if you don't or if you want this to be a one-time thing, it's all up to you, baby." You said, gently sweeping his hair out of his face as he looked up with eyes the size of dinner plates. "We can do this more than once? You'll let me? For real?" He asked. "Only if you want to sweetheart. This is all about you." You said, giving him a small smile tinged with a slight sadness. "That's not very fair, I want it to be about you too. What do you want?"

The question knocked you off guard. You're not used to people asking what you want. Usually, people just take and give none in return. The fact that Spencer Reid, your adorable virgin coworker was asking you what you wanted with such a sincere look, caused tears to prick into your eyes. "No one has asked me that in a long time," you smiled, "I would love to do this, and more again with you Spencer. Whenever you want." He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you down so you were lying next to each other on the bed. "Whenever we want" He corrected, cuddling into you.

You surveyed the bite make you left on his shoulder, running your hand over it. "Sorry for marking you up, I didn't mean to hurt you." You said softly as he blushed. "I-I was actually wondering... well... could you maybe give me a hickey? I like that you marked me." He said. You obliged him, giving him long kisses and sucks, gradually working up your force until a large purple bruise had formed on his collar bone. He was gently moaning the whole time, but you didn't want to work him up again as he had already cum twice that night and you didn't think he could handle more. He looked down at it as you pulled away, and you could see a question lingering on his mind.

"What's up?" you asked, smoothing his hair with your hand. "You said you hadn't been asked what you want in a long time, and I was wondering, well... who gave you your piercings?" he asked tentatively and you laughed." You have been reading my book too much, how many chapters have you read?" You said and he looked up at you surprised."You knew? and... well... only 3 chapters. I didn't want to pry into your private life." He said. "You just pried enough to know I want to get pierced by someone?" You asked raising an eyebrow. Before he could get an excuse out, you cut him off. "Well for a genius, you obviously didn't read it that carefully. I said I WOULD like to be pierced during sex, meaning I have not before. These are just standard piercings from a piercing shop, not a big deal, I just like the way they look." You said and he let out a sigh of relief. "Why? d'you get jealous?" you questioned him. He looked down and nodded shyly.

"I can be a lot of firsts for you but if you play your cards right, you can be a lot of firsts for me too. You already gave me a first tonight. You called me mommy. No one's done that before but it was really hot. I liked it a lot." You said matter of factly. "But that is a conversation for another day. It is 2 am and we need to be on a flight at 7:30, so let's get some sleep." You said, turning off the lights and cuddling up close to him. In a matter of seconds, you both were asleep, tangled into each other's arms, both of you feeling, for once, safe and sound.

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

Chapter 1 Here / Chapter 2 Here / Chapter 3 Here

Well wasn't that a doozy. I had so much fun writing that and I think it paid off for sure. Shoot me a message if you want to be added to my beloved tag list, speaking of which.

@spencer-reids-slut @ya-triedit @reidstoychest @flipperpenguins @thatsonezesty13 @jbbarnes-loki @big-galaxy-chaos

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #sub spencer #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid #sub!spencer #pervspence #pervespencer #perve spencer reid #perv spencer reid

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slippinmickeys · 3 years

Text

The Snallygaster

You can read this on AO3 here.

It is a cannon fodder neighborhood, Scully thinks, the kind you only get out of the hard way. The houses that line the street have old windows and chipped wood siding and they dip in the middle like wet paper bags.There are Polish delis and taquerias and abandoned markets with faded plastic Pepsi signs. Weeds grow up through the cracking pavement, and everything is rusty, even in the sun. Somewhere in the distance there is the bulbous honk of a train horn. It is Saturday in central Maryland.

Mulder drives slowly through the narrow streets with his head bent low, looking at the street signs through the dusty windshield. He pulls up short with a quiet curse when a homeless man in a faded flannel mackinaw loses his grip on a shopping cart full of cans and it swerves into the road in front of them. Mulder waves with his right hand and beats a rhythm on the steering wheel with his left, and they wait for the man to maneuver the unwieldy cart back onto the sidewalk.

Scully’s eyes rove the real estate, her gaze landing on an unmowed yard where a pink and purple Big Wheel moulders in the grass, missing a pedal, its plastic faded and chalky. Weeds grow up tall around the borders of it, nature reclaiming the forgotten, the unused.

Mulder sighs from beside her as he finally presses the accelerator and they move once more, the sun above disappearing into a pocket of grey clouds.

“I think we’re getting close,” he says.

Up ahead is an old canning factory, a squat, sturdy building with two red brick chimneys sprouting from its back. A mason had spelled “PET Milk” down the length of one with faded ivory cinder blocks.

Mulder pulls in and parks in front of an old loading dock, gravel and broken glass popping under the tires. Throwing the car into park, he cuts the engine, the sudden quiet as intrusive as a thought.

“Remind me what we’re looking for,” Scully says, her hand on the door handle. Mulder swings the keys on his finger like a gunslinger, and shoves them deep into a pocket.

“Snallygaster,” he says, as if she should know what that was. She looks at him blankly until he goes on. “Dragon-like hominid with three toes.”

“Snallygaster,” she repeats under her breath, throwing the door wide and climbing out to assess the building, the air outside the car pungent with the muddy tang of the Chesapeake at low tide.

Above them, the sky is as grey as old barn wood. Rain is coming, and probably wind, too. She buttons her coat at the neck and clicks the button of her flashlight, testing the shine on her gloved hand. Mulder sidles up beside her, his hulking presence a bolster at her shoulder.

“Shall we?” he says, like he’s about to escort her into The Jockey Club.

“Do we need a warrant?” she asks, and he smiles at her without answering. She follows him anyway.

A quick lock pick and a shove with a shoulder and they’re in, the warehouse air cool and dusty. It smells like a basement.

They walk side by side through the cavernous space, stepping around dented oil drums and broken pallets. The grey light from outside filters in through large grimy windows lending the air inside a distinct opacity. Somewhere above them a pigeon bursts into flight, settling onto an exposed steel beam that’s draped with cobwebs and guano.

“This is very romantic,” she says. Despite keeping her voice low, it echoes off the walls.

“Isn’t it?” Mulder says without a trace of irony. This entire endeavor was his idea of a Bridget Jones-esque mini-break. (“We’ll do a little monster hunting and then I’ll take you out for soft-shell crab,” he’d said last night with a propitious tilt of the head. He’d picked her up that morning in jeans and a slouchy leather jacket and he was freshly shaved and was being accommodating and sweet and he’d smelled like toothpaste and cologne. He’d found a parking spot out front. Her arguments against going had fled her mouth the second he handed her a steaming cappuccino.)

“Stick with the shadows,” he says, flicking on his flashlight, “it probably won’t be out in the open air.”

She humors him, shining her light into the dark corners of the building, not really expecting to see much beyond the glowing eyes of a large rodent. Mulder wanders off toward a rusting metal staircase that leads to a catwalk, and bends down to examine something on the floor.

“Scully, take a look at this,” he calls, and she clacks over to stand beside him, squinting to see what he’s looking at. “Does this,” he says, holding out a hand above a scuffled mark on the ground for scale, “does this look like a three-toed footprint?”

She tilts her head, thinking it looked an awful lot like they drove up here for nothing.

“I guess?” she says instead, “though there aren’t any other footprints leading to or from it.”

Mulder sighs and straightens. “There have been sightings around here three weeks straight,” he says, then kicks a beer bottle cap lying next to his shoe, the dust on the floor lubricating its motion so that it flies like an air hockey puck. “Developers bought this building five days ago. Going to turn it into loft condominiums.”

“The wheels of progress churn ever on,” she says, rubbing his back. He nods dejectedly.

“You know, habitat loss affects cryptids just as much as it does recognized species. More so, actually, because we know nothing about their biology, environment or population dynamics.”

“And this type of cryptid we’re looking for… are they endemic to abandoned warehouses?”

“No,” he says, scuffing the toe of his shoe, “just Central Maryland.”

“Purportedly,” she says, elbowing him in the ribs.

That earns her a genuine smile, and she can feel a low flame of lust ignite below her waist. There is a sound then, in a different part of the building, a ringing clang. Mulder perks up momentarily.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Rats… junkies… the death knell of my once bright career…” she jokes, risking a glance at him and catching a wounded look. She loops her arm through his in apology. “Maybe it’s the Sallybaster,” she offers up.

“Snallygaster,” he corrects.

“That,” she says and runs her hand down his arm until her hand links up with his. “Let’s check it out.” She gives him a gentle tug.

He takes one or two hesitant steps forward and then stops, pulling her back to him. She couldn’t move him if she tried, he’s got 65 pounds on her. He steps forward until his toes are touching hers and she has to crane her neck up to look at him.

“Wanna get out of here?” he husks, dropping his nose down until the tip is brushing hers.

“I was promised soft-shell crab,” she says, though she’s not at all hungry.

“Mm.” He nips at her. His lips have the shape of a tortoise’s but are as soft as a hare. She is enraptured by them, and the things they can do.

When they exit the building, the wind has picked up and fat drops of rain fall in an irregular pattern, hurtling from miles above to careen into the earth with pathetic little chks. They tumble into the car before it begins in earnest.

It takes forever to find the highway, the twisting narrow streets nearly unnavigable in the rain. They make it ten miles before Mulder Jersey sweeps across the empty lanes, exiting to pull into a half deserted motel parking lot. He gives her a silent eye raise, seeking permission. A tilt of her head and he’s out of the car and into the deluge, swallowed up by the dark lobby door.

She feels cocooned in the cab of the car, insulated from the rain by the aluminum and glass shell, like a firefly in a child’s cupped hand. The vents puff out a meager heat tinged with a nip of diesel. Somewhere outside, the man she loves is handing over a credit card to a disinterested sextagenarian.

When he breezes back into the car minutes later, he pulls with him the smell of petrichor and a hint of cigarette smoke and hands her a key attached to a flat plastic circle.

“Number ten,” she says, looking at the keyring, and he reverses and pulls back in directly in front of the room door.

She thinks of the downpour in Bellefleur, of him hollering at the streaming sky. In another universe she kissed him in that motel room in her tatty red robe, three mosquito bites on her back and candle wax on his fingers. In this universe she succumbed much later to the quiet catastrophe of love.

“Ready?” Mulder looks at her, his eyes bright and smiling. Her memory flashes to him sitting on a rattan ottoman in Quonochontaug, strung out on ketamine with a gun to his head, and she feels a pang of gratitude so strong she could cry.

“Ready,” she says. He flashes her a rare toothy smile and they splash from the car and storm the motel door. There’s a portico that’s so small Mulder has to press himself into Scully’s back to avoid getting soaked and they both laugh when she can’t get the key in the lock. Finally, they tumble inside, dripping and suddenly shy.

The room is dry but cool, and Mulder toes off his shoes and goes into the bathroom, emerging several moments later rubbing his hair dry with a hand towel. He hands another to Scully without a word. She presses it gently to her own tresses and then walks the damp cloth back to the bathroom to hang it up.

Inside, there is a small mid-century wall-mounted heating unit that Mulder must have turned on, the coils glowing orange and pushing a dry warmth into the room. The Nutone unit reminds her so much of the base housing of her childhood that the smell itself has a patina. She stands in front of it until she feels comfortable enough to take off her coat.

When she comes back into the bedroom, Mulder is standing in the center of it, his jacket shucked off and his hair a wild mess, the look on his face hopefully expectant. She pauses for a moment just to look at him. He stands, patient and staid under her scrutiny, and she finally rewards him by walking up to him and pressing her lips firmly against his.

She can feel every nerve ending in her body crackling to life, from the hair on her head to where her bare toes are spread on the motel floor, which is covered with the soft, velvety carpet that you usually only see in church, muffling and firm and missing only the reek of incense.

His mouth opens over hers, and she thinks about how testosterone and estrogen drive lust, how dopamine and norepinephrine and serotonin create attraction, how oxytocin and vasopressin mediate attachment. She can feel them all swirl in a miasmatic rush in her bloodstream, making her want to crawl inside of him and seek out holy places not yet found.

He moves his warm hands to her waist, pulling her sharply against him. He is all firm edges and hard planes, the simple truths of biology. After a moment he cups her face gently in his hands, kisses her deeply and then pulls back, walking to the door to throw the lock, to slide closed the curtains, to turn on the lamp, bathing the room in a honeyed glow.

She thinks back to their first time together; the sigh of polyester slipping against wool, his silk tie looped twice around her fist. He tasted like salt and stale coffee and their teeth clicked together; his dry hand on her stomach, his thumb pressing her lowest rib. It had been all heat and energy and the earthy funk of sex, and everything they touched, everything they’d done was sticky and crude. It hadn’t even been embarrassing, it just was; too much and not enough all at once.

He is thinking of the same thing; their first coupling. How her knee had felt beneath his palm, the clack of her pearl earring against his eyetooth. He had felt like a teenager at the time; het up on hormones and lust-drunk. Nevertheless, inertia was the only thing that had kept them going — two tightly wound, serious-assed Feds —because if either of them had thought about it for more than a second back then, the world would have fucking ended.

Now they are practiced at the art.

As he approaches her, she tilts her head like the bratty third child she is and presses the tip of her tongue to the bottom of her front teeth, just enough so he can see the little pink spear. His blood thrums and he wants to shove her into the back of the door, wants to watch excitement flare and catch behind her eyes. Instead, he shucks off her jacket for her, tossing it nonchalantly over the back of one of the room’s tacky wooden chairs.

Beneath it, she is wearing a wide-necked shirt, open so that he can see the delicate bones of her clavicle arching into it like a gull on the wing. He reaches out and touches one, gently. She rolls her shoulders and leans her head to the side to give him easier access, inviting him to run his tongue along the length of her neck, where he pauses to kiss the butterfly flutter of her pulse.

For years he thought she was practicing some kind of ascetic, but the way she kissed him, the way she pushed and pulled only went to prove that she was just as desperately in love as he was; that they’d been fighting the obvious energy that arced between them, both desperate to prove it was the job, it was just the job.

It wasn’t the job. He had not long ago determined that theirs is an ancient love, a river of ore locked in stone that the years have slowly worn down. What a discovery to reach the seam. Eureka.

Fuck, but he couldn’t get enough of her.

“Bed,” he says, and she stumbles back, refusing to remove her tongue from his person. He has to bend down awkwardly to pull the stiff bedspread back. The sheets reek of the hot starchy smell of cheap industrial detergent. They’re scratchy and rough and the only thing consistently the same in every hotel in America.

She sits heavily and reaches for his fly, working her deft fingers into the waist of his jeans, a slutty little smirk on her face. He lets her work the button open, feeling that old teenaged thrill, but pulls her hands back once the zipper is down and his jeans are gaping. He lays her back onto the bed, pinning her hands with one of his, and reaching down to relieve her of her pants and underwear. Grabbing her by the ankles, he swings her legs up until she’s completely on the bed, and only then does he let go of her wrists.

They each quickly divest themselves of the rest of their clothes, and he’s on her like his mouth is magnetized, tonguing every inch of her he can reach. The skin of her thigh is creamy white, translucent, the tributaries of her veins running just beneath the surface.

He lured her here with a monster and the promise of seafood. They have an unspoken pact of monogamy, but he still feels as though he must woo her, baiting her with pseudo-science and the bounty of the Atlantic. In all the world, and of all the men in it, she’s here with him, and he feels duty-bound to earn his place by her side.

He rolls his chin against the skin of her hip, scraping her red with his stubble. He wants to put his mouth to the nirvana of her core, to apply himself to her pleasure — milk and honey and his singing soul — but she seems to have other plans, cupping her hands along the side of his head and pulling him up so that he is staring into the pools of her eyes, her pupils blown black with lust.

At times it is hard to see past her beauty. He would look up and catch sight of her, her head bent over a report or examining a piece of evidence and his breath would hitch in his throat. She is a stunning vision of femininity, but she is also a scientist, a cop, a girl with two brothers; if she caught him mooning, she’d hand him his ass. So he would force his lungs to resume working, nonchalantly shrug his shoulders and get back to living, as a bee must move on from a perfect rose.

She surges up and he takes the hint, rolling over onto his back and shimmying down so that he’s propped up slightly on the pillows. She climbs on, a breathy sigh sliding over her rosebud lips. The moment when he is finally, fully enveloped in her heat is nothing short of euphoric. They move fast and slow all at once.

Outside the window, planes pass overhead, far above the cloud cover where the sun drifts infinitely west. Outside the window, water pools in potholes, luring drivers with the promise of a smooth road. Outside the window, creatures crawl and slither over the earth, not yet discovered or destroyed by man.

She seems to have a singular focus, and he wants her to come, he does, but he also wants to enjoy it - wants her to enjoy it - so he reaches up and slides his fingers along her cheek like he’s sliding his hand into the supple leather of a baseball mitt. He pulls her focus so that it’s on him.

“Hey,” he says, gently, “slow down.”

“No,” she says after a moment. He's never been one to deny her anything.

She’s hot and ribald and dexterous as a cowgirl, her nails digging into the skin below his ribs. He imagines they’re fucking to save the world, the only two humans left. He licks the pad of his thumb and applies it to their joining.

He can feel her quickening, her quadriceps shivering under his hands, so he thrusts up with a mighty effort, impaling her and meeting her in the middle, the combustion of their twin climax turning the words on his tongue to ash. He wants to thank her. He wants to confess. Instead he palms the red serpent on her back and brushes the hair from her face.

When they are both breathing again and the ringing in his ears has lessened, he runs a finger along the edge of his lip and considers her.

“You’re a dangerous woman, Dana Scully.”

“Dangerous how?” she wants to know.

He points to her left breast, leaning forward to lick a pert pink nipple. “Scylla,” he says, then points to her right, paying it the same attention, “Charybdis.”

Her eyelids fall down a bit, her look shrewd. “Ah,” she says.

He points to her chest, puts a finger lightly on the skin directly in between her breasts, above her heart.

“A man could get stuck here,” he says.

“Mulder,” she says, and lays her head on his chest, overcome with embarrassed affection. He wraps his arms around her and muscles his way up, shifting them away from the wet spot and a tacky handprint of effluvia on the sheet. When he’s settled, she slides down his body so that she’s tucked into his side, post-coitus being the only time she will allow herself a smidgen of vulnerability.

“What does a Snallygaster do?” she asks after a long silence, her nose pressed to the soft skin of his bicep. She’s feeling a tenderness towards him and decides to humor him, her blood still surging with dopamine. She can hear his smile as he answers.

“It follows you,” he says, moving so that he can throw his long heavy leg over her hip. His skin is hot and she thinks she can feel each individual leg hair bristle and scrape the delicate skin near her pubis.

“To what aim,” she asks, smiling with her eyes closed.

“Mm,” he hums into her hair, “you’d have to ask the Snallygaster.”

“And we think there’s one here? In a pre-gentrified warehouse filled with hobo nests and pigeon shit?”

“Purportedly,” his voice is mumbly and snuffly; spoken too close to the shell of her ear. She smiles. She can feel him harden to a state of partial arousal against her hip - an impressive feat at his age - but he doesn’t press her. “They tend to follow couples, according to the lore,” he goes on, “choosing only those basking in the glow of true love.”

“Choosing them for what?”

“That’s what we came to find out,” he says and presses his lips to the crown of her head.

She wants to make a glib comment about being here for the seafood, but she feels a swell of emotion expanding in her chest that leaves her breathless. She remains silent, thinking that she will remember this moment for years, decades, however much time she has left.

A shaft of watery grey light angles through the curtains like a sundial knifing time. She thinks of the men who came before him, how they could never measure up. Of the displaced poor, scrounging out a home on a dusty warehouse floor. Of empty lots and broken glass, and the way weeds can still be flowers. She thinks of a scaly beast that noses out true love, living on the outskirts of belief.

Beside her Mulder sighs, the patter of the rain lulling him into a light doze. She folds herself into him and lets her forehead thunk into the meat of his arm, sending a prayer aloft, up through drywall and timber, up through the ceiling of clouds.

Outside their room, on a dry bit of cement under the lintel, the wet footprint of a creature with three toes slowly dries.

#MSR #the x-files #fanfic #my fic #mid season 7

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