Patrickispinky - Patrick

This is a girls Roman Empire

October Sun

summary: truths had been spilled before anyone had been ready to hear them and the consequences of actions had finally been justly served.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER SUN pt.26

Wally had just handed Maddie the receipt when he'd heard the commotion from the theater above. Your voice chased Xavier's as his heavy footsteps clomped around. Stopped. Then your voice again, splintered and tight. Your misery rallied Wally's rage and he was off like a shot.

"Hell no," He announced, barely giving Maddie a look of warning before he barreled up the stairs—two at a time—and pushed the trapdoor open. Its back hit the stage with a bang that ricocheted through the empty space. He propelled out, jumped from the stage to ground level, and took an offensive position between you and Xavier.

He was fucking done with this dipshit.

"What happened, baby?" Wally asked, canted his head slightly to catch you in his periphery while he maintained sight of Xavier. "What did he do?"

Maddie scrambled onto the stage, quickly followed by the others, "Is everything okay?"

Behind him, Wally heard you steadily beginning to panic, repeating expletives like a prayer while Xavier stared through Wally at you with a belligerent expression. Fuck every last thing, Wally had had enough. He'd wanted to grab that asshole by the collar and shake him until he passed out since Maddie had revealed what Xavier had done behind her back. And as much as Wally had wanted to protect you from the hurt of learning your BFF wasn't all that, he couldn't do it anymore.

He took a step toward Xavier, fists balled, teeth bared, but just as he raised his arm to take a swing (who the hell cared if nothing happened, Wally would feel better for it), Maddie threw herself off the stage and used her whole body to halt the motion, her slender arms clamping around his to pin it down.

Simultaneously, he felt you band around his waist, soft yet solid, forehead pressed to his spine. "Wally, it's okay," You tried to assure him, but your voice was so little, so broken, that it only served to fan the flames of his rage higher. Of course, that rage hiccupped momentarily when Xavier swiftly jerked backward, stumbled over his own feet, and fell on his ass. His eyes round and petrified, a choked "holy shit" coughed out of him when he landed.

You and Maddie released Wally the second Xavier hit the floor, Maddie pressing herself against the stage while you cautiously padded around Wally to look at Xavier, head cocked in confusion.

Alarmed, "Where'd he go!?" Xavier heaved.

It seemed to dawn on you in increments what had transpired and you glanced up at Wally, mouth agape. "Fuck me," You breathed, tone stressed, and all he could do was stare back at you in question. Slowly, you took Wally's hand, laced your fingers through his, and watched Xavier carefully. Again, Xavier made a punched-out sound of fear, pressed his palms into his eyes, and then dragged his gaze up the length of Wally's body from feet to face. Although Wally's anger still blazed red-hot in him, he was fairly taken aback by the fact that:

"You can see me?" He asked Xavier, who nodded weakly in response.

You untangled your fingers from Wally's, letting go entirely. "How 'bout now?"

Xavier returned with a stuttered shake of his head. "The fuck is going on, May?"

You bristled, brows furrowing, jaw locking. Wally hadn't seen you angry. Frustrated, perhaps; perturbed, maybe; but not angry, and it both shocked and aroused him. Straight back, dark eyes, a menacing expression on your face as you glared at Xavier as if he'd done you as dirty as he'd done Maddie.

"I asked you to stop calling me that, B." You said, words pressed through your teeth, and, yeah, yep, Wally flushed crimson, the slightest bit turned on at how commanding your tone was. Something he would explore later when he didn't have a dozen eyes on him.

Xavier finally managed to get back to his feet, rounding on you, annoyed and over it, "Are you serious right now? A fucking dead guy keeps teleporting in and out of existence and you're getting pissed at me over that?"

Without hesitation, Wally strung his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. "Don't talk to her like that, asshole," He warned, a satisfied smirk on his mouth when Xavier clapped a hand to his chest in fright. Wally softened like butter when he felt your hand smooth over his heart, sweet marbled eyes gazing up at him in apprehension. He took your hand and lifted it to his lips, kissed your knuckles to comfort you before he whipped a hard, threatening stare at Xavier. "You don't get to make her the bad guy here."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Xavier said in mock apology, "I'll just forget the fact that she's been lying to me forever about being a necrophiliac!"

You choked on a breath, wheezed, "I am not a necrophiliac," to which Wally had to grin down at you playfully, tilting his head with a casual shrug.

"I mean..."

"No 'I mean'!" You shot back, flustered.

Sat on the edge of the stage to observe the proceedings, Rhonda wearily explained, "No, superstar, in order for that to be true, you would've had to..." She swirled her lollipop in the air, "You know." Beside her, Charley made a circle with his fingers and stuck his opposite index finger through it repeatedly, a visual representation of the point Rhonda insinuated. She rolled her gaze to Xavier, "He's thinking necromancer."

"Which I'm also not!" You sustained through a grimace and then repeated for Xavier's benefit, "I'm not a necromancer."

Xavier did a double-take, spinning in an uncoordinated circle to survey the theater, "Are there others!?"

But you ignored him, your mind clearly elsewhere because, when you next spoke, you whispered to Wally in distress, "Oh my God, the maintenance guy."

Wally took a moment to recall that unwelcome interruption, how the maintenance man had appeared to be looking between you and something else. The man's awkward demeanor had caught Wally off-guard, though, at the time, he'd chalked it up to the odd position you'd been in. But...if he really thought about it...the man wouldn't have been able to see you from where he'd been standing.

He bit his lip bashfully, trying and failing not to reveal how positively gleeful he was that someone in the living world had witnessed you two together and knew who you belonged to. In the least possessive way possible, of course.

"Face," Rhonda, Charley, and, damn him, Ajay chorused about Wally's shift in expression. He cleared his throat and once more adjusted his features into something appropriate for the circumstances; menacing, off-put, downright hateful. Complete with heart-eyes, who was he kidding?

Meanwhile, Xavier crept toward you, a man against an untamed horse, hand out and shoulders drawn, "May, I need you to be honest with me, are there other dead people in here?"

Again, you scowled, "Stop. Calling me that."

Though he didn't understand why the nickname seemed to bother you, Wally bristled on your behalf, telling Xavier, "You should listen to her, man, or, believe me, I'll make you."

Out of frame, the others, including Mina, gawked at Wally's uncharacteristic behavior, Charley putting a hand to his collar in the manner of pearl-clutching. Rhonda regained her composure quickly, smirked around the stem of her lollipop like a proud mama lion that's cub was about to strike its first kill. Ajay tiptoed over to Mina and put his hands over her eyes so she wouldn't have to witness possible manslaughter being committed.

"And what are you gonna do, huh?" Xavier challenged, trudging into Wally's space with aggressive intent. "You're a ghost. You can't hurt me." He paused, glancing at you to ask, "Can he?"

Wally poked a vicious finger into Xavier's shoulder, shoving him back, "You bet I can."

"Jesus, that's enough!" Maddie swooped in, totally aggrieved, "We have bigger things to worry about than whose dick is bigger." She pushed Wally out of the way, inadvertently forcing him to release his hold on you which made Xavier pitch backwards. Whether because Wally had turned into the Invisible Man again or for another reason, Wally wasn't entirely sure, but he made a point of watching Xavier closely.

Maddie handed you the receipt Wally had found in the cellarage, "I think that money we found in Mr. Anderson's classroom is from this." As you inspected it ("Where'd that come from!?" Xavier squeaked) Maddie explained, "He has a whole operation under the stage. If we're right, he's been stealing money from the Booster Club."

"Which means we have something that'll help Simon." ("What will help Simon!?") A broad smile swept across your pretty pink lips, your whole face brightening for the first time since the debacle between you and Xavier had started. Wally felt himself melt, that time ignoring the refrain of face from everyone onstage. "It's Friday, right? So, there's a staff meeting after school."

Maddie built on your idea, "We'll get Simon to take the evidence to everyone. They'll have to believe him."

"I'll text Simon and let him know."

However, on the cusp of ballistic, Xavier demanded, "What. Is. Happening!?"

You cleared your throat and handed the receipt to Xavier, relayed what Maddie had just told you. "It could get Simon off the hook," You said quietly, somewhat wilted, unable to look him in the eye.

Xavier examined the receipt and nodded, but he seemed distracted, his breathing labored, eyes again sweeping the theater for evidence of—"That's awesome," He struggled to say, turning desperate and afraid, "But could you tell me why the fuck I just saw Maddie?"

Your head shot up, "You did?" while Maddie sagged under the weight of what appeared to be every emotion she'd ever felt toward Xavier all at once. You panned to her, unsure, gaze flicking between her and Xavier in silent question to which she nodded sadly and held out her hand for you to take.

Wally knew the moment Xavier could see her, bewildered, guilty, his pallor paling to a sickly grey. It looked like he didn't know what to do with himself, caught between moving toward her and giving her more space. You watched them both with puzzlement; waited for someone to explain why Xavier was acting cagey instead of how most people would respond when they had the chance to behold a dead loved one (Maddie's not-death notwithstanding).

Ragged, Xavier stammered, "Do...Did you know...?"

And Maddie answered with a hum and a curt nod, "Yeah. I heard what you said to your dad on Monday before the vigil."

"Oh fuck, Maddie, I'm so sorry." Xavier sunk into one of the seats, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, body trembling. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Out of the loop, you asked Maddie, "What's he talking about?" and Wally's heart almost broke for you despite his earlier vehemence that you be told what Xavier had done. This was the moment. This was how you discovered the truth.

"It's fine." Maddie lied, avoiding your gaze, "I'm over it." She wasn't, and Wally wondered who she was hoping to convince.

"Over what?" You pressed as you looked at Xavier, "What are you talking about, Zav? What are you sorry for?" Wally heard the thread of fear in your voice as your mind flooded with too many grim possibilities.

Wally decided to take the onus off Xavier to reveal himself for who he really was, returning to your side and winding his arm around you to hold your hip. He wanted Xavier to see him when he said, "He was cheating on Maddie with the head cheerleader. Claire or whatever."

"Wait...what? No. No, Xavier wouldn't..." But Xavier would and you understood that the second you laid eyes on him, "You wouldn't," And then, devastated, "Oh my God...all those texts about band practice you made me send you..."

Xavier rose and attempted to approach you, hands up, "I didn't mean for—"

You snarled at him, "You made me help you!" and dropped Wally's hand. That time, no one leaped from the stage. No one called out or pulled you back or intervened in any way. You stomped up to Xavier, reeled your arm back, and decked him squarely in the mouth.

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PART TWENTY-FIVE

note: fun fact: i'd toyed with the "ppl can see Wally when Reader touches him" reveal for some time, initially thinking i'd do it at the Homecoming Dance. but. plot happened so...yeah no, it didn't work anymore 🤷‍♀️ also, i would've had to account for Nicole, Claire, Mathilda, Hana, Eli...everyone. possibly teachers. all the ghosts. i love writing ensemble scenes, but that is too many moving pieces.

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: i'm afraid i am no longer updating or using the taglist. moving forward, if you'd like to keep up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS. that thing took me to Hell and back, and we're no longer on speaking terms...😒

i guess I really am the spice for you babes

Random freaky thoughts 🤔

Wally Clark x Afab! Reader (it's kinda not an x reader but also is at the same time. I don't know how to explain it)

Warnings: Oral (both giving and receiving) thigh riding. Me rambling for no reason. I think that's it. This is just smut so yeah. You've been warned.

Enjoy my descent into madness :)

All I can't think about is this man's tongue 😩 like he'd be so naturally skilled with it. His hands pushing your thighs down to keep them open for him while his tongue laps at your clit. Not stopping until you're quite literally dripping down his chin.

Maybe I just have issues but thigh riding anyone???👀 His thighs just look so ridable. Please tell me I'm not alone in this 😭 He'd flex them to apply just the right amount of pressure to tease you. Not giving you enough to get you to that perfect place of ecstasy. Constantly keeping you on the edge until he's ready to take you. (I'm calling my therapist)

What MarV Allen say??? IMMA TAKE HER TO POUND TOWN, GOING ROUND AFTER ROUND!!! Yeah he lives by that even though he's probably never heard the song. I've said it once and I'll say it again RESETS!!! Aka infinite stamina. He can go forever if you let him.

This is just a random thought but he would laugh his ass off if you printed out 'tickets to pound town' Don't get me wrong he wouldn't pass up the opportunity but he would find it funny.

Give this man head I promise you won't be disappointed. He'd worship you, holding your hair back while he admires your face. Gently pushing your head down while he tells you how beautiful you are.

(okay I'm done. This is probably shitty cus I wrote it during a lecture. I'm running on 2 hours of sleep and an ice coffee that I only drank half of cus I put way to much almond milk in it. Sorry I'm rambling bye 👋)

October Sun

summary: you'd never told Xavier. not because he hadn't been a good friend, but because you'd kept a secret no one but you had known. only then, in the eye of the storm, you'd been forced to tell him: i can't remember.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

sorry for the delay, loves, work was overwhelming (it's busy season) and i'm sick and it was a lot 😩⚰️ ilyg 🫶

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER SUN pt.25

In 1987, during the period Wally had still been reluctant to join the Afterlife Support Group, Mr. Martin had asked Bernie to ask Wally to help Mina Volkov transition from life to death. You're from the same decade—Mr. Martin's words from Bernie's mouth—she probably remembers you. Although, looking back, Wally wondered if it hadn't been a strategic play to get Wally to see the benefits of togetherness.

For the first time since his death, Wally had felt useful, but it'd backfired almost immediately and had sent him into a tailspin of doubt and frustration that'd lasted another five or so years. Mina had simply yelled at Wally about a safety course and how she hadn't been responsible for who got what part, barking at Wally until he'd descended from the rafters with his tail between his legs. He'd tried a few more times after their first encounter to cajole Mina out of her roost, and he'd been chased away every time.

So, color him surprised when Mina quietly accepted the bouquet Maddie handed her, tempered, receptive, and willing to offer what she knew by lifting and dropping the stage's trapdoor.

"How did she do that?" Wally asked of Maddie, who'd done in a minute what he'd tried to do over the span of years.

"Maybe it has something to do with what your girlfriend mentioned," Rhonda said in long, bored strokes, "Maddie might have ghost powers that she can use to tame even the most stubborn dead stagehands."

Wally warmed at Rhonda's use of the word 'girlfriend', cheeks flushing and heart picking up speed. He hadn't given much thought to titles, but something inside him did somersaults at the idea that you and he were that kind of official.

"Stop that." Rhonda smacked him lightly in the chest with the back of her hand.

Wide-eyed and totally confused, "Stop what?"

"Your face," Charley explained, "It's gone all soft and pining." Then, to himself, "It's actually adorable."

Wally rearranged his expression into something less smitten as he, Rhonda, and Charley stood and followed Maddie through the trapdoor and down into the cellarage.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Time stammered to a stop, the walls closed in; lights dimmed, noise ceased, and all you could see was Xavier. His ice-wild eyes filled with fear and confusion, already positioned on the defensive, more disturbed than you'd ever seen him before.

"Zav?" You croaked as your heart thundered in your chest. "Are you—?"

"No." Xavier snapped, pacing a few steps forward and then back, "Don't. Just. Stop..." He deflated instantly, rubbed his eyes, and raked his fingers through his hair, and then he demanded, "Who was that guy?"

You couldn't deflect; couldn't say no idea what you're talking about, couldn't fake it 'til you made it or wait for him to think up some plausible excuse on his own that you'd glom on to and ride into the sunset. It was Xavier and you'd promised yourself years ago that he'd be the one person in the world you'd never, ever lie to. Dance around the truth for self-preservation? Sure. But outright lie to him? Your instincts screeched and cried against it, fight-flight-frozen in place as you watched his eyes dart around, the flurry of his thoughts practically spilling out of him for you to hear.

The years you'd spent curating an occult personality, touched by the same incandescent, bewitched spirit as every other boho-goth girly with a penchant for Halloween and horror films; the admissions you'd made of having a crush on a ghost at the school; the easy way you talked about what lay beyond the spiritual veil. The many breadcrumbs you'd dropped in the form of red herrings rose like a bloated corpse from the depths of a lake as he viscerally pieced together the truth.

"I know what I saw." He grunted, falling back against the wall and sliding to the floor, head in his hands, wide eyes staring at his feet. "You were making out with some rando and then he just...vanished into thin air." Xavier made a poof-gone burst with his hands, head panning in a crescent to scan the hall for signs of what he'd witnessed.

"Xavier, I..." Didn't know what to say and your inability to explain everything away seemed to strengthen Xavier's resolve.

He sniffed, dropping his arms to hang on his knees, face creased in a pain you didn't know the source of. "I know I can be a shit friend," He began, tone thin as wet paper, but before you could voice a denial, he continued, "I know that everything with Maddie has...has been hard and it's obviously triggered something for you, but..." And his voice scratched, "I thought I was your best friend."

"You are," You insisted, trying so hard to convey how true the sentiment was.

"Yeah? Then why don't you ever talk to me about Aidan?" A blade to the heart. "Why won't you tell me what the fuck actually happened to him? I loved him, too." The blade twisted, sinking deeper. "I know it wasn't an accident, May; I know you saw something; I know you were there." The nickname hurt for more reasons than one, and it took everything in you not to call Xavier out. "Why don't you ever share anything with me? And now you're buddy-buddy with Simon and handsy with a guy you can't. tell. me. wasn't Walker Clark—fucking Number 57 right on his jacket, DEAD high school legend." Xavier paused his tirade to note, "Jesus Christ, I sound fucking crazy," knocking his head against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut.

Your surprise bubbled out of you before you could reel it back in, "How do you even know any of that?"

Xavier slumped in defeat, shook his head, and confessed, "You always talked about him. How your mom fangirled after him worse than a K-pop stan." He snorted, "In sophomore year, when Eli asked you out? You wouldn't stop joking about how you thought a stupid ghost was more your type." He looked up at you then, gaze misty, brows pinched in anguish. "I wanted to see what the hype was about...so I checked out the '84 yearbook in the library. There's a whole spread dedicated to his memory, did you know that?"

You did. You'd been shown a printout of it along with the rest of Wally's dossier. "Yeah."

"I mean, I thought you'd just looked it up, too." Xavier laughed without humor, "Thought you were just bullshitting for the sake of some manic pixie dream girl vibe you wanted to try out because being a teenager's fucking stupid like that, but..." Again, his gaze met yours, held it briefly as he stared into your soul, and then skirted away, up and down the hallway before returning to fixate on the theater door. "Where'd he go, May?"

"Please stop calling me that." You said, hoarse, strangled, breath shortening as your lungs struggled to expand.

Xavier stood and strode forward until you and he were nose to nose, "Who was that?" He pressed, "Who just had their hands all over you and then disappeared just like that." The last word emphasized with a loud snap of his fingers.

"Zav, please, just hold on—"

He abruptly whirled around, stormed toward the theater door, and violently threw it open. You scurried after him, pleading with him to listen as he charged down the center aisle toward the stage, calling out for whoever you were to show himself as if to prove Xavier wasn't losing his mind. And he wasn't, you knew that, but how were you supposed to tell him without doing more damage than had already been done when you'd revealed yourself to Rhonda and Charley?

"Xavier, wait!" You yelled, panicked, divulging the only thing you thought might redirect his manic assault around the theater. "I didn't tell you about Aiden because I can't remember!"

Xavier stopped his search, still as an eerie pond in winter, and slowly turned to face you. "What?"

"I can't..." Fuck. You scraped your fingers over your scalp then shot your arms wide, "I can't remember." You revealed, voice cracking, "It comes back in bits and pieces that don't make...they don't make sense without the context and you're right, okay? I was there, but I can't remember. Not everything." The door, the farmhouse, blood, blood everywhere, a crowbar, and Aiden screaming for you, his Sissy May because your mother always called you her May child—her little baby girl a symbol of new hope and abundance that had nothing to do with Beltane or spring blessings or the month of May itself.

"What do you mean you 'can't remember'?" Xavier questioned, face scrunched up as if that was somehow crazier than the fact that he'd seen you and a literal ghost make out.

Tears streamed down your face, vision blurry, voice pitched and broken as the last thread of control you had on the situation split. "I don't know." Xavier shook his head in disbelief, compelling you to blurt out whatever you could to keep him calm, "I really don't know. Ms. Chung kept saying my brain was 'repressing the trauma' but I wanted to remember. We tried everything: Art therapy, guided imagery, fucking hypnosis, Xavier, and nothing worked. I can't...I can't remember anything after I picked Aiden up from school."

Panels of that drizzly afternoon read like a heavily redacted picture document. The short walk in the rain from the elementary schoolyard to the end of the block. The friendly smile on a face you knew you'd recognized but that now had a thick, black bar over the nose and eyes. The apple juice. The farmhouse cellar. The crowbar. The door. And then everything sped up from images to a movie reel when then-Deputy-Baxter had to wrestle you to the ground at the side of the dirt road while EMTs tried to resuscitate Aiden.

"I didn't tell you because there wasn't anything in here," You aggressively jammed your fingers into the side of your head as if attempting to unblock the memories, "to tell you. And it's fucked up and I'm sorry I didn't let you in, but I didn't know how. Half the time I didn't believe anything even happened because my fucking brain kept skipping over it."

Except you could remember one crucial detail: "Trust me, it takes four minutes before a person goes from attached to their earthen vessel to haunting the science lab." However, despite the awareness you possessed of having witnessed Aiden's death, your brain refused to evoke the visual memory.

You trembled, tortured by the fact that you hadn't been able to save your little brother, and you had no idea if you'd even tried. Ajay appeared at your side, his hand on your shoulder while his narrowed eyes were pinned on Xavier. As he prepared to say something, the trapdoor at the middle of the stage banged open and Wally climbed out, looking furious and ready for war.

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FOUR

note: Waiting for Godot is so stripped down that I disliked it immensely. also, please remember that time moves differently between the worlds of the living and the dead. so the 2 seconds it takes Xavier to lose his shit is, like, enough minutes in the metaphysical world for our ghost friends to find the forged receipt. like Narnia...it's been a thousand years O.o (iykyk)

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: i'm afraid i am no longer updating or using the taglist. moving forward, if you'd like to keep up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS. that thing took me to Hell and back, and we're no longer on speaking terms...😒

The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),

S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader

Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.

— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.

Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.

w.c: 3.2k

a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.

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There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.

Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.

Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?

12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.

Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?

How did everyone else?

He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.

But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—

Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.

It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.

He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.

2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.

Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.

“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”

Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:

‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’

It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.

“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”

“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.

“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”

There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“

He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”

It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.

He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”

You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.

He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.

He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.

When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.

“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”

You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.

Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.

‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.

Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?

Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”

“No.”

“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”

“That’s if they find out.”

He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”

“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“

“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”

“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”

He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.

You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.

He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.

The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)

You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.

He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.

It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.

“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.

Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—

Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.

You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.

He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”

“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”

“Then call someone else next time.”

Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.

You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.

“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“

The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.

He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”

It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.

Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.

His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.

Why? Why would you do this—

“You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”

His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.

“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.

“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.

“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”

You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.

Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.

“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“

He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.

“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“

“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”

Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.

He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.

Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.

You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.

Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”

Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”

“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”

Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.

“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”

Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”

“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”

You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.

Spencer: I've been struggling with drug use after being kidnapped and nearly dying.

The team:

Tongue Twister

summary: a PWP drabble highlighting Wally Clark's addiction to eating your pussy like a man possessed.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. oral sex (cunnilingus).

bon reading, frens

___________________________🔷

Fuck. God. Wally's starving for it. Can practically taste it through your panties as he nuzzles his face against you, his eyes rolling back, lips parting as he pants like a fucking dog for it.

He forgot his History homework, football practice ran late, Simon needed a ride. It was all in all a stressful day, and then Wally was on his way home like a good boy when the craving struck. T-boned his limbic system and made him rabid for it. For you.

He didn't give you a chance. No politesse; no greeting; no indication whatsoever that this was where today's drop-in was going. At least Wally called (when he was already at your front door, licking his chops as he fantasized about tasting you). It felt like it was years and not the handful of hours it was since he last had you, the itch steadily barreling toward fucking rampage.

As soon as you answered the door, he crowded you back inside to the couch; shoved you seated and stripped you from the waist down without a word. Dropped to his knees at the altar, large hands spread your legs, and now there he is, making out with your pussy through thin cotton, moaning like the position is reversed.

"Baby," He whines, fingers hooked in the elastic of your panties, "Please, let me—" He gently sucks your clit through the fabric, tongues through the imprint of your folds, "Please, let me taste you, baby. I can't—" He cuts himself off with a hungry groan as he peels your panties down and off your legs.

Oh fuck, the weak little moan you release makes his head spin and his cock throb, and in an instant, he pulls you to the floor with him. You straddle his waist as he kisses you senseless, his hands on your thighs directing you upward.

"Want you to sit on my face, baby, come on," His tone begging, his eyes heavy-lidded and hot, so soulfully sweet that you can't say no. Wally rambles as you adjust, pussy hovering over his mouth, and oh God yes, he's so close to getting what he wants. "I need it so bad, I can't get enough, I need to taste you, baby..."

His big hands slide up your thighs to grip your ass, squeezing to encourage you to settle your weight on his face. He can take it, just let him, fuck, please, just let him. Once he has you where he needs you, he inhales deeply, groans in pleasure when your scent fills his nostrils. His cock throbs again, aching for you, for this. He wants you more than food, water, oxygen. More than anything.

Wally closes his eyes, fingers digging into your flesh, and he finally leans in. Presses his tongue flat against your slit and inhales again. He tastes your soft lips, kisses you gently, and chokes out a needy whimper. Fuck, you're so wet for him. And you taste so fucking good; heavenly nectar, sweet ambrosia, it's all he ever wants to taste again.

His brain melts completely when you start to grind against his mouth, and, yeah, that's it baby, just like that, take what you want. Those pretty sighs and tight whines that spill out of you make his cock twitch in his jeans and he humps the air, so fucking desperate to alleviate the ache, but unwilling to do anything about it until he's satisfied you. He grips your ass more firmly, holding you down as his tongue darts in and out, probes as deep as he can get it.

Wally wants to say your name, but all he can manage like this is a long, feverish groan; blissed-out gibberish that he spells on your clit with the pointed tip of his tongue before returning to kiss your pussy deeply, lovingly, with restless obsession.

You taste so damn good that he can't think. He groans into you again, his tongue moving in and out, teasing and exploring as he tries to get deeper. His hands knead your ass in a possessive, wanting grasp, like he's eager to keep you there above him, like he never wants this to end. He needs you so fucking badly now and always.

"Wally, oh fuck, you're gonna make me come..." And he can feel how close you are, your thighs trembling as you rub your pussy against his mouth. Every shiver and shake accentuated by a sweet moan or whimper that goes straight to his cock. He wants more of those sounds. Every single one of them.

He quiets, low moans replaced by heavy breathing as he works you toward the edge. He's so hard just from this; craving your touch, yearning for it, his lust consuming any hope of rational thought. He presses a little harder, tongue moving faster and more desperately, wanting to please you as much as he can. Wanting you to fucking use him as much as he needs you to.

"Please, Wally, I'm so close!"

F u u u c k, that plea, that tone, triggers him; makes him plunge his tongue deeper as he presses you down and holds you still. The sounds you make and the way you react to his ministrations—God, he promises to be so fucking good for the rest of his life so long as he always has this. It's almost enough to make him come in his jeans. He needs to hear you fall apart. Needs to be the reason it happens. And he knows just how to do it.

Wally pulls his tongue out of you long enough to say, "Come for me, baby, let me have it, please." Doesn't give you a chance to respond before he leans in again, tongue flicking your clit, lips and teeth grazing over it. A deep moan of pure longing escapes him as he sucks and swirls his tongue over your clit, his breathing ragged, cheeks flushed, oh God, he needs you to fucking soak his mouth and chin.

Finally, yes, baby, he laps up your sweet juices when you come, sobbing in pleasure as he drinks it all down. Slurps and groans greedily, tongue working you until you plead for him to stop, too much, I can't—Jesus, he loves having the evidence of how he makes you feel on his face.

"Mmm, thank you," He sighs as he pats your hip, signaling for you to rise so he's able to shift positions. Wally sits up, gathers you in his arms, and licks his lips, the inside of his jeans wet where his come stained the denim. He looks down at you with a lopsided, sated grin, his eyes still at half-mast.

"Feel better?" You ask through a hazy smile.

"Much better." He murmurs. Rubs his hands up and down your legs as he gazes at you like a 5-star buffet.

🔷___________________________

also on AO3!

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Alphabet Soup.

smut. the journey of a clandestine love affair at several non-linear stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.(Janet and Wally are dating to increase their social value. meanwhile, Wally wants to get closer to her step-sister. you.)

Hi I just wanted to say I really love your writing and your wonderful

Currently ugly crying 😭 okay okay I know that's dramatic but my heart is literally melting. I use writing as a coping mechanism so knowing that there's someone out there thats read it and thought "that's pretty good" is just so comforting.

I love you sweet sweet nony and I hope you never step on a Lego, burn your mouth on food, accidentally bite your lip really hard, or stub your toe ever again.

Anyways I'm going back to my secluded corner to write part 5 :)

I remember taking French and being confused the whole time I don't think I learned a single thing I didn't already know

Sucks that "sleeping together" refers to sex. Sometimes a fella just wants to snooze with a pal.