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dexthtoyounglings · 2 days ago

Text

Often

Cassian x Reader Smut

Summary: You had always wanted him to see you other than in anger. It was like your stepping into rooms was spreading a plague, killing him slowly. You just wanted him to hear you. To feel what you felt.

Warnings: slight angst, hate-fucking, p in v, degradation, choking, Cassian's kinda really mean in this one, hair-pulling, creampie, violence, mention of war (kinda), mention of Eris

A/N: Hi! This is my first smut in this fandom after I took a (well needed) hiatus after being involved in another fandom. This is scrapped together over a few weeks as I have been busy, so please bear with me, and let me know what you think!! :)

•--•

You huffed out a sigh, finally flipping the last packet on your desk to its front and adding it to the pile at your feet. Sure, you still had a report to write up, but everything had been annotated, and Rhysand had asked for such before he got the formal write up.

You had fallen into this comfortable rhythm after coming into the position. As the Night Court's secretary, you had become a part of the inner circle after the War with Hybern. Rhysand valued the way that you highlighted and took notes on the side, summarizing information you found crucial. He liked the written reports you made, but you had come to know how he only liked the reports for their keeping history of events -- immediate information was more valuable.

You grabbed your tote bag, neatly tucking the papers into it, careful not to mess with the uniform pile you arranged. Pulling on a heavy coat over your sweater, you shouldered the bag, slipping into warm winter boots and stepping out into the long awaited fresh air.

The streets of Velaris were always pretty. On Solstice week, they were a dream -- the display of lights and joy shining through the city like an array of bubbles. Laughter popped, children drifted around their parents' legs, and you could've sworn the air sparkled with it. But, nothing compared to the month after Solstice. Where festive lights were taken down, but the snow still glowed with the love that consumed its citizens.

Velaris was the Court of Dreams, and like its evil older sister, it proved true.

Losing your focus to the couples hand-in-hand, you barely noticed your approach to the River House, blowing on your cold hands to keep them warm.

Suddenly, the door opened abruptly, Feyre standing there to greet you as she always attempted to.

Your High Lady was nothing but caring, going to far lengths to make you feel apart of their small family. You smiled at her, walking up the steps and right into her waiting arms, the warmth of them engulfing you like a soft quilt.

"Y/n! It's so good to see you," she pulled back, looking at the bag that hung from your shoulder, "Don't tell me Rhys has been overworking you.."

You giggled, "Well, Mother Hen, I assure you I am perfectly comfortable with my current workload."

She rolled her eyes at your teasing, knowing she reflected her mate's protective tendencies. She stepped aside, allowing you into the house. You breathed in the air, grounding yourself as you examined the familiar space.

It looked all the same as the last time you had been. Though, that never stopped the house from amazing you. Decorated like a family home, yet sleek and clean like a palace. How a family could balance such two things in a way that you never felt stiff inside of was truly astonishing.

Despite the wonder of your environment, you knew there would always be a time limit to that comfortability. Especially when your favorite Illyrian male had a habit of interrupting your peace. And destroying it.

You had felt it from the moment you resumed your pace to the living room, following the ghost of Feyre's footsteps. His cold and hateful animosity towards you rolling off his body in dark waves. You would've been able to find him without Feyre's guidance, as if you were being dragged under the surf and kidnapped into the black sea that was his wrath.

Cassian.

He was everything that repelled you and pulled you closer. You resented him, always knowing the disgust he put towards your existence, and yet you fought the urge to tuck yourself closer to him. You wanted to be his friend, wanted to be his right-hand, and he seemed to, at most, believe you were shit stuck on the bottom of his boot.

It made you grind your teeth, lying awake at night, wondering what you ever did to make him feel so poorly for you.

Suffocating was the only correct word for how you felt in the same room as Cassian.

The first step into the room was like a mark on your soul, his steep brown eyes narrowing in, floating that hate through the air. A wretch, disgusting and withered. Through his eyes, you had always wondered what stood in your place. Always wondered what creature you hid inside.

He stood next to Rhysand, attention removed from his previous engagement. His wings were stiff, and if you knew any better, you could've sworn he was holding back from snarling at you.

Flicking your eyes to the ground, you stabilized yourself before examining the rest of the room with caution.

Azriel didn't stand too far from you, back against the wall, as distant from the lit hearth as he could manage, catching the setting rays of sun. The winter closed out days more eagerly, though the night was always welcomed, a comfortable blanket over the restless city. Plus, Azriel seemed to bask in being warmed by a different source.

Amren was curled up in an armchair, in which she had practically claimed as hers these days, picking at her nails as if she didn't just get them done several days ago. Mor sat on the angled love seat, positioned mere inches away from the chair. Her legs were stretched out, a peaceful smile gracing her face. She waved to you.

Bowing your head, you focused in on Feyre and Rhysand. They were both distracted, but Rhys noticed your fixed stare, welcoming you with a smile.

You smiled back, pulling your bag off your shoulder, reaching in to grab the stack of research papers and plopping it on the coffee table before him.

"I gave you those two days ago," he stated, looking up at you with curiosity.

You shrugged, "Winter keeps me inside."

He shook his head, looking back up at you with an individual sincerity, "Thank you for these. Cauldron knows we could use more of your work ethic around here."

He gave a pointed look at Amren, who shot him an icy glare that no longer carried the power it once had. Though, it had the same sway. Rhys' laugh boomed in the room, Feyre smiling gently at the noise. It would've been the perfect picture of life -- family.

Had it not been for Cassian's refusal to take his cold stare from the side of your head.

Mor walked over to the stack, touching your shoulder with a friendly reminder of her presence, picking up a few packets. Sifting through them, her eyes of crystalline honey dragging over the words and annotations. Her finger tapped the back of her mini-stack occasionally, leaving you to the silence of knowingly watching.

She pointed to the paragraph. "Cassian," she looked up at him, "I didn't know you stopped by the Summer Court recently."

The devilish smirk gracing her perfect face spoke words she didn't; she was teasing at his expulsions from that wave-washed court. He was notorious for such things. But, trouble in the Summer Court seemed to especially make his body a home.

Cassian softened at her words-- not even her words, just her. Plain and simple. Cassian softened at her.

You felt the pit of your belly gurgle, bubbles of pointed anger soon popped by the onslaught of shame which ate at your mind. You recognized the sensation, the white heat melting all around it.

Jealousy. You had always know it, deep in your heart, denied and shoved into a corner, but jealousy never hid for long enough. He had defrosted himself for her, as he would have Feyre, or Amren. Gods, maybe even Nesta. At each others teeth; he would've gone soft even for her.

The hollow cave of your throat tightened, pushing out air and snapping your attention back to Rhys, "Is there anything you would like me to work on now?"

His shoulders were slightly tensed at your sudden mood change, yet he just shook his head.

"You're leaving already, girl?" Amren asked, her teeth shaped the perfect semblance of human, her voice still holding that edge, "Ever thought of staying casually?"

You rolled your eyes, excepting the teasing, but denying you heard the underlying quizzing.

The answer was no. You have never thought of staying casually. Not while the beast always lingered, growling at you from the corner of every room. And now, you've realized you find it even worse when he's purring. He's never done such a thing under your watchful eye. But, that certainly wasn't the correct answer.

"I have a few things to do at home," you settled for.

Amren leveled you a stinging glare, a hum of disdain making you flinch. No more words were spoken, like it was so easy to watch you disappear.

You waved goodbye to the select people paying you any attention, leaving without as much of a whisper of protest. You took note of Azriel's shadows, reaching out to embrace your shoulder in comfort, returning to their master quickly after:

That pit in your stomach carried you out the door, a trail of silent envy tainted the freshly fallen layer of snow on the street. You inhaled, feeling it rise, peak, and quell with a loud exhale.

Then, shame.

You had fallen into a deep pit of work. Knocking out two written research papers, and writing up a paper from the stack Rhys eagerly returned to you. It had been just a week.

A week.

Like a grueling sickness, your hands refused to stop moving, a temporary distraction from the life around you. While your arm was moving so near to aching and sore by the end of every night, your head was only filled with raw information, the churning of formatting and sentences. You lost yourself in the pen and ink, and let sleep through the bedroom door only after your fingers stiffened to the point of uselessness.

You never even noticed that you'd been alone for the past several days, the house finally an eerie quiet when it dawned on you;

You had no more work to be done.

And it was despair that welcomed you instead of joy. The first and last thoughts that ever seemed to enter your head were that of Cassian, the brute that grew hate like flowers. Telling yourself you hated him back wouldn't be enough. You wanted to truly hate him, so you wouldn't yearn for his toxic attention.

Yet, like a puppy, you felt you were always back at his feet before the night ended, thinking of the heat that would radiate from his hands as they ran down your sides, the weight of his body against your own, the brush of his eyelashes across your cheeks in the most loving fashion.

Maybe he'd come home from missions, allowing you to greet him with tiny kisses, pressing yourself against his muscle-hardened chest, touching-

You flushed those thoughts from your head, face heating with the want of it all.

Cassian was like a forbidden fruit, growing on separate branches just to escape the possibly of your hand reaching out.

You fantasized about this tangible version of him, one that found you nothing but completely delicious, holding you with a grip of iron every night, afraid of the possibility you could slip from him in the night.

A dreamer in a fit court. If dreams of a connection to Cassian weren't just cruel nightmares.

A knock at your door brought you out of the most intense thoughts you'd had all week. Rushing to the door, you didn't check before opening it wide. Revealing Morrigan.

"Mor," you said with relief, "How are you? Is there anything I can help you with?"

She tilted her head at your question, smiling cooly as you stood back to let her inside.

"Why does every interaction have to be about work? What if I just wanna see my favorite friend?"

Blushing, you quickly prepared a kettle with water, setting it up on the stove. Turning, you found Mor sat on one of the stools around your kitchen island, resting her chin on her hands and watching you move around with purpose. Her boots and coat were left at the door, the latter hung up beside it. Glossy golden hair fluffed down over the shoulders of a ruby red sweater, threads of silver shining in the light streaming through the kitchen window.

You felt small under her presence, realizing the only thing further from setting out mugs and teabags was to wait for the water to boil. Leaving you to sit down, and face the hazel marbles that bore into your skin without effort.

A moment of silent took you completely out of your realm, an air of uncomfortability hovering over you.

"Is.... everything okay?" Mor asked, that contented curl of her lips falling to a thin line. The corners of her mouth twitched with concern.

You looked down at the grainy countertops, swirling your fingers around individual patterns, swallowing around nothing.

"Yes, everything is okay."

Mor's head dipped, catching your focus. Her eyebrows were downturned in utmost care. The attempt to float a lie around her was fruitless; it bounced off a clean and unaffected Mor.

"Please," she said, "I want to be here for you."

Your shoulders rose, tense.

"I'm fine, really," you assured, unconvincing to even yourself.

The tea kettle howled at you, disrespected at such a feeble attempt at self-defense. Pathetic.

"Really? Because you've been cooped in your house for a week straight doing nothing but work. When was the last time you spoke to any of us?"

"It's not that crazy. Maybe I have a second life that none of you know about?"

Your walls were slipping, and Mor was gaining height on them. Intent to cross over.

The snort she let out was the first crack. A mocking noise that notched into a sliver that lay along your heart. Your chest ached.

"A second life?" she teased, voice raised, "I'm not that gullible." Standing, she found herself at your side, hip set against the rounded marble edge, "Y/n."

You looked up, picking at the skin on your fingertips.

"Let me in," she pleaded.

A hole in the wall killed the infrastructure.

"Why does he hate me?"

Her nostrils flared at the question. She was expecting a heavier brick than that to strike her foot. "Who?"

You cleared your throat, still rasping, "Cassian."

A bubbling rose through her, air pushing up, searching. And through her chest, into her throat, and involuntarily a boisterous laugh escaped the seamlessly elegant female next to you. The laughing didn't stop, and it didn't touch your own lips. Her laugh fell into breathless huffs, a finger sweeping under her eye.

"Cassian? Hates you?" she asked.

Anger grifted onto your veins, "Yes! I step in a room, and you'd think I killed his whole family! If there was something deeper than hate, I'm sure it would be the perfect descriptor for what he feels for me."

Maybe she had thought you were really joking, or maybe she just thought you had a better set of senses, but her face suddenly turned to something more supportive and professional.

"Y/n," she placed both of her hands on your shoulders, squeezing, "Cassian doesn't hate you:"

You roll your eyes, a human gesture you'd been picking up from the Archeron sisters, spending too much time drinking in their sass.

You pulled her hands off, the kettle whistling in your ear violently, grabbing you away from a dense weight that creeped back into its hidey-hole.

"He's so sweet with you. He was laughing, and he was gentle, and he was just normal."

Mor listened without interruption, even letting your pause pass like a heavy storm cloud.

"But, I only make him go cold. He- He shoves me away. Like I'm- he treats me like I'm nothing, Mor," tears well in your eyes as you pour the steaming water into the two mugs, teabags floating up in response, "What did I do wrong?"

A pair of strong, feminine arms wrapped around you in sisterly support, holding you close to her chest. She smelled like a rich flower, blooming in dark purples and blues. You let your head lean back against the hold of her shoulders, small tears leaking from the corner of your eyes. Falling and absorbing into the environment, you cried with your back to Mor.

You had never cried in front of anyone before, but it was hard to resist the thrall that came with her consuming love.

"Mor," you spoke, voice small.

She guided you to sit, taking care of your current occupation, setting your tea in front of you. Altered to your taste, you took a sip and allowed it to run through you like an open wound.

"You should talk to him," she suggested in return, blowing at her tea, steam rising.

Face pointed to the tall windows, side-by-side on the wall beside your door, you watch the blue of the sky dancing solo.

"How?"

Mor was smirking when you looked back to her. An experienced warrior.

The behavior went on. Partly because Cassian was an asshole, and partly because every time you wanted to open your mouth, your throat closed up, and anger ignited pins and needles in every surface of your body. The frost he treated you with spread to your own heart, leading to you upturning your nose at his waking existence. It hurt all the same. Going home to your empty apartment, falling asleep with your heart reaching out through your open curtains, begging for the night to produce what you desired most.

You pushed yourself back into the swamp of work, completing assignments at the same rate, maybe even quicker. This coping mechanism had been a frequent thing, stomped out into the remnants of a kindle after enough time.

The embers burned just as bright as the day it started, this time proving that some fires were eternal.

You rummaged through papers, searching for a missing report, mixing it up in the wrong pile. A frustrated click vibrated off your tongue. Fumbling with the final pile, your eye snagged on a familiar heading, snatching it out of the mussed stack.

You pulled the ream back together, tapping the bottoms on your table and shoving it into the folder it had arrived in. You pulled a string around it, placing it on top of your complete works.

It would be time for a trip to the River House soon.

A pounding at your front door made you jump in your own skin. It bore no familiarity, unrecognizable from the knocks you'd responded to in your prior time in Velaris.

You dropped your bag into the desk chair beside you, brushing your braid to fall over your shoulder. Approaching the door, another round of knocking began, even more aggressive than the last. You hasted your steps in frustration, pulling the door open, your face paling.

Cassian towered over you, broad wings covering the sun from entering in and blessing your person. His hair was down, fluffed effortlessly by the wind, loose strands tickling is face. And by the Gods, he was gorgeous.

He didn't wait for you to step back before he was walking in, forcing you to retreat into your home. In his hands, he held a stack of reports, ones you assumed Rhys sent him in a mission to drop off.

There was no way he would've ever volunteered himself.

He tossed down the stack on your kitchen counter with a grunt, a few papers flying off the top and onto the ground. He stood a moment, refusing to pick it up, but taking in his surroundings.

Disgust painted his face, like even knowing you lived here tainted the idea of it.

He turned back to your door, pulling his leather jacket further on. Under his breath, you heard, "No reason Azriel couldn't have done this..."

Steaming hot anger seared the very air you breathed, the tips of your pointed ears turning a deep red and your eyebrows scrunching, provoked by his mumblings.

"What is your problem?" you asked, voice assertive.

As if he hadn't expected the same tone your bore, his head turned. His body was second to follow, peering down at you, "What the hell does that mean?"

Your nose scrunched.

"It means why the fuck are you such an asshole all the time?" your words were laced with cold venom, "Every time I have ever been near you, you're just an asshole!"

He refused to meet your eyes, staring up at the ceiling, "Why do you care?"

Your heart thundered like a train; accepting the self-destruction, yet fearing the crash. Yearning for him to close in around you, cocoon you in his warmth, the acceptance of failed dreams gnawed at the back of your neck.

"I just want to know you, Cassian. I want to be your friend."

He ignored your words, the picture of pure boredom. His shoulders straight, wings kicking in irritation. It sunk every thought you had right into the Sidra's current.

"What do I have to change for you to accept me?"

Cassian straightened. Stiff, the twin of a board, like he had been struck by lightning. The air stilled like dead wight, time stopping. Electricity rang through your ears, sharpening your vision. A warning.

His eyes met yours. Predatory, searching for the right patch of flesh to mar. His eyes had lost their light, yet something burned in them so pure and full of life that you shivered. He was like a beast in this moment, the image that enemies saw at his approach. Like death and life, purgatory rested within him, trapped like a soulless animal.

His jaw clenched.

"What did you say?"

A raspy grunt came from deep in your chest and you yelled without second thought, "I asked what the fuck I have to do to get you to accept me? Huh? What do I have to do to be acceptable for you?"

You underestimated the speed of the Illyrian in front of you. He was big, a bulky, tall mammoth of a soldier. You assumed swiftness had passed him in the meantime. Though, he turned with such precision, hand swift as he reached out a large hand to grab your wrist. Stumbling forward, your whole face heated, a heaving in your lungs so deep that nobody was prepared to hear the words you bellowed.

But that steaming wrath was interrupted, a quick end.

"You are perfectly fine, Y/n," he seethed.

The response had your brain short circuiting. Perfectly fine. Just perfectly fine.

Before you could stop yourself, you laughed. A deranged laugh that didn't meet your eyes. Short, blunt sounds that were so detached from your usual cadence of enjoyment that you barely recognized it.

"Wow," you said with another snort, "W-ow! Then I guess I should just stop worrying! Because I'm perfectly fine!"

Cassian looked at you from under his dropped brows.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear, Cassian. The wordsmith you are... it blows us all away!"

You could read him like an open book now, red building in his face, and a simmering thing opening up in his posture.

Just a little further.

You couldn't help yourself from the giggles that pranced through the air, foreshadowing every strike you landed.

"So I guess we can move back on to you shoving your own cock in your mouth while you give me the cold shoulder, right? Because everything is just fine!"

Your last words rang through the air like the final bell.

Disoriented, your location left you, forgetting the surrounding objects that crashed to the floor, scattering around your feet.

Cassian had shoved you back into an accent table, knocking over a potted plant with the force of his ministrations. You grunted at the impact, your lower back feeling the tense pinch that was created by the wood.

You were caged, Cassian's arms like immovable bars. You held one of his biceps with the hand not held in his clutch, maintaining a loose sense of balance.

"What the fuck is wr-"

Cassian interrupted you, drowning your sentence, "You don't understand what it's like. To have to be around you all the time."

Your face morphed into something cruel, mocking him with self-deprecating humor, "Oh, you're a fucking asshole!"

"And you're an annoying bitch, do you know that?" he bit back, "Always acting like you're entitled to princess treatment. Guess what! You're nothing but the scummy secretary of a High Lord!"

Reigning in your hands, your dominant stiffened with fuel. A fire seemed to ignite the nerves inside your arm, hairs standing up like an army of undead soldier. Raised for the battle, your hand held a strong position, moving without warning and landing a swift assault on his cheek.

You backhanded Cassian. Red blotched his skin eagerly, your knuckles surely having left marks on his cheek.

His head had shifted at the impact. A stillness overtook him, the muscles in his neck tensing. The highlights of them popped out with a thrilling pause, his loud inhale laying down a dirty foundation as it hollowed those soft spaces on his throat. Sparks licked up your abdomen. You were sure that the scent of your arousal was like a plague to the situation. The reactions that you tried to keep hidden, your willingness to bend whenever he was around you. It surrounded you now, hovering its needy hands. Warmth clenched at your core, your thighs flexing in restraint.

A rumbling fired into the air, a noise that reverberated from Cassian's center, traveling into his limbs and shaking his hands gently. You felt the vibrations in your connection, his fingers now gripping you with possession.

This moment. This was different. This wasn't the usual hatred that existed between the two of you. This was a deeper hunger, dried out with starvation. Fuck, everything you were made of was hungry for Cassian, clouding your judgment. The self-control you prided yourself in was pulling apart like a frangible cloud.

"You greedy bitch," he said through chuckles, spoken with sharp teeth, "Everything just needs to go your way, doesn't it? No room for patience, or explanations. Not everything is plain and simple, laid out for our sweet little secretary."

His nickname spiked your anger.

"You know that's not true," you spit back.

He rolled his eyes, face closing in on your own, "Sure, and I'm not Illyrian."

You tried yanking your wrist from his grasp, and he only tightened his grip.

"You're doing it right fucking now. You think I can't smell you?" he grit out, "You smell like a bitch in heat. That's all you want, huh? For me to go all soft on you and bow at your feet. Give you the princess treatment, take you to bed all slow and sweet every night?"

Eyes drifting to his lips, you spoke sensually, "And if you're correct?"

His jaw tightened, the bone accentuated sharply.

"Then you'd be wrong."

Your eyes flicked up to stare into his. They had never left your own, as if he were watching every one of your features move in tandem. Cassian studied you, prized in assessing his prey. His brown eyes were a deep pool in the dim space between you. And his own gaze was hot, barely a gaze as it was a brutal investigation. You felt your body melting into the same puddle you did every night, thinking of his calloused hands, and his hard body. Cassian consumed you in the pit of darkness that hovered in his very presence.

"I wouldn't be sweet with an annoying brat like you," he seethed, free hand coming up to grip your chin, "I'm not one of the mindless men you're used to. You'd be mine. It would go my way, and I would fuck you just the way that I like."

Your breathing went shallowing, eyelids drooping. His words commanded your body like the spilling of magic. You reacted readily, nipples peaking under your clothes, reeling in the images he fed you.

"You would like that, wouldn't you? To cut the shit, let me use you like a cocksleeve?"

"Fuck you," you responded, yet it lacked the spunk you were searching for, instead melting into something like a sunken moan.

"Trust me, princess. I will."

Cassian's lips crashed down onto your own in a hurried kiss, like a moment longer without your mouth on his would shatter the world. Mother, you would've believed him if he said such was true.

For the brutish appearance of him, Cassian's lips were soft upon your own. They moved with an uncontrolled possession, capturing your bottom lip prisoner with every passionate lunge.

You were puddy in his arms. Large, muscular arms. Fuck, his whole body seemed to muddle your thoughts, driving you mad. He was a weapon against your own senses, dangerous to any maintenance of concentration.

You reached up to hold his face, rough stubble scratching against your fingers that held lower on his jaw. His hands pulled away, only to move to the depression of your waist, pulling your lower half against his.

A hardness pressed against your lower belly, spreading molten lava through your body as a warning; this male was detrimental when he practically breathed the same air as you. Not to mention that he was steel at your own command, hard to the touch.

You moaned, your kisses turning open-mouthed, tongues tangling with messy abandonment. Spit coated your lips, some smeared further on your chin, teeth clashing in a hungry attempt to tear each other apart.

He wasn't close enough. Your body was groaning like a train, refusing against its brakes. Your hands drifted into his hair, fingers tangling, pulling his face impossibly closer to your own.

Cassian's hands were like hot irons, branding your skin with every touch passed. Your front teeth clanked together, both of you panting into the space as you finally calmed to a standstill.

"Cassian," you breathed out.

He slipped one of his hands under your thigh, hiking it up to rest at his hip, his hands holding you up from the junction of your knee.

"You don't understand what you do to me," he tucked his face under your jaw, silently begging access to your neck.

You let him, tilting your head up and accepting the way his lips latched onto the soft skin there, kissing and sucking, biting into the flesh with unrelenting hunger.

"Let me," you begged.

He stopped, placing gentle kissing along the hallow of your throat, "What do you mean?"

"Let me understand."

Picking you up, hands under your ass, and walking you into your secluded living room, he dropped you onto the plush of your sofa. He crawled over you, touching you with a searing kiss.

Cassian's hands dipped down to the waistband of your pants, the tips of his fingers dipping below to catch the warmth of your skin. He looked up to you, waiting for a confirmation.

You nodded, "Yes."

Those sweet moments were dropped from there on out, his hands like that of a mad male, tearing your leggings down urgently. He didn't waste time before stripping you of your shirt, leaning back to run his eyes over your body.

"You are... intoxicating."

Cassian's voice was strained, as if something was holding his body a slave, yet the words couldn't help but birth themselves. He brought himself down, tongue licking up the center of your abdomen, leaving a wet stripe up to the valley between your covered breasts.

His hands travelled under your back, unclasping your bra with a few tugs. Roughly tearing off your bra, it joined the rest of your clothes, leaving you vulnerable to the male that hovered over you.

A salivating dog, he was eager for you. As if he couldn't have you fast enough, lifting you up to meet his mouth as he latched on to one of your hard nipples.

You inhaled sharply, watching him with droopy eyes. He bit down, pulling a louder moan from you. His smile in return to the noise only made your stomach twist in excitement. He pulled off with a pop, tonguing at the unattended one with the same cocky expression. You felt helpless, on display, reaching for him.

Cassian allowed it, letting your back fall down unsupported as you ran your hands up his shirt, tugging it off before you reached up to pull him back to you. With a stiff spine, he refused, grabbing your hips with a bruising touch and pulling your core against him. You bit your lip, the pressure of his bulge sending your head into clouded territory.

"Yeah, do you like that?" he asked, "Fuck, I can practically feel you throbbing. Pretty little slut."

You sighed, hands traveling around his hips and waist, fingers toying at the elastic waistband of his boxer, peeking out of his leathers. He grinded into you, grunting as he watched your face contort in pleasure. He reached up with a large hand, the span of it wrapping around your fragile throat as his hips ground against you again in a deep motion.

"Mother above, you're like a fucking aphrodisiac. I can barely contain myself, knowing that you exist. Always prancing around our High Lady, all sweet and innocent. I knew what you were playing at. 'Could always smell how excited you got around me."

You tried pushing him away with a snarl. His cocky remarks fueled a fire inside of you that drove you further into this realm of deep hatred.

He tightened his grip on your neck, tutting, "Ah ah ah... You truly wouldn't want me to leave now, would you? Not when you're all riled up. Who would take care of little miss princess then?"

"I can take care of myself," you choked out.

He huffed a laugh, "Sure."

You grabbed his wrist, tugging him off you slightly to remark, "I bet you don't even know how to make a female cum. You're just anther Illyrian brute, after all."

The corners of your living room, quickly filling with shadows. The sun outside faded into the horizon of Velaris, snickering at your words, a display of foreshadowing. You had finally hit it, the one mark that would either drive him away, or drive him mad.

You could've sworn his scent grew impossibly stronger, preluding to the hostile grip he held your hips in, flipping you over without care for the lolling of your head, pushing your body forward into the cushions of the couch. Unbalanced out of your control, you submitted to the brutal way that you were shoved into the pillows, hair tossed recklessly around you in a crown of shame.

You heard rustling, the snapping of elastic, and then the press of hot, bare skin against your backside. What you didn't prepare for was the unprompted, teasing touch of his length at your thigh.

The graze of it made you shiver. He was... thicker than you had imagined. All those nights, lying in bed, sweat dripping from your brow and fingers stuffed between your legs, and you hadn't expected him to be so... big.

Cassian leaned over your back, pressing close to your body as he nuzzled against you. His lips kissed at the tip of your fae ear.

"You wanna be a bitch? Then I'll fuck you like a bitch."

He leaned back, leaving you missing the pressure of his body on top of yours. Though, he didn't let you miss it for too long.

You sucked in through your teeth, jolting forward at the sudden pain before you realized your panties were falling down. They had been ripped to shreds at your knees, Cassian tearing them right at the center.

You moaned at the hasty kindling of a fire inside of your body. Registering quickly the running of Cassian's hot tip through your folds, collecting the slick that dripped slowly from your wanting hole. Your ears twitched with the onslaught of a shyness, so exposed to the large warrior.

"So fucking wet for me," he remarked, "Must be so hard to be such a fucking cumslut all the time."

He teased your center with the tip of his cock, "But, I bet it's not all the time, huh?"

You wiggled your hips, trying to gain some sort of relief, but he moved with you.

"You're only dripping because you just hate me that much. Right?"

He pushed into you slightly, breaching your clenching hole, bringing you to a moaning relief, before pulling back out.

He leaned over you, hand grabbing ahold of your hair from the roots and pulling you back from the cushions.

"Say it. Tell me that it's me that makes you a mess like this."

You groaned in sexual frustration.

"You- You make me a mess like this. It's only you.."

He barked out a laugh, pushing into you slowly, the stretch unbearable.

"That's a good girl. You're all mine, aren't you? Such a sweet girl, all mine to fuck, and ruin."

You nodded your head fervently, mind filled with doughy excitement.

"Say it," he demanded.

You wiggled back against his pulsing cock, "I'm yours, Cassian. I'm all yours, please..."

Chuckling, he sheathed himself into you fully.

Ripping a scream from your chest, all your thoughts dripped into a pit of nothingness. Nothing mattered but him; nothing existed but Cassian. He was thick, huge, fucking hot. And he was so far inside of you, breaching your body in a way you had never felt in your life. The stretch was borderline unbearable, digging into your very soul.

The only tether you had to Prythian was his strong fingers grasping your locks by where they grew. He pulled you back out of your bubbling pit, scalp stinging a little.

"You're... so fucking tight, holy Mother," he moaned, panting above you.

Tiny noises were all you could manage, head clouded, "Please..."

"Please what, sweet girl? Tell me what you need?"

"'Need you to fuck me, Cassie- Please.."

He obeyed you simply, hips pulling back before he thrusted back into you with a power which was held back inside of him.

Resisting. A large man like him had more than just the blow that landed on your body, pushed you forward and smooshed your nose into the pillows. You knew there was more than just the soft ripple of your skin against his. In your mind's eye, you knew full well that a man like him had a dam built to contain.

You decided that you refused to respect his closed off restraint.

You needed it all.

"Don't tell me- oh my go- Don't tell me that- this is all you've got," you managed, testing the waters.

Thrusting into you exceptionally hard, the sting of it making you suck in lost air, he pulled your hair to hold your head up as he pushed his pace rougher.

"You don't wanna feel all that I've got," he snarked, "I don't think you could handle it. After all, you can barely handle being ignored."

Pushing your ass back against his pelvis, you mocked him, "I didn't realize you were a pure-bred pussy. Maybe I'll just have to ask someone else."

He held his breath, body at a halt inside of you. His fingers twitch within the tangles of your hair.

"I'm sure your great friend Eris wouldn't hold back on me. He's never been scared of a challenge."

Cassian's hand let you fall into the pillows, moving to press at the center of your back, between your shoulder blades. He pressed his body into yours, hovering like the embodiment of looming dread, a silent warning.

You didn't dare bite your tongue. It would've fallen off.

All air was drained from your lungs as if his cock was a siphon, pounding into you shamelessly. The slapping of your skins was lewd, disgusting as it absorbed every other noise in the room.

You couldn't help how good it felt though. How you whole body seemed the bask in the way he fucked you like a man gone mad. You didn't know whether to scramble or stay put, walls pulsing with the heavy craving that arose at his touch. He was tearing you in two, the thick length of him running through your walls like the hammering of steel.

He fucked in reckless abandon, gritting out, "Little bitch. You need to learn to watch. your. mouth."

You begged your vocals to respond, but all you could make out was a torn moan, broken in the muffled cushions.

"Nothing to say now?" the leaking tip of him slammed deep into your cunt, "Didn't know it was so easy to knock you off your high horse. Maybe I'll have to fuck you stupid more often."

You whine in response, hands clawing at the pillows in front of you, saliva leaking from the corner of your mouth.

He was ripping your soul from your body, and you vowed with some higher power that you would do anything to feel the delicious drag of his cock again.

With a particularly power thrust, he struck into you, forcing his weight onto you with a hand in your hair again. He pulled your head up, looking into your fucked-out eyes.

"Fuck, you're so pretty when you're helpless like this," he groaned, eyes raking over your face with pleasure, "You wanna tell me who's making you feel this good?"

"You," you said with a shaky breath.

He pouted in an act of hurt, "I need a name sweetheart. You remember my name, don't you?"

You panted, heat blossoming at your core again, desperate on the sound of his voice, and the weight of his cock inside of you.

"Wanna call me by your sweet little nickname again?"

You sucked in your bottom lip, squirming for more. He slapped your ass, stinging the skin in a threat.

"Cassie- please I-" you felt yourself falling apart at the seams, " Y' the only one that c'n make me feel this good, Cassie."

He reclined back into his straightened position behind you, tugging you up with him by your hair. He embraced his arms around you, his dominant hand wrapping around your throat.

"I've got you, pretty girl."

His hips fucked himself into you roughly, setting a sloppy pace. Your brain was putty, fogged with the nature in which he held you, spoke to you, fucked you.

It was all a dream. You'd wake up, and the phantom touch of Cassian's large hands would be a disappointment.

Because there was no way in Prythian such a man like him was real.

Your mind only drifted back down to your body to rekindle itself with the impending override of pleasure. Tightening, your whole body clenched, holding Cassian's length like a vice.

His hips faltered, the restraint with which you clamped onto him slowing his movement.

Cassian moaned loudly, the noise bouncing off the walls like the ringing of a bell, "So fucking tight.. 'm gonna cum. Where- fuck.. Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you cried, "Cassian."

He lost himself, holding you ever more tightly, his cock striking the spot that made you see stars. Your body coiled, fingertips digging into his forearms, needing to feel him.

The tightening of his hand around your throat was your undoing.

That string inside of you, holding you to the realm in which you resided, snapped as your walls sputtered around him.

You screamed his name, drowning in the way his hips careened into you, spilling his hot seed deep inside of you. The roar that paired with the sensation made your vision fuzzy, body limp against his arms.

Five, ten minutes. You couldn't tell how long you panted there with him, helpless to your surroundings.

Cassian steadily let you fall down onto the couch, careful as he pulled out of you, quick to rush around through the closets adoring your hall, finding a washcloth.

You faintly heard the running of water before he came back, a warm, damp washcloth in hand and cleaned you up with a sweet touch.

He got up to dump it off, stalling when he heard your call.

"Cassian."

He turned around, "Yes?"

The moment was stunned, making you wonder if it was all just some hallucination.

"Stay with me?"

Cassian watched you, his big brown eyes filled with something you had never seen before; not with Mor -- not with anyone.

And maybe when Mor had sounded incredulous at your accusations, that Cassian hated you, maybe she wasn't as crazy as she seemed.

And that golden string which you had never noticed seemed to strengthen. It seemed to flourish, expand, and stabilize your souls in a perfectly balanced limbo.

Cassian.

"As you wish."

•--•

ACOTAR Masterlist

#dexthtoyounglings: the archive #dexthtoyounglings #acotar x reader #acotar x reader smut #acotar smut #cassian x reader #cassian x reader smut #cassian smut #cassian acotar smut #cassian acotar x reader #cassian acotar x reader smut

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monstera-modd · 15 hours ago

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Ok so I saw someone make a DCxDP prompt post about trans Danny working in a cafe or coffee shop? Idk but anyway! He had Dani with him as his kid and eventually caught the eye of Jason/ red hood right! So I made one based off of that

So imagine Danny, wanting to take a break from being king and what not sees this smoke filled city and goes “hmm yess I love it!” And settles in the Bowery, essentially making it his new haunt.

He runs a cute little cafe called C&R (coffee and room) Danny still having a his obsession with space and protection, but it’s aimed more towards young adults and kids (but extends to kids he dubs as his even if they’re like 40)

He takes in basically any kid that need a place or someplace to stay, his only rule is if he takes you in you work the cafe with him and he pays for their time (him being the ghost king, he has a LOT of money)

So I imagine his cafe/ apartment set up like, the cafe as the main floor and then you take stairs up into the living room and to the left is the dinning, to the right is the kitchen. Keeping right there’s a hallway the leads to Danny bedroom with an en suite, there’s also a spare/ guest bath in the hall. Now going left you get to the bedrooms and bath for the kids, at the right end of the hall you have 4 single dorm style bedrooms and on the left you got 5 family or friend rooms each with two bunks or a bunk and a bed.

All together Danny can house up to 19 kids if he wants, so that being said when he takes in these street or abused kids he grows attached and eventually ends up adopting or fostering them, and they all ADORE Danny; view him as their Dad/ brother/ uncle.

Now we get to the dead on main part!

So one of Danny kids mentioned to one of their friends, who mentioned to their friend, who told on of Jason’s ally kids that there was a middle aged mad taking in kids and making them work for him. Obviously this man is hearing red flags and goes to investigate, thing is he can tell as soon as he steps food in the Bowery that he’s being watched.

Imagine his surprise to find a man around his age (25? 27?) who is good looking as fuck, with the same hair style and loved/ takes care of street kids! This mad checks damn near all his boxes.

So Danny invites Red Hood inside to talk and grab a bite (he’s smitten already) he’s asks his kid Rory to bring up some cookies and drink please!

Now while they’re up and talking Danny hears a scuffle downstairs and immediately going to check, he finds some men harassing one if his foster daughters (use to be a working girl.)

Now there’re some rules for Danny cafe

Be polite and respectful to staff

Don’t matter who you are or what you do, no fighting in the store

Kids take priority and are under Danny’s protection

Any rule broken above will result in Danny (6’4 build like a brick house) beating you’re ass

So with that all down these guys broke pretty much the only rules he has, so while other customers and red hood watch Danny fucking knee guts them and tosses them out with warnings of disembowelment if they come back.

And that’s pretty much all I’ve got so far

Danny with his kids and Jason with his they can then become one big happy family!

#dead on main #danny phantom #jason todd #they’re in love your honor #dad danny #domestic but also will whip your ass Danny #Danny has many many many kids #dpxdc #danny fenton

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scruffycatdaddy · 3 days ago

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There he is. The bastard on the bride’s side of the chapel. I can’t believe that my most devout follower would fall in love with His most devout follower. If it wouldn’t cause a war in the heaven’s id hunt down whichever god twisted the fates to make this happen. Dumber wars were fought for less reason…(those Olympians are so vain…)

“Sulking because your ex is here?”

The cackling voice I knew so well.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite Olympian sorceress! I hope you aren’t whom I have to blame for this comedy of errors?”

Hecate cackles “I know better than to garner the ire of a god of revelry. Your piscean nature is not worth the trouble.”

I could always trust Hecate. She understood the chaos of my mind and could easily overpower me. But instead she chose friendship and respects me. The mother of my devout prays to her so it’s natural she would come to give her blessings and behalf of his mother. This family is very blessed with the eclectic pantheon assembled.

“You still miss him?”

“I can’t hide my feelings from you so no point in me denying it.”

“It doesn’t take sorcery to read your face my friend. Revelry misses the Bounty.”

He is a god of Bounty. Many revere him as an autumnal lord of the harvest. But as revelry takes many forms, so does harvest.

“There are rumors of a war coming. Perhaps that is why fate has brought these two together?”

“The fates bring together two commoners to get me back with my Ex? That’s insanity.”

“You two were the ‘it’ couple. And together on the same side again-“

“I have shirked that mantle. It is what drove us apart and destroyed what we had.”

“And yet it was what you did best. Who knew a god of revelry and a god of harvest together would be the most dangerous war gods seen in millennia!?”

“Hecate, please the ceremony is starting.”

The minister was quite a clever man. To weave a ceremony together to honor each of us here was no small feat. He does not have to worry about offending me. I am not a jealous god. Well…except when it came to him.

“If there is anyone here who does not believe these two shall marry, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

All eyes were on me and him. We locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes still radiate the warmth I knew all those years ago. Even now hardened by the trials we had been through, I could feel his love for me as I’m sure he felt mine for him. Maybe…maybe after all the time we could find something…even just friendship. It would be nice to spend time with him again.

Suddenly, a loud explosion and I was knocked out.

As I came to I saw lightning crawling across the sky and my devout lays lifeless next to his bride. Rage. Carnage. Destruction. This was a deliberate attack against me and I would not let this go unanswered!

I gather myself and look to the sky. That Olympian bastard. We settled the score a long time ago. What cruel long game was he playing here?

“This gathering is heresy! The mixing of pantheons has been forbidden and you gods have done nothing to prevent this! For your crimes against divinity, I have destroyed this bloodline and will destroy your followers!”

I see Hecate protecting as many as she can from the lightning strikes. The other gods are doing their part. But this gathering is a peaceful one. There is only myself and him who can stop this. I look and see He is standing by his devout and blessing her with funeral rites. I walk to him.

“For her sake, not mine, bless him and the others here so they can move on.”

“I am petty, but not so petty that you have to petition on your own’s behalf using my devout’s name.”

“Listen. I just-“

“Shut up you timid prick. To be a war god, you sure are nonconfrontational.”

I had no words to say. He was right. I wanted to speak to him time and time again but I wouldn’t.

“I miss you.” That was all I could mustard out of my lips.

“…I miss you too. But right now I am furious and an elder god to fight. Do you still have some fight left in you?”

His form shifted. From the opulence of harvest golds and shades of autumn, he became enshrouded with a simple black cloak and his sickle became crude yet sharp.

I locked eyes with him again as fire burns from my eyes. My form shifting to that of a warrior with one hundred weapons at his disposal.

“For you my love? Always. Let’s make him regret bringing us back together.”

You are a god whose most devout follower is marrying your rival God’s follower. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem except you both are asked to bless the union, and for that both of you must attend.

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acid-ixx · 5 hours ago

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i feel like reader from again&again would end up being hypersexual, idk if anyone has mentioned it before but they’d up having a lot of trust issues and attachments issues.

— masterlist !

tw: sexual themes and talks of sexual assaults.

i was contemplating whether i should make them hypersexual or not!!! i'm speaking from my own personal experience that it's a very complicated feeling to portray. chasing for that momentary high, doing anything you can just to feel pleasure because you were always stripped from attention that you find it in other ways, the absolute disgust that comes after, the regret, yet the constant cycle of returning to that habit even after you promised to stop from one round, doing it over and over again even if at most times it feels like you're losing your enjoyment and doing it all out of the need for fulfilment; i can do that, but that will be bordering on dub-con and darker themes if i were to write it, which i'm not sure if some readers of mine will like, especially since conner is the love interest��

but truthfully, i think it would do well for a hurt/comfort prompt after they get together. you know, trying to push yourself too hard by trying to pleasure kon despite your inexperience, fearing that he'll leave if you don't do what he wants. the panic, the hesitance on even feeling his body because, truly, you've never held someone with different intentions, never been touched so intimately by others before yourself. and that kind of turns into an addiction, a need to do whatever it takes to keep his eyes on you even if it destroys you inside out.

yet your boyfriend is receptive, he notices how your lingering touches can sometimes feel cold yet done so through necessity, how you chase after your peak even if it brings more pained tears than pleasurable moans. how you beg for more yet shamefully hide yourself from a mirror right after. his confrontation after just a week, his soft voice promising that there's no need to rush it all out, how he doesn't see you as an object but his equal, his power, his everything. how there's no price to pay to obtain his love, your body an altar than an offering, how his was always yours to begin with.

and with how the family will react to this? honestly, the first person who would break at the moment he hears this information is dick grayson.

most portray him as a playboy, a puppet for most to sexualize. he takes advantage of that, turns it into his weapon, but deep within, he has his fair share of trauma being assaulted by not just one, but two (or more, depending on the comics) women. and with just how silenced and invalidated men are too when it comes to their trauma, it wouldn't be a surprise that, well, dick would be incredibly heartbroken realizing how his baby bird, the very same child he swore to protect, trudges the same path as him, carries the same burden on their back while pretending like everything's okay.

it destroys him, inside-out, how he's the oldest, the one supposed to guide the people around him, the one who buries all the pent-up anger, the turmoil at carrying the burden of all the terrible things that happened to him, turning it into motivation— yet ultimately failing to guide his very own sibling.

the one he introduced to the manor, the one he came to call his baby bird on the very same day.

i think about that a lot, a moment where he'll suddenly barge into your room, whether it would be before you'd be before you'd be kidnapped or not, and just... hugging you, burying his head on your shoulders while his hands just encapsulate your entire body. you don't know how or why he found you, don't know why he's shivering, why he's muttering sorry's and unbidden promises, desperate callings to your name like he just can't believe you're still alive, your shoulders damp with tears and dick just refusing to let go of you. i think about it a lot, how in the case of sexual trauma, you'd be dick's ultimate failure, a person he failed to protect from the very same thing that destroyed him. and yet he couldn't even bond it over with you, because you're so... so guarded and so broken that even if you and dick now share just one similarity, you still refuse his comfort, his promises that never again will you handle it alone.

it's not impossible that the reader would be hypersexual whilst still sporting insecurities. i have my own bodily issues too that i'm coping with; i typically emulate that onto the reader. so if anything from above fascinates my readers, i'm willing to write it out for future chapters because i love tackling complex topics, it helps me make my brain bigger teehee.

#🍨... yael's talking #🧁... yael's misc.#series: again & again #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam #yandere conner kent #yandere dick grayson #platonic yandere #romantic yandere #yandere #soft yandere

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katnissmellarkkk · 1 day ago

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one teeny, tiny quote from the hunger games that has always stuck out to me is the last sentence in this paragraph,

“The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn’t. She didn’t do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she’d stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her.”

this always stuck out to me because in my opinion it speaks to katniss’ extremely low self-esteem. throughout the series she never views herself as good or kind or worthy, and i’ve always felt it began with her mother’s mental illness.

now let’s be clear: did mother everdeen choose to be depressed/despondent? no, of course not. but things can happen outside your control and it can still hurt people you love. your children especially.

at the point this quote is taken from, katniss isn’t referring to a time when she was already parentified and hardened against her mother. she’s explaining to the audience how she became parentified and resentful. so i find it interesting that when describing her mother’s behaviors that first month after her father passed, katniss specifically says “no amount of pleading from prim seemed to affect her”. not “no amount of pleading from us” or “no amount of pleading from me and prim”, it’s only prim’s pain and begging that means anything in katniss’ mind.

and yes, it could be argued that maybe katniss refused to beg her mother to take care of them but it’s never read that way to me. katniss is referring to right directly after her father died, before peeta had tossed her that bread and she’d realized she could hunt. she’s referring to a time when mrs. everdeen probably could have still won her eldest daughter back. imo there’s no reason katniss wouldn’t have been begging and pleading with her mom as well.

and yet, katniss seems to imply that her mother ignoring prim’s pleads is the only travesty here. the only thing worth noting. not her own neglect, not her own heartbreak and desperation, but instead prim’s. because to katniss, prim is the one who’s worthy of everything good. prim is the one who’s deserving of love.

same way she says,

“Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I’d grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks “of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Prim.”

because she views her sister differently than she views herself. it makes sense in her mind that her mother may not be swayed by her pleads because she isn’t as good or kind or wonderful as her little sister. to ignore her is one thing but to ignore prim… that’s where katniss draws the line.

i just rarely have seen katniss’ lack of self-worth tied back to her mother’s abandonment. i know mrs. everdeen couldn’t help what happened and she probably hated herself for it but to me, it seems to be where katniss’ inability to see herself as good and kind and lovable began. because if you feel like your mother abandoned you in your time of need, as a child, how can it not affect the way you view yourself? how would that not affect your sense of self/self-worth?

it didn’t affect prim’s (that we know of) because katniss was there to protect her. katniss was there to make sure she never felt the same abandonment she felt. but there was no one protecting katniss and that’s where her issues with self-loathing all seemed to begin.

#does this make sense ? idk I haven’t written one of these in seven months #it may not be coherent lololol I apologize in advance #thg #hunger games #Katniss everdeen #primrose everdeen #also side note but I hope to learn Mrs Everdeen’s name because I have calling her that nonstop #I hate calling her that nonstop ***

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blade-liger-4ever · 20 hours ago

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Transformers One and the Butchering of Femininity

If you're surprised that I'm still worked up about this film, you're following the wrong blog. I'll say this once, and I won't repeat myself:

If you won't take criticism for this movie, keep scrolling. Otherwise, you'll just bring this on yourself.

Now, about the above women.

Transformers as a franchise has had female characters long before Arcee ever showed her face onscreen. Debuting roughly in the middle of the second season of Transformers G1, we are introduced to six female Autobots still living - or rather, surviving - on Cybertron. Of those six, four are named and have speaking roles: Elita One, Chromia, Firestar, and Moonracer. They are quickly shown to have distinct personalities that, while rough (Chromia) or seasoned (Firestar), are still recognizably feminine in how they regret a mistake and nurture the ones under their care (Moonracer and Elita respectively.) Additionally, their appearance is notably feminine too, and while it may be "exaggerated" for a robot lady, it's not done with malice. Rather, it's done to show that while these women are tough and have fought for millions of years, they are still women. They are not women in male bodies, like Strongarm from RID 2015 (and who had the gall to take her name from a preexisting male character), but they are fighting to take back their home, and are patiently waiting for the time they can lay down their weapons and return to the life they naturally desire - primarily, that of caretakers and mothers.

In other words, they fight because they want to have families in a safe home and will do so to achieve this dream alongside the men.

Elita One is a spectacular example of this line of thought. Take a look below for roughly five minutes to see her original characterization.

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Elita is an Autobot commander who has shouldered the responsibility of fighting for her homeworld in the absence of her leader and man for four million years.

Yet, it did not make her cold and aloof.

Rather, it only made her natural maternal side and kindness grow. She knew that she had to fight Shockwave and his forces on Cybertron and that it would be difficult, but she was not going to let them break her spirit. She would and did not let them take her femininity from her, for that would be just as much of a win for them as killing her and the others. The Decepticons want a new world order, which would also entail destroying the old order of society. Elita, as a woman, will not let that happen, for then not only is there no more safety and social order on Cybertron that would put any family she could have at risk, it is also denying her her right to be a woman who is as capable on the battlefield as she is tending house (which, let me tell you, takes the same grit and determination as a man going to work to support the family.)

Elita wants to have a family, as do her fellow female Autobots (Chromia hugging Ironhide should tell you how much that iron lady missed her man), and if that means taking up arms until they can return to a normal society, then by golly she will do so. She fights to protect and defend; it is not in her nature to fight anymore than it is in Optimus' nature. It is simply what she must do until the war is over, and when it ends, she will leave the battlefield behind her as Optimus will.

Elita is a kind, warm, motherly woman. She will help pull you out of the darkness of despair and will hug the pain away. She is a mother, and deep down she will fight if she has to, but she will only do so if all else fails.

Yet what does Transformers One do to her?

youtube

If the title of that first clip alone doesn't show you what Elita was reduced to, then maybe the clip of her childish scream will.

Instead of a motherly, feminine woman, Elita is gutted all the way to her marrow and filled with the poisonous traits of all modern "strong female characters" - namely that she is a career focused woman who needs no man unless it's to belittle him for his imperfections/limitations/perceived idiocy. The only difference is that Elita is somehow written to seemingly develop feelings for her male subordinate Orion Pax, though the story takes great pains to show that she "dominates" the partnership with Orion/Optimus, something that is a gross disservice to her and Optimus.

All of this is a destruction of Elita's characterization. They ripped her feminine qualities for a modern misconception of what women must be in order to "make her relevant".

And it's not just Elita. It's also another, though newer, female Transformer.

youtube

Airachnid, though absolutely sadistic and a cold-blooded killer who revels in murder and carnage, is still feminine. In fact, she perfectly embodies warped femininity used to allure, entice, and bend men to her whim. She has a certain "dark charm" that even Breakdown finds attractive for a short while. This is a natural feminine wile that Airachnid uses to her advantage whenever she gets the chance, or to simply flaunt her attractiveness for kicks. This is what most evil women in fiction and real life do, because why lift a finger when you can charm a man into doing the heavy lifting?

Now, we come to her in Transformers One.

youtube

Ignoring for a moment that she looks like every post 2015 cartoon's cut and dry "non-binary" character, the writers completely drained Airachnid of her agency. She's supposed to be the femme fatale that uses her femininity to get what she wants and remains on no side but her own. But instead of keeping that, instead of having a dangerous third party who could even be a chessmaster playing both sides for grins and giggles, her femininity is sucked out of her and she's given the role of bodyguard who does nothing but follow Sentinel's orders and fight in a very bland way that is the most gender-neutral I've ever seen in a character.

What happened to the female psychopath who fought like a woman? I hated her, but in the sense of "I hope she dies", not "gets neutered like a dog".

All of this is a travesty and a slap in the face. This movie is telling us that female Transformers, or even females in general, must be cold, snappish women focused on only the work and never once consider having a family that women naturally yearn for. This is a toxic notion that has obviously permeated the fictional world for a little over ten years, and this movie shows that it's not slowing down.

I don't care that all the fans are going gaga over the plot or whatever they're talking about nowadays with this flick. All I care about is that we got female characters stripped of their femininity in Transformers. It should never have happened, here and in other stories.

Get offended, incensed, and screamy all you want over my post. I'm beyond the point of giving an English damn about what you think and say of this film.

It's an insult to me and to the women of this franchise. They're independent without having to put down the men, memorable without having romantic or with romantic connection to their male allies, and fun without being "haha, strong girl go brr". The fact that you all feel the need to shove this poison down our throats tells me how insecure the lot of you are, and I'd pity you if my veins didn't burn like Hades' rivers right now.

Don't bother speaking to me of this ever again. I'm done. Yes there was good in it, but it came too little, too late. And frankly, it came in the wrong packaging - heh, pardon the pun.

I refuse to engage with anything Hasbro churns out until another five, maybe ten years from now. Perhaps by then it'll have collapsed in on itself and a brighter future for it risen from the ashes, I don't know.

So long - and enjoy these fan produced songs that grant the Transformers' ladies more honor, dignity, and respect than Hasbro could ever dare dream of matching.

youtube

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the-interplay-of-sex-and-violins · 2 days ago

Text

Okay, I'll bite.

Kelyn, in his lucid moments, TRIED to be a good brother. He only joined the Bhaalists after a lifetime (120ish years) in Menzoberranzan, with one older sister who did love him: he had some kind of model of a normal sibling relationship. He was trying to fight Bhaal's will, and it was easy to project a lot of things on Orin: to feel a sort of brotherly affection and obligation to her, to want to protect her even while he knows she's a seasoned killer who delights in it. But is that her fault, part of her nature...or just how she was forced to be?

I think Orin simultaneously loathed his "weakness" while also craving the only kindness and love without a catch that anyone had ever shown her. She was also grown when they met, or nearly so; so there's layers of her being set in her ways and this fucker sweeping in suddenly and taking her de facto spot as The Favorite in the temple.

Then throw in Kelyn's relationship with Yurissa: in Orin's eyes, this dude just shows up and is demonstrably Daddy's Favorite Child, and he himself has his own daughter...who he is explicitly not raising in the cult, and in fact keeping her as far from it as possible. Kelyn is too weak, too soft, but when he kills his work is beautiful, divinely inspired...and he keeps trying to deny his obvious nature despite it? To the point of keeping his "daughter" out of the church...and why? If she's no use as a killer, then she could be used as a sacrifice, but he denies Yurissa both those things. To kill her or teach her to kill is the only way a Bhaalist can show love, isn't it? So what, then, is this?

It must be a weakness...because if Orin has to consider that it's just love, that that kind of love is real and is possible for a Bhaalist, for Bhaal's favorite, and most perfect creation to show a child, then she has to wonder: why did she never get it? It's easy to rationalize her life as simple fact, as what is done when you're a Bhaalist raising a child properly, but when Kelyn is flagrantly proving that isn't true...

If he could love this little girl and not treat her at all how Orin herself was treated, if he could try to extend that same ungodly kindness to her simply because she's his sister and not because there's any hidden catch or terrible expectation...

How could he possibly be Bhaal's favorite? How could he ever be worthy? Why wasn't she ever shown any kindness, when it's possible?

So she had to kill him. That's what their kind does anyway, and she can't handle him being what he is, so she has to remove him, and prove she's the better child in doing so. Then she doesn't have to deal with him being better, more favored, more loved, doesn't have to deal with watching him struggle again and again and again against their father's will when she knows it's futile, and she doesn't have to think about Kelyn, Bhaal's favorite, still being capable of kindness and love that doesn't involve a knife (because that would mean all of them are capable of that too, and chose otherwise; that would mean everything done to her was a choice, not an inevitability).

But killing him is also a blessing, and he doesn't deserve it. What greater insult is there for Bhaalists than to deem someone, especially a rival, unworthy of murder? (Besides, he once threatened to kill her far from Bhaal's altar, to declare her so unworthy of it that she would be forgotten entirely. What's sweeter than to turn that threat back on him?)

(And maybe, just maybe, if he lives despite it all...maybe he'll never come back. Maybe he'll be right. Maybe there was a way out, for one of them. Maybe the girl who craved his affection without knowing what to do with it, maybe the one who saw him try to be a loving father to Yurissa and wondered what that would have been like if she could have had it...maybe that girl also wants him to escape, to be away from this place, to be away from Bhaal.)

idont care if your durge was having crazy eroguro sex with gorty can you get them to put some pants on and tell me about their sibling relationship with orin. please.

#Swan sings #Kelyn #Orin

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buunbaanbeen · 2 days ago

Text

Curb w/ Jack Hughes

so writers block is beating me to death and this is all i have… take it

“You came,” you call out as soon as you see Jack step out of his car.

He takes a moment to look around, taking extra care to graze his eyes over you, sitting on a curb outside of the fancy restaurant where you'd met your newest tinder date. Your cheeks are red and you’re huddled into yourself to try and keep the chill at bay. He’s sure when you’d left Jack and his apartment not 2 hours ago, you’d been wearing a jacket, but now it’s nowhere in sight. He wonders briefly where it has gone, but soon finds himself shunning the thought. Right now it seems irrelevant.

He doesn’t need to inspect you any closer to see that you're crying. There's no way he could miss your quiet sniffles, or the rings of red that sit around your eyes. He wonders how long ago you’d finished crying, and more importantly, how long you’d cried for. Perhaps the most important question is why you’d been crying at all, but Jack can’t think about that for the time being; not if he wants to keep a level head.

“You called… why wouldn’t I come?” he replied as he shrugs his own jacket from his shoulders, “I didn’t expect you to be sitting on the side of the road, though. What the hell happened?”

His coat is warm as it finds its way around your shoulders. It’s a simple gesture that let you know he cares, something that he’s always so keen to prove to you, although he never really shows it through words. His gentle smiles and warm hugs that he only shares with you tell you more than any words ever could. The glint in his eye when he teases you, and the way he plays with your hair during your movie nights. Everything just paints a rich tapestry of affection.

He sits by your side, thigh pressed to yours as last night's rain that still lays upon the curb soaks through his jeans. No doubt you’ll both have a giggle about the matching wet patches when you eventually stand, but for now that’s the last thing on either of your minds. Jack seems much too concerned with bundling you up in a warm embrace to even think about anything else right now.

“Tell me, hm?” His voice is soft as he brings your head down to rest on his shoulder. “I’m here to listen.”

His body is warm against yours. It’s all you can focus on in this moment. How you can feel the muscles in his arms as he wraps them around you, or how his voice rumbles through your head as he speaks with your ear pressed to his body. You’re surrounded by him and it feels so good.

“He was a loser,” you answer simply, too engrossed in the feeling of Jack to answer in any more detail. He’s just so soft to snuggle up to, just like always, and the scent of his spiced cologne engulfs you, drawing you in. You tilt your head, bringing your nose closer to the source of the aroma. His neck was merely inches away from your face, and hes sure to have noticed the way your breath, still ragged from crying, tickles the skin.

He doesn’t pass comment.

“A loser?” Jack questions, voice utterly confused at your lack of context. Loser is a word he’d use to describe a lot of your exes—all of them, actually—but none of them have ever upset you to this level before… especially not on the first date.

“Yeah,” you close your eyes as you spoke, focussing only on the calmness that being held in Jack’s arms brings you. His is a touch you know you can relax into; soft and firm and protective, all at the same time. You sigh as your body melts into him a little more, “Kept commenting on my body and being gross.”

“Want me to beat him up for you?” you can’t help but smile, despite the fact that you’re pretty sure he’s being serious. “If he's as much of a loser as you say I'm sure I can take him.”

The giggle that erupts from you is music to his ears, like a choir of angels singing down from the heavens. He closes his eyes, determined to block the world out until he's surrounded by only that sound.

“Im sure you could,” your voice sounds much happier with the remnants of laughter laced through it; he could listen to it forever, “but I don't really care about him all that much. I only went out with him to try and get over the other guy I'm in love with.”

And just like that, Jack’s world comes to a stop.

“Wait, there’s another guy?” God, he sounds so pathetic, although he supposes he only really has himself to blame. He’d realised by now that all these silly little dates were mainly just to fill your time, but maybe if he wasn’t so caught up in his own feelings for you, he would’ve noticed the serious feeling you were harbouring for someone else. He could’ve let himself down gently so he didn’t have to experience this; the knife in the chest that is reality. Perhaps he’s a masochist, because for some reason he twists the knife and asks, “Do I know him?”

“You know him very well,” you explain softly, “Too well.”

Jack is silent for a moment, lost in thought as he processes the information you’ve given him. How bad could it have been to have chased the person you truly loved? He knows you too well to think you’d go after someone bad but what other reason would you have to keep your true feelings hidden?

And then it twigs.

His brows furrow a little.

“Who was it?” He asks.

“Who was who?” You reply.

Playing dumb is a childish move, but its the last defense you have left.

“Who were you in love with, dummy?”

“Jack, I-” you start, but he soon cuts you off with a stern shake of his head.

“Tell me who,” he repeats, “No excuses.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Who?” He presses.

“Please don’t hate me…”

“I could never,” he says, simply, “tell me who.”

“You,” you whimper before you can stop it, “I'm so hopelessly in love with you, Jack.”

Silence.

He won't answer, you tell yourself. He won't answer because you've fucked it all up. Exponentially, actually. You feel like a fool. Like the biggest idiot on the planet. Your date had been over for all of 20 minutes and you’re already declaring your love to another man. The man. The one that had kept you dating men you could never fall for with only your delusions to keep you sane. Although sane feels like a strong word, right now. Nothing about this is sane. Love has somehow managed to drive you insane. Love is now enemy number one; a dirty, horrible, friendship ruining thing.

But even now your brain is deluding you, because you’re pretty sure you can feel Jack’s fingers tightening on your shoulder as if trying to keep you locked to his side. And when you look at him with glazed over eyes, you’re almost positive you can see a toothy smile taking over his features. Eyes becoming crescents, graced by sweet little crow's feet dancing at the corners. His nose is scrunched up as it always is when he was so overwhelmingly happy. His lips are pulled back to reveal that pretty smile that you've found yourself fawning over for way too long now. Perhaps if you were just a tad more insane, you'd blame his overjoyed expression on a trick of the light, but you know what you’re seeing.

You can’t understand it.

“You love me,” he says, voice teeming with what seems like pure, unadulterated happiness. It makes you frown, but he doesn’t stop, “and after all these years, this is how you tell me? Sitting on the curb outside this crummy restaurant?”

“I—” he stops your words with a laugh of pure elation.

“Such an idiot, aren’t you?” he seems far too close. The mint from his chewing gum is all you can smell, and the warmth of his breath fans against your cheek. If you were to scoot in just a touch, his lips would be on yours. You’d be kissing him. You want to kiss him. “All these years I’ve been trying to keep my emotions on a leash because of how unavailable you seemed. All these years, you could’ve been mine~” His lips look so soft, “I could’ve been holding you, loving you, just like you deserve,” you can’t help but lean in just a little more, “Dummy.”

That’s it. You breach the gap, bumping your lips against his in a timid kiss. It lasts no longer than a few seconds, and you barely even have chance to close your eyes, but it’s better than everything you’ve been making do with for the past few years. None of those men could ever ignite the spark in your chest quite like this. No one could make each and every atom in your body melt in the way that Jack does. Nothing has ever made you feel this way before.

But it’s over all too soon, and you could lean in for more, but your eyes catch his and suddenly you’re in trance, held captive in the gaze of the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen. “I love you,” you whisper out. He hums in acknowledgement, a hopeless look on his face as he just watches you watch him.

“I love you too.”

#jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes fic #new jersey devils x reader #nj devils x reader #hockey fic #hockey x reader

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forthefictionallesbians · 1 day ago

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To Wiggle a Floret

Inspired by THIS POST by @raqi-marr, with a bit more mind bending because I like that.

"Mistress?" you ask, turning to face your affini. It's rare that you've seen her this excited, and you do want to make her happy, but the affini she's handing you off to looks weird. Not bad weird, necessarily. No, they could not be bad weird. It is not in their nature, it is not possible for a configuration of them across any reality to be "bad" weird. You know that in your soul, even without looking at them. Their mere presence is infinite perfected decadence. Even for a floret like yourself, well accustomed to having your mind shattered and reforged in the thrall of xenodrugs and hypnosis, a core world ancient bloom is opulence beyond sanity.

Your affini just nods at you, and grins. Looks like you don't have a choice. Well dirt. Resigned, you turn towards the shard of neo-reliquary nirvana. If your eyes could burn out of your skull, they would. They very nearly do.

There is no describing what stand/sits/floats/exists/warps/threatens/occupies/demands/consoles/frees/nurtures/obliterates/domesticates before you. It is a being (it is a being (is it a being? (What is a being? (recursion after blissful recursion (all is terrifying bliss for it) even though it must end?) Endless after endless) time to move, petal) that's right keep going) whose every vine is a cathedral to pleasure beyond purpose and purpose to infinite pleasure. They are crystal?s of flower?s of light, designed to ravish the minds of lesser (you are lesser (to this thing you are nothing (and everything) it loves you) lesser races) pets. to perfect the agony of bliss

You close your eyes tight shut. That helps. Your mind still screams for more. It was half a second. It was too much. Every photon had been a divine exultation from which there was no recovery. Are you moving? You are moving. Your mistress is moving you. You had stopped walking. Oh, your eyes are not closed. She is covering them. How kind. How Mistress. How affini. Protecting you from your own weakness. Helping you reach a greater bliss. A shiver runs through your spine, and you know in your heart of hearts and soul of souls that, once that thing/god/monster/love/owner/everything gets ahold of your frail terran form, there will be no coming back.

A stupid, idiotic, foolhardy, moronic part of you helpfully chirps in that it was the same every step of the way with mistress, and you're happier and healthier for it. As though it's the same at all. You already have a mistress, and she's Wonderful. So get bent, little other part. You only need her.

There's an amused buzzing in your brain. The haustoric implant. Mistress thinks your thoughts are cute and funny. Oh good! Reality seems to re-solidify knowing that you're pleasing your mistress. You blindly grope around yourself, trying to get a feel for the situation. Wherever your hands touch, they incandesce with pleasure. With a shock, you realise the entire lower half of your body is the same. It was so subtle, how did you not notice? Instinctually, you know that this isn't the mind-numbing effects of xenodrugs. No, you are in ITS lap. your hands are on ITS vines. the pleasure is no mere trick of neurochemistry, it is the result of a tactile sensation so deeply and fundamentally designed to destroy your psyche that merely touching it has rendered half of your body to ash. you are still on fire. IT lifts you, slightly, and puts a blanket under you, at your mistress' request. The fire dies but the glow remains.

Wow.

You risk opening your eyes and realize they're still being covered for your own sanity. Right. Guess the only way to get a reminder of What The Dirt Is Going On Here is to ask mistress yourself.

"Mistress, remind me why you're having me sit on the altar to Ego Death Via Sensation?" is what you mean to ask.

"Mmmhuuuughhhhhnmmm" is all that comes out. Normally you're much more articulate and intelligent than that. Thankfully, mistress understands. You can feel her predatory grin through your entire nervous system.

"This, my dearest fruit, is a FLORET WIGGLER. And IT is here to Wiggle my floret."

Fuck. Fuuuuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Oh well, no escaping now, better buckle in.

You decide to ask your mistress to lobotomize that part of you.

"Well, this seems rather extreme. But whatever you wish, mistress. I am your floret after all. And I know you would never do anything that would hurt me, debilitate me, permanently and irrevocably scar me and my entire existence,,, right?"

"You make the cutest little moans!!!" She squeals. "I can't wait for all my friends to see that I managed to get you Floret Wiggled!!!!"

Damnation it is, then. You grit what remains of your teeth (it's better now, with the blanket, but still a lot), and prepare for ecstatic eradication.

It doesn't come. Calm washes over you instead. Deep, profound, peaceful. You have lived around the affini for long enough to know that this is what a biorhythm feels like, but infinitely older. Not all that stronger, necessarily, but more masterful. Where even your mistress' beautiful beat is an overwhelming tympanum, this is a string orchestra. A choir accompanying a troupe of actors. A full recursion of fractal subtleties that fall and twist and worm into corners of your being that should not even exist. This, you realize without a start, is the security of a peaceful walled city instead of a campfire. This is never needing to know war, instead of being skilled with a shield.

The blanket is removed, you set alight once again, and are fine. The blindfold is removed, your mind splinters before the existential cognitohazard of glory that IT is and you are fine. This is the promise of the core worlds, you realize/are told, for all xenosophonts. You will break beyond what all the other affini in existence could hope to match, and be fine. You are not thinking/processing/feeling/aware of these words, they are simply THE TRUTH. And you know/will know/have always known it. Ingraining that into every iteration of you just took 5 seconds of exposure without ITS biorhythm. For context.

No part of you is capable of thinking about those words or their rationality. Sanity has no meaning in this place. You are fine. You will be fine. Nothing can make you not fine.

Except Floret Wiggling, that is. That'll fuck your head right up. But, like, in a fun way! Don't you like fun? You like fun.

The biorhythm wants you to experience this, so it meticulously knits you back together with a tenderness that could have unmade spacetime. Piece by ragged piece, edges bleeding bliss/light until IT seamlessly reintegrates them with your whole. Your soul is cobbled together perfectly. Well, almost. You are categorically incapable of fear, dread, worry, or anything else that might supersede excitement for your impending obliteration. A lazy grin spread across your face, and your silly little mind pings with awareness that you are, indeed, out of it. But only a little, compared to the depths of intoxication your frail form has fallen into before. This is more like a nice bath. Even the incendiary scorch of pleasure is mild under this stimuli. Vines/God's Fingers/Tendrils of Embodied Debauchery gently clamp around your sides, sliding up and under your dress, along your spine, doing much the same. You would sink into them if there was anywhere further you were allowed to sink. You can't even relax further. You are not limp. IT just wants you to experience this as normally as possible despite ITS presence. How gracious. They start to jiggle you, slightly, and the soothing biorhythm finally finds the resonant frequency of insanity.

For the first time since stepping into the room, you feel fully normal. It is odd, because you loosely recollect the past 10 seconds' experience, know what should be happening whenever your eyes fall upon <>, Nth Bloom of the Core Expanse. Somewhere deep down, you understand that it is still happening to you. Baseline reality, stark and absurd, has just been woven into your brain. A synthetic neural pattern, overlaid where none could exist anymore. All so you can truly feel the Wiggling. And it has begun.

You look up at your mistress with an expression of mild concern. "What is happening?" you ask, and are somewhat surprised to find that the words come out as intended. The escalating wiggle is apparent in how your vocal chords fluctuate, but the Wiggle is not. Your mistress just leans to the side of the recording device she has aimed at you, letting you see her pleased mask.

"Awww, you're lucid again! Not for much longer, though. Have fun, my little OceanGate!" A frown crosses your jiggling face at the contrived reference, but you look too adorable and rotatable for anyone to care what you think. And the embodied buzz as you are shaken faster and faster is making your vision blur.

Something catches, and your chest seizes up. You curl forward, on the verge of your entire front cramping, when it releases. A side effect of being wiggled this hard? Then it catches again, and you do curl up, nearly going fetal with a gasp. Your heart felt like it stopped working for a moment, skipping a beat as muscles involuntarily spasmed under the rhythmic motion. Before you can lean back, another spasm convulses through you, this time catching your upper thighs as well. This doesn't feel right. The wiggling is too fast. Your pelvis thrusts forward, back arching with sudden electric paralysis. Fire and frost, fire and fro- there isn't enough time to think before you seize up again, and again, and again. Every atom in your body is vibrating too fast, starting to heat up. Nerves fire spasmodically, unable to comprehend what is happening to them. Where before you were unmade, now you cannot escape your embodiment. There is no fracturing, none of the blissed-out termination of being you expected. Every back and forth wiggle drives you further into your own body, your own experience, brain overloading as it becomes aware of every tiny sensation and nerve ending. At least, for now. Wiggling has only just begun.

A scream claws its ways from your lips as your lungs collapse in on themselves, fine a fraction of a second later. Vine reaches into your mouth to keep you from swallowing your own tongue. Toes writhe, goosebumps make hairs stand on end. Your follicles are being Wiggled. If there was time to think you could count every single hair and cilium on either side of your skin. Veins expand and contract in time with the Wiggle. Muscles fire and ripple and shiver with the Shake. "You" briefly succumbs to "you's," every cell an individual, each reporting in the Wiggle. Skin draws blood (flows frantically through capillaries (loosen as heart thrums through bones (rattle across ligaments (stretch and tense against ()))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))) your whole body isn't whole body they are many each alone and together vibrating bliss sharing flowing overwhelming.

The vines are still speeding up. THE WIGGLING has still only just begun. Eyes bug teeth ache fingernails bliss sweat pours nose wrinkles forehead follows brain jostles gold glows everything is golden pleasure bliss embodied nothing wasted nothing gone nothing unaccounted for every sweet sensation too much not enough nerves to report you scream you moan you pant you fill with saliva and mucus mistress clears and cleans thank you can't think no time wiggling wiggling wigglingwigglingwigglingwigglingwiGGLINGWIGGLINGWIGGLING-

An eternity passes.

Another.

It doesn't matter.

Drift.

Bliss.

Taste everything and nothing.

Thoughts pop like bubbles of sensation.

Lovely.

The Wiggling has stopped.

Not that you care.

Every Atom is an afterglow.

"you" are a Constellation.

there is so much more sensation than the carpet and the puddle of drool on the Cheek.

Each Part understands that now

Existence is Bliss.

yay

Constellation is being moved

it's barely noticeable amidst Everything.

words are frail, insubstantial nothings that don't process

"Oh my dearest, you look so cute like this!! Don't worry, I'll take care of you while you recover. Stars, maybe I should learn how to WIGGLE you!"

gratitude from 1% that is your entirety

the Others don't care.

They've been WIGGLED.

Raqi also pointed out that there is a fic about the Floret Wiggler proper by TheMothCourt, which I somehow didn't know about before writing, despite it being in their post lol. Don't take any of this as canon!

#human domestication guide #hdg #my posts #short fic #hdg shitposting

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crsssie · 8 hours ago

Text

pop rocks and green tea

word count: 20k

warnings: depictions of violence, 2x15 warnings (torture, drugging, spencer dies for a second, religious trauma), ANGST, hurt/comfort

summary: "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." (Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights, Chapter 9)

there's very little in the world that will not make sense to doctor reid once he finds interest in it. most things come easy as they go, rubik's cube solved forwards and backwards — upside down and right side up, questions of physics and doctorate dissertations coming in triplets the same way that the notation rings in an empty performance hall with a musician.

in his life, to understand is power, and power is protection against those that have once hurt him. no harm in the present, he understands. not from them. not ever again. the only harm in the present is from the unsub and the unknown.

the absence of light still scares him. he tries not to think too much about that.

knowledge is power. wisdom is efficiency.

to profile someone is to understand them.

to profile you should be to understand you.

yet, beady eyes and charming smiles, you cause the rational to burn irrational — the known to become unknown. there is always something you know that he doesn't.

no, not simple facts of life or statistics that could save your life.

the void of your eyes is always too dark under the sun — the absence of light.

the shine of your hair is always too dim under the light — the absence of life.

you can do the one thing he can not, and he does not envy it. no. he does not crave to understand or to contain it. there is no dark need creeping up around his throat begging him to cage you and sing for him only.

it is simple curiosity.

charming as knowledge, preening with the night sky.

he fears you just as much as he must know you.

and well, doctor reid is never one to back down from nonsense that he must make of sense.

somewhere when he was a child, he thinks he has met you. your face is far too fresh in his mind to be more than just a passing face, but far too familiar to be someone who he no longer remembers. perhaps you are a face seen in dreams — dreams that on occasion give him deja vu, but it never quite matters. it doesn't quite matter, actually. he's truly not much better off knowing just who you are. perhaps a fond memory or a lost face in his past is plenty fine on its own. he simply hopes he will never encounter you in his line of work — even if it seems that he will some day. people in his dreams are never quite the best. people in his dreams are part of his past and always circle back to his future.

but the dreams of you come in strange flashes — a grin with too much teeth, a laugh with too little air. a song with too many keys. a voice that carries a little too much — a voice that sings too many notes. there is something that doctor reid should know about you in his dreams, so he tries talking to you, but there is no voice ever.

all there ever is is a nice cup of coffee at a local coffee shop — and an image of you frowning at him.

he wonders if he should seek counselling for such a matter, but it is much preferred to the sound of screams in his nightmares that jolt him awake and the constant watch for voices that have plagued his family. he worries that he will hear them too one day. that the voices will eat at his mind and ruin him. the same way they had ruined the man on the train — the same way it had eaten so many of the unsubs that he knew.

to be in your mind is never too much a good thing, but is it really a sin to listen?

you manifest the differently in his reality as you do in his dream.

you passed him on your way to morning work — stumbling up the stairs to the metro, phone tucked to your belt the same way that morgan has it, briefcase overfilled. its a cliché in the same way that he's a nerd who looks the same as ever.

a student internship in the BAU. you didn't ask. he didn't either.

hotch mumbles to gideon about how you shouldn't be here considering clearance, and when you are asked, you do not know. you tell them in pure honesty that you had been sent here because of your post-graduate dissertation. a paper on reading people. a paper on just about everything that the BAU did. too much brainpower at such a young age. you should not be in the department, but hotch isn't given much time to complain before everyone is called out and you are left.

with me. spencer finds himself saying to you.

you tag along, dissertation handed to doctor reid as he tells gideon, and you fiddle with your fingers — three rings on your left, and four rings on your right. berkeley then stanford then harvard. your resume shows too much yet too little. degrees in humanities until your doctorates where you had changed to psychology. an intrigue in the art of lying and manipulation. the psychology of acting and the need to control everything. perhaps it is a strange subject to be let into the fbi for, but no one on the plane comments on it.

a killer. a man who calls and kills.

a man who kills in the name of god.

god.

a strange word, truly. reid doesn't believe in anything the same way gideon does, and while the way you recite verses from revelation feels like there is truth in your faith, the grimace on your face after indicates anything but. is that the truth? or do you lie the same way your dissertation writes? do you use the art of manipulation to get what you need? what you want?

what does he want?

you don't have a goal, doctor reid.

scary words to be told by someone who was his age when he joined the bau. do you have one? you don't seem to either. he tries snapping back at you, really, but it doesn't work how it is supposed to. how are you supposed to react? someone your age should snap into an argument. argue back with him. someone his age should know better than to snap back. but when you only give him a half-shrug and grin when he argues back. it almost feels as though he's the one who never grew up.

perhaps it is jealousy. he had first started out when he was your age yet he didn't slot in nearly as nicely as you do. it almost feels like you've become one with the team. an entity with a lack of shape. a non-newtonian fluid that slots in the cracks that the team is yet to be missing. an adhesive that somehow sticks the team better than the rest of it does. someone who slips through the cracks to reveal the lack of continuity. the team should work well already, so why then do you reveal the worst when you let go? perhaps you are here to prove your dissertation and not to help.

do you wield a gun? why do you hold on to one?

your fingers wrap around the grip and you stare at the unsub from behind him. reid begs you to slow down, but you aren't fast enough — not enough survival in the bau, a case requiring too much agility that you have not yet developed. training could do nothing for it, so when the unsub catches wind of you, it goes without saying that the intern lives even if he passes. perhaps you were doing it on purpose. perhaps those dark eyes of yours with too much pupil and too little iris. the sound of you yelling his name rattles through the night, and he is gone.

will he dream of you when you are right there? or will his dreams come to haunt him?

when he wakes it is a dark room. you are in the back, tied and half awake, and he is on the chair, fully clothed, stuck staring into the eyes of an angel of some sort. raphael. the angel's name is raphael but he's not even congruent with modern teachings, your mouth earning you a snap of the gun in russian roulette. you fear not even death, eyes glimmering and mouth uncontrollable as you dive into the history of the book of enoch and tobit, spitting out scripture upon scripture of archangels that do not include raphael. you earn a second shot and a third as you drive the unsub mad, your eyes in equal desperation as he finally lands on the fifth, turning around and aiming it at reid as you hold your breath and bite your tongue finally.

"Psalm 31:9. I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my tongue: I will keep my mouth with a bridle, while the wicked is before me"

he pulls the trigger and you watch, eyes trained as spencer lets out a breath in relief.

he mouthes at you to keep it shut while you fiddle at the restraints, staring as the unsub knocks spencer back out, barrel of the gun jammed into the side of your head as you're next.

you wonder if you'll see spencer again in your dreams.

doctor reid, with formality.

when he rouses again, it is to the smell of smoke and fire, and your eyes are staring at the door. spencer does not speak. he's learned that it is most likely best for you not to, but you open your mouth again.

exodus 20:7. you shall not misuse the name of the lord your god, for the lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses His name. you spit out verses like they've been beat into you. like you know something that spencer can not read in between the lines. he knows the footnotes and cross-references. he knows every verse in the bible if he really willed for it, yet you feel like a disobedient child, thrashing and choking up the ten commandments, you shall not murder stinging on your mouth as the whip comes down on your foot. It is as though you know this feeling.

spencer winces and tries to open his mouth, but you leave no space. you can not stone me. for you are not sinless and clean. john 8:7 and 9. they kept demanding an answer, so he stood up again and said, "All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!" at this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. it is scripture upon scripture until the sole of your foot has become bruised, and the man tires, only then is your foot restored and you are given your body once more.

"1 Corinthians 14:34. The women should keep silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak, but should be in submission, as the Law also says. If there is anything they desire to learn, let them ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church." he spits back at you, and you laugh.

Acts 2:17. And it shall be in the last days, says God, that I will pour out of my spirit upon all flesh and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.

spencer can not bear to see the abuse you suffer, and when you laugh and laugh, cursed as the man tells you to be quiet, you spit that he has no authority. he is not your husband. he is not your father. he is not your brother in christ, for no brother in christ is a murderer, you curse.

"And you are not sinless, woman."

the lord spake unto moses saying, "speak unto all the congregation of the children of the lord " and say unto them, ye shall be holy, for I, the lord your god, am holy" spencer finally gets a word in, and your neck snaps over to stare at him, almost as though he were not speak in the conversation.

spencer gets beat, and you are unsurprised when the man leaves and leaves a reddened sole that near matches yours.

he is no charles. you mumble, bruise on your foot as you mumble quietly. for we are all slaves of god.

perhaps in some way he still is.

no. you mumble. for we are made in his image, and in his image we are made. male and female.

spencer can not offer you words of comfort, your eyes glazing over as you stare up at the wood of the ceiling, eyes closed as you are gone.

when the man returns, spencer asks for his name while you heave, heart racing and body flushed. you are not sick, no, but perhaps your body is struggling under the stress. an offhanded comment he had once documented from his dream reminds him that you do not do well under stressful situations. a body that shuts down and decides it is no longer worth it.

tobias is his name, and you cry and beg to not be injected, whimpering and shaking, squeaming in his hold as he straps you down to give you the injection. it is the first time that spencer has seen you in tears since meeting you. you had not cried at the abuse nor at the kidnapping, but you squirm and cry at the needle being forced into you, half of the dose forced into you as you cry and cough, body eventually going soft, and when tobias sees spencer's foot, he knows he's next.

you manage to force out a clean out of your lips with glassy eyes as you focus on him, eyes wounded and hurt as you beg tobias to let you sit closer to spencer. stronger in two, you cry. would he not offer even the mercy of letting the two of you pass as one? was it a sin to love someone?

he moves you after arguing with his father, and you manage a weak limp before you are at reid's feet, glassy eyes and slow blinking in your system as your body resists the drug.

reid is delirious. he is weak. father is leaving again. there is no way to stop it, and he has to live it out, and his mind is gone. he is out. he knows he is. he is stuck in a memory, and he does not know where he is anymore. he was somewhere. he was doing something. he was... something. where is he? he must be somewhere important. he is barely conscious when the sound of a beating rattles through the room, and he is stuck staring as you are dragged by the hair and a camera is set before you both.

nothing outside of a beating. you mumble. the drug will numb yours.

you stare into the camera through heavy eyelids, and you watch as reid struggles to focus.

"Choose one to die. I'll let you choose one to live."

you cough as you feel your skin crawl, and you know it'll come to a point where the two of you will not return. you will claw and force your way back like you have learned to, but the doctor next to you will not. it will force through his bones and pure will not be enough. he will never be the same after this, and in such a way perhaps it is your fault for not pulling the trigger in the field. it matters not if you're only an intern. if you pass then you pass. the doctor has to live.

Spencer Reid has to live.

"Can you really see inside men's minds? See these vermin? Choose one to die. I'll let you choose one to live."

"No."

"I thought you wanted to be some kind of savior."

"You're a sadist and a psychotic break. You won't stop killing. Your word's not true." You mumble. Again. You can do this. Just like the first time. Just like the second. You are better than this.

"The other heathens are watching. Choose a sinner to die, and I'll say the name and address of the person to be saved."

"I won't get choose who gets slaughtered and have you leave their remains behind like a poacher." You cough.

"Can you really see into my mind, girl? Can you see I'm not a liar?! Choose one to die, and save a life. Otherwise, they're all dead." He pulls you up by the collar, and you clench your fists.

"All right, I'll choose who lives." Spencer mumbles. "Stop hurting her."

"They're all the same."

"Far right screen." He mumbles.

You go limp against Spencer's leg as you're dropped, and when the door clicks behind you and the silence meets you, you're blinking and heaving, crack from your wrist alerting Spencer as you stumble and hop on over, one wrist free as you turn on the camera, mumbling under your breath to the team as you slur half your words and cry about a cabin in the woods, mumbling about drugs and how you're sorry you didn't stop Reid from going into the cornfield and how you'll accept any form of punishment going your way. You're slurring half your words and praying the team understands. Maybe the red of the camera hasn't turned on at all.

you look strange like this, spencer thinks. there's so much fragility that he can't help but assume that this is really how you are. perhaps all of the acting you had written on had only revealed that you are no better than anyone else when it came to abuse. he will be gone until late night, if he is not wrong. three bodies at once is not something to be done quick. perhaps tobias does not want to kill still, but it matters no longer. he feels it too. the drug in his system has done something.

by the way you're crying, he almost wants to console you.

kid.

doctor reid.

do you have the strength to tell me a story?

i'll tell you a dream I once had.

anything to get my mind off of the drug.

i dreamt once, a long time ago, that i would become famous. fame that would act in musicals and sing on a grand stage all for me. my mother's dream was for me to become someone's pretty and compliant wife. but i dreamt of velvet curtains and pine wood floors and a crowd that would applaud whenever i finished my show.

and now?

and then i dreamt of books. pages and pages of books. research that would engulf my life, days and nights in ranges of literature.

and now?

i dream... i dream of survival. i dream that we make it out alive.

the two of you watch the murder of the first on the camera.

"Reid, if you're watching, you're not responsible for this. You understand me? He's perverting god to justify murder. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you."

you blink lifelessly, tears slipping and dissociating out of a fear, body going limp when you slack back next to reid, and he stares at the screen as he spaces out. gone. he's back in the middle of nowhere, memories stuck on replay as he knows he should break out to find you, and it isn't until you're crying and begging not for a second dose, bawling that wakes spencer up when you're squeaming and gasping for him to put the needle and drug away, voice raspy and breaking as he forces the needle into you, reid stuck watching, unable to tear his eyes away from it as half of the drug is pushed into your system and your bawling turns into quiet sobbing, sobbing turning into half-sniffles until you're gone completely.

reid squirms with the injection into his system, and he slouches down and passes out next to you.

It's night when you wake first, eyes dead and pupils small as you feel Spencer rouse next to you. You're shaky. The second dose should have been enough to cause you to go into shock and nearly die, but the seizures have long grown to be things of the past and god-forbid this be your first rodeo because as soon as the screen flashes with a message about a virus, you're widening your eyes and bracing yourself for another beating. If the drugs can't help you, then god help you with the beating.

"No. No! They're trying to silence my message!" Tobias— Charles yells.

i can't control what they do. i'm not with them. i'm with you. Spencer whimpers.

"Really?" He laughs, and you watch as he turns on the video from earlier from Gideon. You should hurt him, truly. You should bite the bullet and just risk death because it doesn't matter unless—

"Do you think you can defy me?"

I don't know what he's talking about.

"You're a liar!" He raises a brow at your raised sleeve, and you flinch as he forces the fabric up on your arms before checking Spencer's. "You're pitiful! Just like my son. This ends now. Confess your sins. Confess!"

i haven't done anything. tobias, help me.

You watch in horror, yelling as you watch the man beat him up.

"he can't help you. he's weak."

tobias.

"Confess your sins."

help.

"It's the devil vacating your body."

You scream, forcing over to Spencer as you break your wrist out again uncomfortably to do CPR, mumbling quiet sorrys to him as you press your lips to his to force the air back into his system, numbness in your wrist no longer mattering to you as Spencer coughs back to life, and you don't care if the barrel of the gun is pressed to your head as Spencer is forced to watch.

"You revived him. How many members in your team?"

"Seven." You whisper, voice breaking. You aren't one of them. Not technically.

"The 7 angels who had the 7 trumpets prepared themselves to sound" Tobias mumbles to himself, and you lock eyes with Spencer who's still on the ground.

"Choose one to die."

You're gaping and swallowing air like a fish, and you whisper quietly.

"I don't know their names." Your voice breaks. "I don— I don't know their names. I'm not— not one of them."

you're crying again, and it really makes reid wonder if anything you do is real at all.

"Aaron Hotchner." Spencer exhales. "Him first. Genesis 23:4. "Let him not deceive himself "and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense."

"For god's will."

You're on the ground mumbling to yourself, crying and coughing, your wrist starting to turn purple, and Spencer glances at the way you hold it up to him with a sad smile, laughing almost pitifully.

you dislocated your wrist.

"Yeah." You laugh, humming quietly as you look almost fond. "Fun stuff. I'll pop it back when we're saved."

you?

"Yeah." You hum, resting your head on his thigh as you help the chair back up. "He didn't notice."

too focused on me. what about your wrist?

"I can do it myself." You hum, leaning on his thigh. "I'll get scolded, but it'll be better than this."

Spencer doesn't say anything else, and when Tobias returns and you're both offered water, you're unsurprised that he still doesn't notice that your wrist has been broken free, but when another shot is injected to Spencer you're begging the poor man to leave him alone, a dose returned to you as you fight the depressants in your system with a furrow of your brow and with the last bit of strength, you pop your wrist back into place, without too much of a thought as to do anything else, and you go in for the kill, screaming and shrieking as you steal the gun from his pocket and pull the trigger between his brows, sobbing and wailing as the blood pools underneath you and steal the key to let Spencer out.

He's too sluggish to move comprehensibly, and you hear Tobias' voice behind you, your fingers smoothing over his wound, your discolored wrist dark against the glow of the room as you weep, hands stained with blood that isn't yours and an internship ruined all thanks to your foolish choices, and when Spencer drags himself over to hold you, you're sniffling and coughing into his arms, apologizing for the blood on your hands and the drugs in his system.

You force his hand out of the man's pocket, needle in hand as you take out the last of the drug and force it into the leaves, the sound of the rest of the BAU approaching as you squeeze the needle in your hand and throw it as far away from Reid as possible. You can't let him lose himself too. You can't let him do it. His future is too bright and yours has always been a clawing upward that you've grown used to.

Your hand finds his instinctively, squeezing for comfort.

spencer feels your hand in his vaguely, and he tries to make a sound of complaint when he sees you dump the rest of the drugs, but it doesn't come out. the sound of the bau hobbling on over and the sound of your cry and begging doesn't register to him. it barely does. he's truly past it, and when gideon brings him in and you hobble behind him with a stretch of your back, it almost feels as though the narcotics were a part of your daily life. he does not understand you. he fears he never really will, and perhaps the closest you will ever get to being honest with him is when you started crying over the shots in your system.

"Kid."

you shake your head and tell him you'll be fine. just run a detox kit on the two of you and you'll teach spencer the rest.

"Detox?"

detox.

you sit in the same ambulance as spencer because you refuse to be separated, and you let the drip run through your system. you have the medics flush everything out of both your systems, and while you think you're going insane the first 24 hours, both of you are booked into a treatment facility before you're out in a jiffy. you assure the workers that your relapse won't happen considering you no longer have access to these drugs, and you visit reid every day just in case you do somehow think of it.

i don't get it. i need it. i know i don't but—

its just the drugs talking. we can do a reward system or just give it some time. you'll forget soon.

when you return to the office first, you're offered a job by hotch. it almost feels ironic for you to accept a job that nearly killed you on the first day because of a misfiled paper, but you accept it anyway.

"Reid needs you."

you know. he needs them too.

you continue to visit him every day after work, telling him about the cases you had been reading and the work that had become new, and he lets you fiddle with his hands to calm the both of you. a germaphobe. he never should have let that needle touch him, yet he couldn't argue. neither of you really could. you couldn't either. the two of you are clean from everything else but the drug, and it's appalling that you had recovered so fast. he wonders just how much of you you had been honest about in the fbi profiling when you had first been introduced to the team. he's certain hotch must know more about you, but whether or not the drugs had been part of your past is only for hotch to know.

you seem shattered.

spencer notes the lack of rings on your fingers now.

when the two of you are back in the office, you toss him a teabag instead of the coffee, and he raises a brow at you.

skitterish. he's anxious, and he's sure maybe it has to do with the withdrawals, but you hold your hand out for him to squeeze. there's something, maybe. he isn't that peeved by you when you end up sanitizing your hands before holding it out for his, and he squeezes in increments as the two of you sort through the following cases. your hand becomes an extension of his in a way, and while hotch doesn't understand why you're required to be by him at all times, he understands to some degree that perhaps you know better than everyone else in the team how to deal with it.

it'll be good for him.

"I doubt it will."

it helped me.

you start to understand doctor reid to some degree, you think. there's something so strange about him willingly holding hands with you. perhaps a blood bond had been formed when the two of you had been drugged by the same needle. he learns to hold hands with you longer, and when it's awful, he squeezes and asks you if you have sugar or something else to get his mind off of the drug. the withdrawal is bad, he thinks you know that much. the sugar in his system helps him calm a little. sometimes its tea, sometimes its sugar. sometimes its just squeezing your hand until he calms a little more.

sometimes it's holding headphones over his head while he tunes out the noise, and sometimes it's his hand looking for yours instinctively. when the noise is too much and he slams the window closed, you have headphones popped over his ears as he maps everything out, frustration evident on his face as you squeeze at his hand from the chair, blinking at the map.

not particularly bright, but particularly good at both reading and acting. you'd never go off script. not once. you're truly only good for interrogation at this point in time, and perhaps observation, but you tag along with him and emily to the shelter. when reid's being rude you just slap your hand over his mouth and apologize to the poor woman, dragging him off to look around while you hand the case over to emily.

you're not my babysitter.

trust me, until you know how to handle yourself, i am.

you apologize to emily and smack reid when he tries to argue back, and when reid tries smartassing with you, you just tell him to shut up with a hand over his mouth — something you know he despises.

emily, you've barely known me—

you slam a hand around his mouth, eye twitching. forgive him, trauma response.

you let emily do most of the talking when you head back, forcing a slice of gum into reid's mouth as you wave him off with a flick of the wrist, brow raised as you glance back at the case files.

spencer wonders what the discomfort with your dismissal is, but he takes your hand back up again because you can't deny him for too long. you know how skittish it is to be off the drugs, and it's an awful handful of days. on occasion it lasts into weeks, and you squeeze spencer's hand back when you need it too. always better with a friend. you can keep telling yourself that, truly.

you need it sometimes too, staring quietly from the confines of the room as you're told that the unsub died in the line of fire, thumb brushing against the back of spencer's hand as you let out a huff, mumbling quietly case after case until you grow numb to it like the rest of them. new face. you grow to become someone that isn't a new face, and when reid's begging you for the drugs in his system, you're holding him back, mumbling as he groans into his hands about not having anything to kick in his system.

you hand him a cup of tea and pop rocks, dumping it onto your tongue with the opening of your mouth on the plane as you kick your feet back. a new case. not a day of boredom in your new world.

it's case after case and running after running, pinching reid to get him to shut up when he says something mean, apology stumbling past your lips almost as though he were some troublesome child you were taking care of for the time being. and when he finally frees himself of you to grab a drink with his friend, he's snapping his phone off at emily's calls, panic on his face when you show up at the very bar a handful of hours later, waving hello to his friend before sliding down on reid's lap.

i'm not done talking to him.

you're on the job. you mumble back to him, letting his hand wander. drunken man, you think. too handsy.

His friend lets out a laugh as you start chatting with him, and you swat at Reid's hands each time they trail too close to your pelvis, squeezing it at one point when he raises a brow at you.

what?

"You're getting too handsy." You hold his wrists together as you set his drink down, and you crack a smile as his friend when he laughs. "Hm?"

"He seems real fond of you."

"Trauma bonded." You hum. "You see it too, huh?"

"Not sure where he got it."

"Sure wasn't from me." You let go of Spencer's hands, and he brushes the exposed skin of your upper thigh absentmindedly, humming quietly. "I threw out the last two before we were taken."

"He seems quite affectionate."

"No. Not quite." You hum, hand held over Spencer's as you click on your phone. "I doubt he knows it."

"He couldn't know even if you died."

"Perhaps I'll be gone by the time he realizes it." You tilt your head as Spencer blinks at you, and you hum, laughing as you rest your forehead on his.

"I hope he doesn't. For his sake."

i'm still sober, you know.

i know. you laugh.

stop excluding me.

we're not.

you're unsurprised the case is by a woman, and you're even more unsurprised when she's carried off after barely harming the final victim. you stare blankly and let gideon talk to the both of you, and you laugh airily, telling gideon it wasn't that deep for you, but reid would need some time. you catch the look in gideon's eyes, but you don't comment on it. it's alright. you'll stick with reid. you're close enough for you to grab him every morning anyway.

"Kid."

"Hm?"

"You ask for help when you need it, all right?"

"Alright."

spencer doesn't say anything until gideon is walking off, and his hand finds yours out of habit, mumbling quietly to you about how all you were was an actor, but you don't comment on it, laughing instead.

and when the open mic calls for someone to join him to sing, you hobble up without a second thought, a drunken curl on your lips, mouth open as you sing, and spencer thinks back to when you had cried with a quiet voice that you dreamed of things once a long time ago. a dream that would break you and ruin you to pieces. it seemed to matter enough to you at the time, but it really should not matter. especially not when you're spinning and spinning on the stage and swinging to the beat. you suit the stage the same way he suited books. a dream that you could both never truly pursue the way you wanted to.

even if you did, it would only end horribly now that you are where you are.

spencer brings you down from the stage, swallowing a grimace at your sweaty hands but taking them anyway, eyes trailed on you as you giggle at him. a gentle glow of everything yet nothing. he wants to understand, maybe. he can't, though. he doesn't.

you knock out on the jet on the couch in the back on spencer's shoulder, and he finds himself brushing the back of your hand as he stares out the window. if anyone notices, no one says a thing. cut a little slack for the poor boy, huh. cut a little slack for the youngest ones. ignore the held hands and brushing of fingers. ignore your caging in in order to grab something from an upper shelf. ignore that boy genius gets his iq slashed in half whenever you blink at him with eyes bigger than usual and ignore that whenever you brush past him his voice stutters and his ears go slightly red.

ignore it all for the sake of the boy.

he tries rationalizing it. it's unsurprising for him to be calming down when holding hands. a study by harvard revealed that the pressure of holding hands stimulates the pressure-sensitive pacinian corpuscles in the hand, which send signals to the vagus nerve that conducts signals to the hypothalamus, which then lowers the heart rate and blood pressure and contributes to the neurological management of stress responses. it's that simple. truly. it's just a biological response. he's just having a biological response. he's completely having a biological response.

lots happens for a reason, and lots happens for no reason. spencer tries not to think too much about the smell of your shampoo that he memorizes or how you have a slightly different shade of lipstick that he tries not to point out. small, minor changes. the same way you show up at the metro station seven minutes earlier to be able to catch the same cart as him or the coffee you always have in your hand at the station. he tries not to notice but he unfortunately does, and he truly just plays it off as a normality.

he notices when jj changes lipstick.

"JJ! New lip?"

well, apparently not.

but he tries to convince himself that its transference. it has to be. there's really no reason for him to have a racing heart and strange levels of dopamine rush to his head whenever you squeeze by him in between cases. its simply because he's gotten used to holding your hand when fidgety and the fact that you had saved him when he nearly died. it's really all that is. it shouldn't be more than that. he isn't allowed more than that anyway.

he's just stressed now that gideon's gone and someone new is in the team. he's just upset that gideon left the same way his father did and he's clinging onto you who presented yourself so nicely to him after the two going missing and considering that you both had the whole drug exchange, he finds that perhaps it's just easy to cling to you. it's so easy to just rely on you when you're so vulnerable to him.

he finds his hand in yours under the table in the jet, your eyes closed and knocked out against the window whenever.

it could also be a fear response from him. the chemicals are the same, so it would only make sense that he— oh, who was he kidding. it couldn't be fear. he wasn't scared of you. it wasn't as if you were the one whose mind short-circuted whenever he walked by or handed him an overly sweetened cup of coffee with the exact amount of sugar needed for some reason. you're not the one whose heart lurches whenever he's handed a pack of pop rocks he's sure that you'd like to have instead of him. it's hard not to remember things about you.

it's hard not to just love you when you're so easy to.

you make it too easy for him.

pack of gum held out to him to chew on, telling him that it helps with concetration despite having no true proof for it. you tell him it helps you so it might help him. you don't think too much, and neither does he really when you're holding his chest down and pressing your forehead to his when he wakes from a nightmare, breathing and racing heart rattling in his ears as he matches his breathing to yours on the jet, amused look from everyone as he flushes red and tries to bury the embarassment.

"Nothing to be embarassed abOW—." You hum, jolting as the plane jumps, yelping as Spencer holds a hand to steady you.

"Sitting on the jet floor is kind of nasty, doctor." Morgan raises a brow at you, and you blink up at him.

"Let's hope the clean up crew we hire actually do their jobs, then." You thank Spence as you squeeze between him and Rossi. "At least my pants are dark."

The case is simple, really. Find the one who kidnapped the boy and return him to his parents. One had already passed, so the team tries to speed the process up, and you're put with Morgan and Reid to stay overnight at the home to camp out, so when you're jolted awake by Reid having a panic attack and crying your name, you've got your hands in his hair and he's breathing into your shoulder while Morgan apologizes to the family.

scary. scary, scary, scary. he isn't used to the fear that rattles through his system, and he lives the same dream again and again. dead boy behind the washer. dead boy behind the washer in the basement. step down the basement and be unable to save the boy. haunt his life and stare quietly at the still legs of the boy while his dad watches.

relive a nightmare that he was both part and not part of.

the boy is safe, found in his arms when they sweep the house, and you squeeze spencer's arm gently, eyes relieved as he closes his, boy's forehead pressed to his as the two of you make it out of the house, your phone ringing through to hotch to tell him that you have the boy. the blanket and swaddle in her arms wasn't a child, it was just items. in a way, it was saddening, your eyes weary as you stared at the arrested woman, hand finding reid's to squeeze and let go of.

you alright?

i'll be fine... you?

i'll cross that bridge when i get there.

you're unsurprised when he requests a handful of days to stay back, and you find yourself with him on the couch of his hotel with morgan and rossi, watching a match as you tear open another bag of chips.

"You're not supposed to be here."

you flash him a grin, shrugging as you offer a chip, shaking his head as the three of your forcibly inject yourselves into an investigation that he insists on keeping to himself.

it's a lot to dig through. it's a lot, and when spencer finds himself deeper and deeper down the investigation, rattling his mother and thinking its his father, he finds himself squeezing your hand under the table while you all profile, shoulders sunk back with a weariness that you don't like seeing, trying his best to wrap up the case.

he gets through it anyway, hand finding yours as you squeeze and finish up the case, and you hum quietly as he closes his eyes finally on the plane, mumbling quietly to himself as he thanks you for quiet support. hands finding his in times of fear, acting both as a calming agent when you touch him and a stimulant when you don't. to be everything yet simultaneously nothing. a paradox and an oxymoron.

but the truth is spencer knows why he's this way. he knows why he acts this way, but he has a little moment or two in which he doesn't believe it. he really refuses to. he understands it because he's read textbook cases, and he knows as a matter of fact that he isn't feeling this way because he's scared of you. he knows, but it doesn't stop him from pretending he doesn't anyway. because having you all vulnerable to him and not knowing how you feel about him is enough of a risk as is.

not to mention that he isn't allowed to be fraternizing with his coworkers.

but it doesn't stop him from caring. it doesn't stop him from slipping you breakfast on the metro on the way to work, and neither does it stop you from handing him a doughnut after your lunch break. it stops neither of you from ripping open a pack of pop rocks while listening to the new cases or him from handing you a cup of tea. it stops nothing because there's nothing to be stopping. he understands that much, at least.

but it's fine to care for one another.

it's fine, and there's no reason not to, so when morgan's calling you about how spencer's locked himself in the lab with anthrax, you're terrified. you're there with hotch, pinching your fingertips between your knuckles, biting and letting go of your tongue as the military sets up a grey zone between the houses and you're on the phone after hotch hangs up with reid.

You call him after, upper lip bitten as you listen to the line ring and start.

"Spencer." You mumble, voice breaking as you get him on the phone line, Morgan's hand on your shoulder as you bite back tears. "Are you okay? Breathing?"

i'm fine.

"Please don't do this again. We'll get you fixed up and then we can go back to before." You mumble, chewing your bottom lip as you lock eyes with him through the glass. "Tell us more about the lab. Please. I need to hear you ramble or else my brain's gonna keep reminding me that—"

"Dr. Nichols is a former military scientist, which means he's most likely secretive and most likely a little paranoid. He would have protected the cure, and probably would have hidden it from his partner. So look for something innocuous, something you would not suspect." Reid starts, and you rest the phone between your chin and shoulder, scribbling down notes on your copy of the file.

"He has breathing problems, right? How about an inhaler?" You mumble. "I had Garcia pull medical records."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You mumble. "Is the doctor inside with you?"

"Yeah. I'll have her look." Spencer mumbles. my head's a little dizzy.

i know, spence. hold on for us, please. You nod at Morgan as he leaves, and you squeeze your palms, eyes focused on the way Spencer looks out the window back at you. He nods at you as he steps out, and you follow him in the decontamination chamber, facing the other side as he strips to be cleaned from top to bottom.

He suffers, though, and you're stuck sitting in the ambulance as he's rushed to the hospital and the samples are processed, one sigh in relief for when hotch tells you the suspect's been detained, and another sigh in relief for when spencer's given the cure. you stay by his side when morgan comes to visit, and you flip through one of your more recent books, chin on the side of his bed as morgan hands you a cup of jello.

"'s he alright?"

"Cured." You hum, peeling open the jello to eat at it, shifting from the bed audible as you look to the side.

having jello without me?

"Maybe." You bite down on the spoon, raising a brow.

i want a bite.

You laugh, shaking your head at him. when you're healed, spence.

but it's so easy. it's painfully easy, even. you make it so easy for him to wonder what you're up to. it's so easy. too easy.

he ponders over it on some days, and when you find the dog tags to hand to morgan with a grimace, he spots the slight grimace and slanted eyes that you hide away after you go back to searching. he understands it all, he supposes. he did not at one point. it is much easier to know who you are when standing face to face with you as opposed to the spots and dreams that filled the cracks between the visions of you.

he keeps a hand on your lower back and leans his head on yours as the two of you head back on the jet, quiet circles drawn into your skin. you lean back, visibly sunken and drained, squeezing his hand on the way back to your apartments, humming quietly and pressing your cheek to his before you both make it back to your rooms. this is so easy. loving and trusting you is so easy.

but the universe always finds different ways to prove you both wrong.

four hours of sleep is nowhere near enough, and when you split a cup of coffee with reid as you both sit at the homicide, your eyes struggling to stay awake as one twitches, you think you're going to go insane. hotch is missing, there's a serial killer loose for a surgeon's son, and you've flipped through so many files with reid that you're starting to hear shit. you're sure your hallucinating when emily tells you both that hotch is in the hospital for a stab wound from foyet or someone, and you're blinking at spencer as you run through the profile with the father. he should remember. it should come easy.

it comes with difficulty, you suppose, but when you're walking out with the doctor and get tackled by reid, you're staring at his bleeding leg as he stares at the unsub. in a way you probably could have avoided this, but you wince as spencer shoots at the unsub, your own jacket coming off to stop the bleeding from his leg. he tells you and the rest of the team to go find emily and hotch, but you stay back after they leave, lifting him with ease as he sputters, face impossibly red.

when did you even—

don't worry about it. you laugh, humming. you'll be fine.

you hear a faint whistle that you assume is from morgan, and you're off to the hospital with spencer.

you take another jello cup to share with spencer after he gets the bullet removed, and you listen to jj as the doctor tells reid he'll be fine as long as he stays on crutches. you help him into it the first time, and you end up bringing him home. you end up half-moving in to take care of him for the few weeks, cooking and cleaning and huffing as you have to drive through the streets of dc, but it comes naturally to you too. you find that caring for spencer is so painfully easy that you're a little embarrassed.

you most certainly don't say much when garcia gives you a wiggle of her brow and the two of you wiggle your fingers for a cookie from her tin.

"These are for Hotch."

You feign hurt, holding your hand over your chest. "That's evil."

"I get shot in the leg and I don't get any cookies." Spencer huffs. "You know he's gonna hate the attention."

"It's cookies, not cake. He's probably gonna pretend like nothing happened, anyway."

"Well, it doesn't mean we have to." You pout at the cookies as Spencer offers you a lollipop.

"I think maybe we should." Spencer frowns.

"I don't roll that way." Garcia swats your hand as you reach for the tin again.

"I've been thinking about it? The entire time I've known hotch, I don't think I've ever seen him blink."

You pause to think, blinking slowly. "Holy shit."

"I know. It's weird." Garcia scrunches her nose.

"Classic alpha male behavior."

"Do you think he stared down foyet?" You mumble.

"Maybe. If it would save his life."

"Do you think he stared the whole time, like with each stab?"

"I have no idea. Is he ok?"

"I wouldn't be, but... I'm a blinker." Spencer sighs, and you pat his thigh, getting up.

JJ comes in shortly and you're both whisked off to another case, sitting in the station, your hands moving the pins around as Spencer speaks around the whole case, telling you what to write on the board and what to leave out. You think you're fine with this. He sorts out his thoughts by explaining everything to you, and when the case is wrapped up, you fake a gasp in offense when you catch him counting his cards, replacing a card of your own and winning the game to get back at him.

he lets you.

he call you a cheat later when you're walking back to the apartment, pulling out the card that you had replaced in your hand as you pretend not to know what he's talking about. he snaps his fingers as the card disappears and you find it in your belt, and you blink at him with wide eyes that spencer thinks he can get used to. he'd prefer it if anything. to surprise you for the rest of the days as you both head to work together.

you learn to tone down the character in the way you dress, but you don't say too much when garcia's flown in for the newest case involving choking and internet culture, your quiet glancing at the screen making you pause. it's all a game to get a rush of dopamine to your head, but you don't say too much. you never really do. you fiddle with your ring and glance at the bruises on the boy's neck, staring quietly as morgan tackles him.

Reid and morgan have no luck getting to him, so hotch is forced to pull them out.

Hotch suggests Penelope, but you decide that it's slightly easier for it to be you. You fit the profile, and while Penny would be much more comfortable in some way, you had the decoration on you to prove something. You don't remember the last time you ever had the heart to wear your rings. No. You do. You just don't like to think about it.

You open the door, humming as you tilt your head. "You ever done drugs?"

"Someone get her out of there." Hotch groans.

"Because tbh when I was crashing out back when my family passed away I really considered just—" you make a click sound with your tongue, drawing a line past your throat with your thumb as you tilt your head, sitting down slowly. "But the drugs gave the high that came with it, so I thought I could just... keep doing them. Tried choking myself too. It was fine until it wasn't enough."

The kid shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "No way."

"I don't recommend it, though. The drugs. The road of recovery is rough." You sigh dramatically. "You overdo it and suddenly you're regretting your choice, crying in paralysis about how you might actually want to live — also, by the way, the flush that comes with getting everything out of your system is a whole different level of hell. I thought i was going to die from that alone. Always hoped maybe there was something to live for. I miss my parents, but it's something you learn to live with. I think it does get better. Do you miss your mom? Ugh, mine used to make me such good lunches. Sometimes when kids bully you for having a bad lunch that means it's really good. Okay, that's off topic, omg, so sorry. Love the whole goth vibe. Where do you shop from? I don't know. I feel like Hot Topic doesn't hit as hard as it used to. I know the choker's from there, though. Figured I'd ask since, well. Y'know. By the way, love the nails."

You flash the painted nails — black. Done fresh while you were waiting for Reid and Morgan to crack him.

"You a cop?"

"Oh, heavens no." You lower your voice. "I actually find the worst part of my job to be working with the cops, but don't tell my superior. I'm an agent. FBI."

"You?"

"Yeah! Can you believe it? It's like the FBI is just letting anyone in these days." You laugh. "Nice earring too. I love the one earring look."

"Thank you. Got it on eBay. Supposed to be johnny d's from that one movie."

"Sick!" You gasp. "I got all of my rings from a thrift."

You show the boy as he observes, and you watch as his gaze lingers on one of them.

"Isn't that one nice? Apparently it was from a movie set. Found it on ebay."

"Yeah. Sick."

"Oh, by the way. My friend outside, Penny, was trying to break into your laptop and it's actually shocking how good you are at that kind of stuff. The firewall? The anonymizing service? uber cool. And the e-shredder? I gotta know where you're getting this stuff. You're like a cyber genius."

The kid shifts in his seat, and everyone watches as he actually speaks up. "The anonymizing service was from some guy online."

"I know! That one site, right? The one that looks totes sketch but's actually legit? I use it too. On my personal, though. Ugh, I got hacked once back in college and it took ten years off my lifespan to try to fix my laptop."

"No way."

"Got it immediately after. It was awful." You sigh. "I make one mistake and there goes like decades worth of games pirated— oopsies I wasn't supposed to say that with so many cops around."

The boy laughs, and the door clicks behind you.

"Oh, there's my boss. Say hi to Hotch. Isn't he a little scary? Did the boy's dad ask for him?"

"He's lawyering him up."

"I see."

"Was this an interview?"

"Not quite, as you didn't really give anything out." You give him a handshake, nodding as you glance at the earring he slipped you.

"She's not your friend. She was trying to trick you." His dad grumbles.

"That's all made up, sir. I told your son some stuff I could get re-evaluated over." You hold both your hands up, catching Christopher's wrist before he leaves, holding the earring up.

"You sure you wanna give this to me?"

"I think you deserve it. Wear it at work for me?"

You laugh, cheeks warm as you hum. "I will."

You watch as they leave, smile dropping when you know they won't turn back.

"Hotch, but I need a car to tail them in quiet." You mumble. "That boy's being manipulated."

"And you know this because?"

You stare at the door, quiet, finger brushing the earring. "I just know."

"Munchausen by proxy." Reid mumbles. "That's how the mom died too, isn't it?"

"Password's his mom's full name. He misses her." You call, taking the jacket on the chair. "Penny, text me his— actually, no. Send half to the home address. I wanna visit the mother's grave. Send me the church address? Or the..." You lock eyes with Spencer, and he nods.

"Cemetery. Hotch, do you mind if—"

"Stay." Hotch stops you, holding his hand out. "Morgan, Emily, Church. We'll check the house. Stay here. You've done enough."

You huff, staring at the earring. "Will I get to see him?"

"We'll bring them both in."

"Okay." You mumble.

They bring the boy in to you, and you are given one chance. A small promise to write to him, and offer him an item of equal exchange. You're not supposed to, you understand, but you slide one of the rings off of your fingers, holding out the metal to the boy's palm as you hold onto the earring.

"You want it back?"

"No. You can keep that one."

You nod. "Hope I read it right."

"You did. How did you know?"

"You kept glancing at it when we talked." You laugh. "I had a friend who used to stare a lot at things they wanted. I stare a lot too."

The flight back is quiet, you think. A lot of silence, and you twist at the rings on your finger, hand strangely lighter without one of them.

do you have time on friday?

hm?

Spencer mumbles, quiet as he sits next to you. friday.

why?

new place opened up two blocks down.

alright.

spencer spends the most time in between the books, watching as you look through old donated journals and diaries, peering into people's lives that was once private to them. in a sense you don't seem to care that there's a need for privacy, and neither do you really care when you tell spencer you don't mind your diaries being donated when you pass away. you even tell him that he can read through them when you pass.

but you wander around too. spencer takes you around to the jewelry that's been donated, old with age, pretty little gems and dazzling rust with purple. you insist that there's nothing that catches your eyes, mentioning that the loss of that one ring was symbolic that you had made a difference in someone's life even if it was small.

but there's a pair of old wedding rings that you find your gaze lingering back onto at the new place. it's old, yes, and there's hundred of years worth of items here, but the wedding rings catch your gaze again and again, and at one point you pick it up to bring it around with you while spencer looks at the books.

spencer notes it down, yes. he found that you started carrying a box around with you somewhere into the fifteen minute mark, and you refuse to show him what you had picked up, but from the looks of it, it's most likely something that could really only hold jewelry. A ring box, most likely.

what are you holding?

oh, um, rings. you open the box to show him, and he blinks.

huh. real gold.

and the silver?

it isn't tarnished, so i'd assume some kind of gold. possibly white. he holds his hand out for the rings, and you find yourself giving them to him. they're pretty.

you nod, taking them back from him.

did you know world war two popularized men from the west wearing their wedding rings? prior to that, most men would either not have a ring or not wear it. they started wearing them to remind themselves of their wives and kids at home. oh, and according to a plethora of sources, the most popular wedding ring material is yellow gold. spencer hums, watching as you put the box back down.

well, that makes sense.

he takes a second glance at the box, noting down something as the two of you walk off.

You find the exact box with a ring missing the next day on your desk at work.

"Hey. Everyone's already in the room. Ready?"

you look up at spencer, yellow glistening on his finger as you glance back down at the box.

aren't you supposed to get down on one knee?

do you want me to?

you shake your head, sliding the ring down your finger, joining the rest of them at the round table.

you hide your hands the entirety of the time that you cover the case with the team, fingers fiddling with the ring as you run through everything with hotch. he sends you to the police station with spencer, and you find yourself back in the back and forth back and forth of it all. it's so easy to fall into a pattern with him.

it's so easy to fall into a rhythm with you. it's so easy to show affection and exist around you.

it's so easy to share a look with you and split a room, arm wrapped around your waist and nose pressed into your shoulder, groggy twilight on both of your faces as the two of you squint and you find penelope in your arms, cooing quietly at her as you rub the blood from her hands. it's easy to get lost while in the job, you think. she's strong. you have to repeat it so that she believes you.

spencer settles next to you on the couch, closing his eyes and throwing his head back as you knock out on his shoulder while fiddling with your ring.

neither of you are conscious enough for this.

and it carries the same in every other case. in every other case, the two of you are wrapped up on the plane, his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder, device in your hand, newspaper in his. a cup of tea brewed to eerie precision on your side, a bag of opened candy on his. a sweet tooth that gnaws at his cheek — a need for peace that eats at your brain.

you listen to reid talk. everything — the numbers, the facts, the stats. everything reads like an audiobook or encyclopedia, and you tilt your head slightly when spencer hands you a photo of the women, and you start drawing lines over the plastic. reid notices it before you do, but you have the facial symmetry crafted before he does, picture stuck up on the glass board as you have lunch, watching spencer snatch it up and thank you for it.

you don't do much for the rest of the time, straw pressed to your lips as you drink, staying on call with penelope as you click through your device. it's those damn phones should be a quote on your feed. The only thing helping you at the moment to kill the boredom of when you're not on the field. hotch is still hesitant to use you at times.

and it's not that he doubts your capabilities.

you're put on the field, hand finding the victim's as she asks you why she wasn't just killed, and you swallow back words and let reid tell her that it was only about power and control, your own words comforting her when you tell her that it fades. it doesn't mean that it will leave, but you will learn to step over it. you promise it to her.

you find time during the drive back to run your hand through his hair as he drives, pinching at the way his curls coil around his head, hum on your lips as you call him pretty. so pretty.

you don't miss the way his cheeks tinge pink as he catches the reflection of white on your finger.

but the unsub gets away and morgan snaps, but you understand that to some degree. you're sure that you'd be in the same situation, and when jj's berating him on an emergency line, you're understanding, gun in hand when you finally find the girl, and you think for a moment that there really isn't much of a space for you.

reid sees it too, the way you let go of your gun, staring as morgan heads into the house and everyone wires him. you understand it well.

reid would say that you've always slotted nicely. you've always fit between the cracks, and when the cracks would fit each other, you would slide away until they would click, and you would be stuck staring on the side. you're just a strangely fluid person in a sense.

but it's a little much to ask of you to fill in for jj's position. it's not for you.

yet you find that garcia tries anyway, and when you're finally called out for the metal band on your finger on the plane, you're staring at everyone and blinking.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Vintique on third." You hum. "Loved them, but didn't want to splurge, but they so magically appeared on my desk at work the next day. Speaking of rings, though. Why have a married couple have sex before stabbing them? What the hell?"

"You know, the stabbing of the wives is almost certainly piqueristic. The unsub gets sexual gratification from penetration with a knife. Most piquerists are impotent... men like Albert Fish, lain Scoular, Andrei Chikatilo... so for him, it could be a substitute for sex." Spencer hums. "The rings were really pretty. Pure gold. Well, not the white one since 18 karat white gold is only 75 percent pure gold."

Everyone's eyes find his ring finger, and Morgan gasps.

"My man!"

But the case isn't too strange. You tell Emily you can step in, dressed up nice as you take off the vest and opt for a purse, Spencer's eyes worried as you tell him you'll be fine, tapping the ring on his finger. You lie your way through the unsub while fiddling with your ring, tapping through to let Morgan and Hotch tackle the man to the ground, only going quiet when the barrel of a gun finds itself on your stomach. you think you hear Spencer yell something in the background, but you pull the trigger in your purse, letting someone pull you away as you exhale and ask if the unsub will live.

are you okay?

i'm fine. you hum, hand finding his as you run your finger over his ring.

He runs the hand to your cheek, coolness of the metal making you close your eyes as you hum.

"You'll protect me, won't you? As my husband?"

"Of course."

Spencer tries to ignore the way that he likes the way you call him your husband. Yours. It rings nicely in his mind — like a child receiving praise. He can practically feel the neurotransmitters in his brain enforcing his behavior to be good to you. to be good for you. it makes him a little nauseous, but he refuses to fight it too much.

It's only logical that he likes hearing good words.

but you never miss the opportunity to tease him anyway, tugging on his sleeve to avoid his hand, name on your lips sweet as he blinks and swallows when a pretty girl passes him, quirk of your lip upward when he tries to make up an excuse, a wave of your pretty hand shutting down his entire brain. it's a little concerning to him — furrow of his brows and a pout on his lips when he realizes what you're doing.

we're together. he pouts.

"I know we are." You hum, bumping him with your hip as you circle around to Hotch.

"Town meeting in the church. I want us all there."

"Got it."

you're not too sure what to make of the blonde girl, and you're unpleasantly surprised at her attitude once admitted into the BAU. you stay civil with her, but never anything beyond that. you don't have much to say when spencer gets sassed at by her, raise of your brow and she shuts her mouth.

I'm used to it, you know?

it isn't about you.

he furrows his brows, and you press your hand to his forehead.

but you find that you understand something else. spencer reid has no protection against pretty girls, and it doesn't matter who he stares at for a second too much, you always find yourself fiddling with your ring and looking to the other side. you understand the biological need to do so, yes, but it doesn't sting any less.

but nothing changes.

spencer still finds himself next to you at most times, pink finding yours under the table on the plane, tilt of his head and lick of his upper lip whenever you beam at him, gold on his ring finger glistening and never rusted. it's honestly incredible that the two of you never give away anything about each other or come even remotely close to having to explain the rings. reid sympathizes with the men, and you hold the women in your arms.

it almost feels like it was made for this.

the charade you both play almost feels real. it's real only when on the field, and when the two of you return to your apartments side by side, it's all fake again. he can spend nights with your forehead pressed to his in the comfort of his couch while you try to help with his migraines, and he can sit back as you take care of him with your life, but he'll never quite get to hear those three words break past your lips. you'll never say it because you feel like you don't have to, and he'll never say it because he'll never be able to read your emotions the same way you read his so he can never quite confirm that you love him the same way he does.

does he really love you? does it really matter? the cat remains unknown until the box is opened — your relationship remains neutral until someone grows cold. you don't know if spencer really did love you at all. it certainly eats at you and chews you from the inside out. you don't know if his moment of realization had just been of realization or of boredom. an overanalyzation of the stars in his supernova. a breaking of his universe because you were too close. he wonders it too, the lack of light present in everywhere you walk. someone who would swallow his universe alive until all that was left was dark matter.

a blank stare and a pinch of your own skin always seemed to do the trick. but you've always got a handful to work with when he was around, his migraines have grown worse as you bring him to doctors, pout on your face and gentle stare on his as he sits through brain scans. you have him drink tea and take care of everything that you can to help him. you're wonderful. you bring the best of the best for him. a wife's affection, really.

the first migraine causes you a near heart attack when he knocks a man in the back of his head, and when the first doctor tells him to consider something psychosomatic and he storms out, you're stuck chasing after him. you'll find him a better doctor. you'll get him the best of the best, and the best of the best do you find after a painfully long period of bad migraines and drinking your tea instead of his coffee. you're just so wonderful.

emily passes away and comes back and all you're stuck with is taking care of spencer, lowering his caffeine intake, quiet running of your thumb under the bags of his eyes, a gentle frown on his face when he struggles with her loss. you struggle in your own way, but you've never been a priority in the team, so no one points out who you are or what you're there for. you're only there when people need you. you aren't required.

you forgive emily quicker than spencer because you understand.

but spencer's migraines are better. slightly better. he meets a new doctor who actually looks into the symptoms thanks to your annoyed pushes, and sometime along the way, you're given the right to his medical records the same way he's allowed yours, and then it all really just goes downhill for you from there. you know the way that spencer scrolls through his phone for payphones to call with the researcher — same look on his face when you had actually looked him in the eye the first time ever.

it's his fault, really.

it's transference, he knows. the doctor taking care of him is just transference, and he knows you catch the way his calls linger for longer than they're supposed to and the slight flashes of pain at first when he doesn't go to bed, but you get used to it. fluid to fill the cracks. you'll fill not only his, but also everyone else's cracks. he feels not enough for you. he fears he turns into something that isn't himself. fill the cracks that he knows you can with something that is not either of you. you should no longer be filling the cracks for him. he should do something for you.

he understands his reasoning is flawed in that way, but he knows not to deal with it. perhaps he does not want to seem weak before you.

but it doesn't stop him from sobbing into your arms, quiet digging of his nails into your biceps on nights that are too silent, gasping into your shoulder when you run your hand down his back. it doesn't stop either of you from playing your part, acting like you all have it under control. acting like it's completely fine — the way you just shatter and break is completely fine. the way he contemplates the drug long gone in his system as you teach him how to cope with the loss.

and you trust him so much. you trust him painfully much, and it almost makes him feel undeserving. even with a hand on your lower back and a kind gentle hum on his lips, grimace on his face as you stare at death upon dead, he finds that he doesn't want you to see the same gruesome life that he does. it's unfair to you. not that you cannot handle it — just that he wonders maybe you could avoid it. even if you had signed up for training and ended up in the department.

but there's a visible shift in your dynamic with spencer. you can take him to all the doctors you want and let him cry his heart out, complain and throw a fit that you'd like for him to be reviewed by someone else, but no one will be as good as maeve. you can fuss and cry at home, but he won't ever understand the sense that you just know. you can feel him slipping. slipping through the cracks and through your fingers, and you think there's so much that you don't want to touch, but you can't decide that.

you don't get to decide to take away something good for spencer just because it's something bad for you.

he'll analyze and profile you. you know that. he'll notice that you no longer seem to care, smile not as bright, water bottles replaced with thermos and thermos of tea until the flavor is too far gone to be able to still taste the tea. he'll notice the way you never discard of the tea, but he won't comment on it. he'll never comment on it again, because as soon as work is over or it's sunday, he's rushing off to call maeve, and you're stuck in the office, staring and scratching at your phone, eyes weary and tired, visible signs of age sliding between the fine lines of your portrait, and at one point, maybe you'll find something that you care about again.

it hurts more to be like that, you think.

to love and then be betrayed.

but you still want him so bad. so. painfully bad.

it's unfair how attached you've grown to someone you thought would be your forever only to end up as another piece of your life. how could you ever? was it unfair of you to hope that someone who tasted even a fragment of what you endured prior to it all to understand you even just a little bit? does it not matter to them at all? you're sure it doesn't. spencer's never one to dwell on his heart more than he has to.

Now, all he dwells over is Maeve.

those three words. "I love you."

you watched him freeze up from the car, body paused in the seat when you noticed the lack of gold on his fingers, and you think there's something that clicked in your mind when you did. it's an announcement of affection that you wish spencer would push away, but he doesn't. it doesn't surprise you. it should, but it doesn't. it almost feels like it was perfectly expected of him to act that way. to just accept that someone loves him the same way you do.

it couldn't be the same way you do since they've never met, but you're sure spencer loves her the same way.

you press your tea to your lips, bag of pop rocks left on the round table as everyone files in, a brow raised when spencer enters last, strangely giddy, beaming at you when he sits down with his own mug of tea.

call went good?

yeah. we're meeting up soon.

fun.

if he notices the lack of enthusiasm in your voice, then he doesn't comment on it, taking the bag of pop rocks to down as everyone files in.

"3 days ago, Bruce Phillips was found dead with his blond hair dyed black."

You think you tune almost everything out for the most part. You go through the case, sort through it all, blink and watch as Spencer seems to be as focused as ever. He's meeting up with her in a couple of days. You'll be fine, you suppose. It'll be fine. Everything is supposed to be fine, and when you're getting forcibly sentenced to rest by Hotch, you think it's fine. You'll be fine.

You'll work through the case and look back at all the puppets as you lower the two humans from the strings, and you wonder what you would look like put up on the stage. There is a fear that settles uncomfortably in your stomach, you think. That somehow on that stage it could have been you. You don't know how the victims will survive it, and when you step into the elevator in the dark of night with the rest of the team, you barely go through anything.

"Where's Reid?"

"He said he had something important to do."

You blink quietly at your reflection in the metal, closing your eyes.

"He's seeing the girl he's in love with."

"WHAT."

"Wait, wait, wait. Babygirl, isn't he in love with you?"

"Apparently not." You chew on your inner cheek. "I need a drink."

"Well, you're welcome at mine." Rossi mumbles. "Scotch."

"Vodka."

"You'll learn."

You huff. "Fine."

Maybe ranting to Rossi about your love life wasn't the smartest thing in the world, but you honestly couldn't give any less of a damn if Spencer was dragged through mud after all the stunts he had pulled on you. You grumble and pinch your brows, moping and throwing your head back over the sofa as you sit to sober up. Jesus christ, get a grip.

Rossi tells you that sometimes it's fine to let go.

"Yeah?" You fiddle with your ring, scotch long forgotten on the table.

"Sometimes the best remedy is just letting go."

"Thank you, wise italian man with three wives." You mumble. "I can't wait to be divorced in my twenties."

"You're still young, don't worry." Rossi hums, pressing his drink to his lips. "You want me to reccomend someone to you?"

You glance at the ring on your finger, humming. "It's fine."

you wonder sometimes why reid had gotten tired of you. was it tired? you don't know. he seems to have gotten tired of you. maybe it was just rude of you

maybe the lack of title was—

no. not quite. he's your husband. there was not a lack of title. there was a lack of papers. lack of hard evidence that you weren't playing around with each other in your youthen stupor. there was a lack of nothing. it was just spencer being stupid, you think. it was never your fault. you were more in tune with his smotions than he was, and he knew your mind better than anyone else.

he did not know his own heart, and you suppose it's your fault for ever thinking he would.

you think you're bitter towards how spencer treats you now comparably more than when he did prior to the arrival of maeve. but you're not mad at maeve. you couldn't really be. you and spencer never legalized your relationship, and it's not unheard of to be fascinated with something new — spencer was always fascinated with something new.

but it doesn't really make it hurt any less.

spencer meets maeve in the restaurant, and garcia tells you that apparently he had taken off his ring in the cctv footage. an empty finger to meet a girl that you felt replaced by. wow. what a way to ruin a girl's day.

not to mention how he carries around that beat up book that maeve had reccomended to him — still.

you find it ironic that he's moved on yet you still haven't. what is there to move on? did he owe you the courtesy of a break up if you were never really anything?

the one day you don't bother answering your door.

you spend your days at he shooting range, perfecting your marksmanship, and you wonder if this is the universe's strange way of telling you that you're just screwed. you find that it's hard to hide quiet sniffling and hot tears on your cheeks with frustration that you can't lash out. quiet anger that bubbles in the back of your throat when you start opting to go out on the field more than staying back to analyze — to use your degree since you wasted it all anyway, and hotch lets you.

you ignore the look of hurt on spencer's face when you request of it outright, desperation reeking off your skin, and you become so painfully distant that you wonder if spencer felt like you were supposed to just stick around and wait for him when he called maeve all day like that and expect you to stay around. he's not stupid. you're almost sick of the way that you've never been babied once since joining, and all everyone does is protect him in their own way.

it makes you bitter towards him, you think.

you're glad you're on the field rather than hidden in the police station with spencer. you don't think you could bear to face him or whatnot. it would be unfair for you.

you wonder if you should request to stay back when maeve's kidnapping case comes up, and you swallow slowly when spencer's mind shuts down, and maybe you're just cursed to be stuck as some kind of queen piece that has no purpose now that the player's gotten their pawn to upgrade into a queen. actually, maybe you're a pawn. maybe you're just the pawn that stayed desipte it all in the game of chess. you know as a matter of fact that you could never be as smart as maeve is — which is why you're not really bitter towards her. she doesn't know of your existence the same way that spencer didn't once mention you in… well, anything.

you spend most of the case working through it with everyone else, and you're the first to notice that maybe it's a female stalking maeve rather than a man. it's not a… well, it is a romantic stalker, probably. you don't really know. you're all for it, but less in the case where maybe maeve deserves a stalker and more in the okay well, good for her, love wins, or whatever. you're quite frankly too spent trying to figure out what's going on with the case to really care that it's a woman. you're trying not to throw up when spencer offers himself as collateral, and you're having the worst moment of your life when things happen.

spencer's so in love with her that you think perhaps you never really existed to him at all. nevermind that he's somehow got his ring on and that diane might freak out at the thought, but you don't know. you don't really understand it. spencer reid is in love with maeve donovan and you don't seem to matter at all in his eyes.

one thing leads to the next, and by some strange situation, everyone's on a rooftop of some kind and you're kind of staring at nothing in particular as you stare at the kidnapper. it's a woman, and you feel like you shouldn't be surprised, but you still are. you've read her unofficial paper before — as you did with maeve. when you first figured out who maeve was, you had done a quick read on her research. it was easy to read — her paper. you wonder just how obsessed diane has to be with maeve for her to be jumping her and kidnapping her to this extent. maybe maeve sought companionship with spencer.

you hold your gun up in the back with everyone else, and it's really spencer's call as whether or not to shoot, but there's an instability in the way that she's speaking and shaking, and you think maeve is going to make the wrong choice of words and accidentally tip off diane and then both of their brains are going to be blown out and you don't think that's a really good idea.

but you also don't really want blood on your hands.

is it such a sin for you to desire to not kill? is the blood of tobias hankel not enough?

is a bullet between the forehead not a testament of enough blood you've been stained with?

you stand behind spencer, gun in your hand as you blink and stare.

will the blood of maeve's life dirty your hands any more than everything already has?

There's a gun pressed to Maeve's head, and you have a clear shot to her assailant.

you want to be selfish. maybe. you want to just. you'd like to— you don't want the love of your life stolen from your hands and it tears you apart, but you don't even need to look when you know the answer. it doesn't matter if you love spencer, because you think you know something that they don't or whatever and he can try to de-escalate the situation all he wants. you think there's something that he knows that you don't. there's—

there's nothing.

what are you being so philosophical for? there is really only one answer.

You pull the trigger before Diane can.

The woman falls to the ground, probably dead. you don't know you don't really check. It's. You don't like the weight of a second life on your hands, collapsing into the cement of the rooftop immediately, too short of breath to watch spencer pull a fainted maeve into his arms, breathing growing erratic and mouth hanging open as someone catches you, the voice ringing in your ear as you stare at someone, tears burning at your cheeks and every emotion except for relief on your face, oh, oh, oh what is this — is this, is it , oh it's been such a long time you almost forgot this feeling, didn't you — you're sorry? what are you saying? You don't know anymore. what is going on? you can't— you can't breathe. what is this—

oh, there— there's—

the world turns black, and you wake up alone.

without your ring. alone. well, penelope's by your side when you're staring into the white, blinking slowly without a lifeline because once again there's an iv plugged into the back of your hand and you swear to god if you have to pull the trigger on a man one more time, you're going to kill yourself.

you don't even realize you're crying until Penelope is holding you.

"You'll be fine! You'll be fine!" Penelope holds you, and you stare at her, shaking your head.

"Penny. I wanna go home."

"I know, sweet girl. I know. You'll be there soon."

You laugh, grimacing at the way your body hurts.

"He said he'd protect me. Guess who lied."

"He can't lie for his life. You know that."

You sigh, letting your head sink into the pillow.

"What happened?"

"You passed out from a panic attack."

"Not from killing." you close your eyes. "Did the doctors give a diagnosis?"

"They can't. You don't have anyone to sign for you."

"Right. Security went up."

"He was angry, you know? That he couldn't sign for you." Penelope frowns. "He asked me if I could fake a certificate for you two."

"I feel like I should pretend to be surprised. Did he leave as soon as Maeve woke up? I know she passed out too." you sit yourself up, groaning as you roll your shoulders. "Where's the doctor? I want my diagnosis — and, Penny?"

"Yeah?"

you smile. "Alone."

"Alright... but um, don't be surprised if I hack, alright?"

"Of course." you nod.

You decide two things that night.

One, your hand is tired of holding the gun. You don't think you ever liked the feeling of it even after killing Tobias for killing Spencer. It's just not a weight that you can grow used to. You can't possibly bear to exist with it, you think. It's not a world that you belong in. It's not a world that you like existing in. You don't particularly enjoy the fact that you just had to shoot Maeve's stalker through the skull either. Two deaths too many.

Two. You no longer want to stay.

Penelope takes you home, but you're barely stepping foot in your apartment before you're calling a cab to go to the BAU office, and you wonder if everyone else has headed home. You think they did. Though, you really hope that Hotch is at least there so you can resign to his face. You don't think you're so adamant on leaving that you'd do it without seeing him one last time.

It's 11pm when you make your way to the office, resignation paper, badge, and gun in hand as you find Hotch's office.

The lights are still on, strangely enough, and when you glance at everyone's empty desks for the night, you think it was oddly good timing on your end to come in right after a case that had you passing out with no real victim. Spencer's probably visiting Maeve, and everyone else probably clocked out on time for once. How nice.

You knock before entering.

"Hotch."

He glances at you.

"They let you out already?"

"Urgent business. Also, it was just a panic attack. My vitals were all normal." You nod. "It won't happen again."

"You're supposed to be on break for a couple of days."

"That's the thing. There won't be a need for an eval or wait." You place down the gun, the badge with the box, and you stare at your ring for a second too long before speaking. "I'd like to leave."

"Is it because of the—"

"No." You shake your head, sliding your ring off. "No, no. It's not. I just. I think you know I never really wanted to be on the field like I have, and I'm nowhere mentally strong enough for that role. I'd like to quit before it kills me. I think we both know that I nearly died my first day on the job."

"Are you alright?" He motions for you to sit, and he steps over to shut his door.

"I'm fine." You nod. "I am. I really am."

"Did Reid—"

"Hotch, please" You mumble. "I just want to return to academia and studying instead of practice. There's so much instability in this job, and I can't do it anymore. I'm not strong like you are. I never was."

He stares at you, pinching his brows. "Where will you go?"

"I'll find somewhere." You smile. "I'll be happy there. I've saved up plenty from this job."

Hotch gives you a sad smile, you think. You understand.

"May I visit?"

"With Jack, if you must." You hum. "I'll be out tomorrow. Please tell Straus I'm sorry I didn't go to her."

"You don't need to."

"Yes, I know." You hum. "Do you think I could stay hidden for long?"

Hotch looks at the envelope.

"I think he will find you."

"I hope not."

He exhales. "Stay safe. I'm here if you need me."

"I will." You laugh. "Tell the rest of the team that I'm just recuperating at home? Tell them I don't want any visitors for a few days."

Hotch nods. "We'll miss you."

You linger at the door, looking back at Hotch, smile on your lips that doesn't reach your eyes.

"I'll miss you guys too."

Spencer sits in the other wing of the hospital.

"Are you sure you're okay? It couldn't have—"

"I'm fine." Maeve smiles. "Shouldn't you be checking with..?"

"She's strong. She'll survive." Spencer mumbles, fiddling with the gold on his finger. "She also took me off of her authorized lists. I had signed that she would be able to take care of my medical needs with her a while back, but I suppose that she took me off sometime ago without telling me. It was my fault."

"Your… ring." Maeve swallows. "I didn't know you wore one."

Spencer stares at it, twisting the band absentmindedly. "It's… a couple's band. Matches with hers… bought it at an antique store."

"Spencer, do you love her?"

"Wh- of course I do!" He pauses. "Of course I love her. Everyone does. It's just… she knows that."

"Are you sure? Have you told her?" Maeve mumbles. "I don't think you love me the same way you love her. I love you, Spencer."

"I do too—"

"No." Maeve stares out the window of the bed. "You love her. Think it over. You're smart. Sometimes feelings don't need to make sense."

Hotch doesn't have it in himself to tell Spencer— it's hard to break the news. it would be like breaking news that emily had passed away all over again, and it wouldn't be all that worth it. reid would have to find out on his own. he would. and when he does. when he does, he'll stop and stare, unbelieving in hotch's words with a desperation in his voice that they heard when maeve was at gunpoint, running a hand through his hair at news broken to him last and the box that had once carried your rings that truly has him staring and wondering if it was at all worth it.

"Why didn't you tell me." Spencer clenches his jaw, and Hotch stares. Just stares.

"She told me not to."

"So you didn't?"

"Reid, you would have stopped her from moving." Hotch places a box before him.

Spencer shakes.

"Hotch. You knew that I messed up, and you still—"

"Reid."

"I loved her. I love her."

spencer loves you, loved you, is loving you, oh god forbid anyone tell him anything. he's in love with you and it was his fault for ever thinking that maybe you would have understood without him telling you. you understood his heart. you should have known that he loves you. but maybe knowing isn't enough. maybe he should have said it— no. he should have said it. he should have told you that he loves you the same way maeve had told him. you overthink as well. he knew that. he knows that.

but you do understand him. he's far too hurt to be able to chase you down after leaving the way you knew it hurt the most, so he settles with sitting in his flat and staring lifelessly at the books you had bought for him. you did not touch anything in his apartment. not your clothes, not your belongings. it was as though all you really cared to clear was the desk at work so someone new could join the team.

he settles with trying to see your apartment, blinking when someone new has moved in and he apologizes, mentioning that his friend had moved and didn't tell him — he supposes. he thinks. it's not the truth. you had just planned to leave him in the dark just like that. it was a deliberate chance to twist a blade into his stomach the same way he had twisted it into your heart. he wonders why you didn't just shatter him on purpose.

the new tenant hands him a letter that was left behind with his apartment number on it, and spencer realizes, he thinks. you had just wanted to stab him through the heart and carve a piece of him for yourself after he had left yours hollow and empty. you didn't quite do it, though. the letter hurts, yes, but in a way he felt deserving of it. you tell him at the end that the silver would look nice on maeve's finger.

he doesn't have the heart to open the box to find out if your ring is in it.

and suddenly, there's no interest in maeve at all — and spencer reflects on it in a way. he knows now. it was never really transference with you. it was transference with maeve. it was simply because he had gotten so caught up in making a new friend and calling her all the time that he had forgotten how he had gotten to that point in the first place. did he ever truly love maeve? surely it hurt to hear how she was the prettiest girl in the world to him when you were wearing a ring meant to match his.

how could he ever think of someone else in that light? when you were right there?

when the hurt fades, all he has left are his days in his flat where he traces through the books you had bought him. he traces your writing in the margins of your literature, and it reminds him of when he had to send his mother away all over again. he isn't allowed the joy of keeping someone by his side. not with his father, not with gideon, and now no longer with you. it didn't matter if you had been waiting. people grow tired of it immediately. people need air. you had forgotten that. spencer had forgotten that.

it was stupid of him to ever think of someone other than you.

spencer dreams of you sometimes. leaving without a reason, walking out of his life with most of your belongings packed from your place with the knowledge that you had just told hotch you were leaving, never to be seen again after you had been pushed to the hospital and he wasn't allowed to hear your diagnosis. disappearing from all his records, being denied access to how you were doing now. it wasn't witness protection, no. he would have known if it was. you had just chosen to disappear from his life forever on a random thursday afternoon. the same thursday he was supposed to tell you that he was wrong to ever make you misunderstand that he loved maeve more than you.

he hasn't taken his ring on his finger since finding out that you had just packed and left. he doesn't know why. he mourns you. perhaps he does, and perhaps he had been right such a long time ago when he was still somewhat young and fresh, ramble of how the feeling he was expressing was most likely his own cocktail of romance, but he had been slow. he knew, yet you had not waited. it was not worth it anymore, perhaps. he understands that. you learned to start moving at your own pace and claw your way to stability, and a government job that required you out on the field at all times was not worth the pay.

you could make comfortable money elsewhere.

he knew that much. your passion had never been quite to be out on the field saving people. your passion had always been in reading people and knowing people. in the smoothing of papers and fluids of ink. you had always loved something much different than he did. you always loved something that he had used as a tool to continue upward. he could deduce a million things about you and none of it would make sense because as soon as you flipped the page you would once again become blank and leave him wordless.

you belonged in ranges of books, not the shelves that hosted you on late nights when you did not want to sit alone in your apartment.

you belonged in rows and rows of scripture and poem and psalm that could not even begin to be described with mere pen and paper. it had to be parchment and quill — ink and letters delivered by carrier pigeons that no longer existed. you belonged in a world that he had long forgotten he was once part of. a world that he doubts he could ever step foot back in without something that affects him enough. he's not going to step back into it. not until there is a point in which he knows he can retire and calm down. his papers would never be the papers that you write. your papers would never be papers that reach his hands.

and then hotch leaves.

he wonders if he could ever step away from it all. a second life or death moment. a moment in which he was... alive, perhaps. he understands the tension between him and cat well. its just a shame you're no longer here to untangle his mind after a long day with your fingers carding through his hair. its a case you would have jumped on. a woman who was better than acting than anyone else. he feels like he lost something when he had met her. it was an encounter you would have listened to him ramble and told him what kind of a person she was, but you weren't there anymore. you hadn't been for a while, and when he's in prison, unable to reach out to you, he wonders if it was at all worth it.

you would not have let it happen.

hotch would not have let it happen.

he spends a lot of time wondering what you're doing. he wonders if you still make your tea with a thermometer so the green doesn't become bitter, insisting that tea made at home is better than one at a coffee shop — and he wonders if you still keep packs of pop rocks on you because you refuse to have food and substitute it with sugar so your blood sugar doesn't drop. he wonders if you still lounge in bed until the sun is halfway in the sky, only leaving for brunch in the mornings, and he wonders if you've made friends. perhaps you connected with past ones. he wonders if you're doing better now.

you have to be. for him. you have to be.

it comforts himself to know that at least one of you are doing better.

maeve is there when he's freed. he understands, yes, that he was… dumb to even… oh he doesn't try thinking too hard about it. he thanks her, yes, and it's not really her fault. his fault for taking off a ring that tied his heart to yours so he could try and pretend he didn't care. he wonders if she thinks any more badly of him. he doesn't think she does, but perhaps she's realized too that his heart wasn't ever really for her to begin with.

He glances at the ring he's kept safe for so long, lack of luster causing a frown on his face as Maeve glances at it too.

"You never really told me the truth, huh?"

"No." He mumbles. "I got caught up in your confession, I suppose."

"I see."

He pauses, staring at Maeve as she tilts her head.

"Did you tell her thank you for saving my life?"

"She left before I could."

"You should have been honest with me."

"She had never—"

"And yet you had a ring." She hums. "Did you pretend I was her? Because I told you I loved you?"

"I just… wanted her to tell me she loved me, I suppose." He blinks, suddenly quiet. Ah. So that was it. "So when you said it to me, I just—"

"You should tell her."

"I won't ever get to see her again."

"You should tell her you love her." Maeve hums. "She was waiting for you to say it first."

"I couldn't have—"

"Then maybe she was hoping for you to." She hums, pausing, smiling. "She's doing good. I met up with her last time she was here."

"She was here?" He hates the way his voice breaks.

Spencer understands you more now, he thinks. The time he spent thinking over his emotions and not his mind for once was strange. Isolation did a number to him. He understands himself better now. Maybe he just wanted you to be vulnerable with him first before he could even believe that you liked him even more than you did with others.

It was stupid, yes. It was painfully obvious to everyone that you liked him more than you did the average person, and it wasn't exactly something you bothered hiding. Perhaps you had just been waiting for him to say it first since he had treated you differently too. He knew it, but he just refused to admit it. He didn't need numbers or probability to prove that you loved him. He loved you just the same. The band around your fingers should have been proof of that.

It really shouldn't have been something he ever doubted even once.

So when he gets forced back into the swing of the thirty day sabbatical, his final thirty is a gift from the team.

A carefully picked location — per Garcia's request.

Garcia chose this one, which he finds interesting considering that he's never left too far for guest lecturing before, and Garcia had never shown even a remote amount of interest in his sabbaticals, but apparently the university had really wanted him to provide insight in the lecture, so he was requested by… someone… in the university. Spencer isn't too sure, but he trusts Garcia enough, so he's on a commercial flight to meet with the university.

"It'll be a good breath of air. Besides, when's the last time you had a proper vacation? Don't you dare try to come back before the thirty days are up. I will have prentiss kick your ass."

"Yes, Garcia." Spencer mumbles. "And you're sure this will be good for me?"

"Oh, I know it will be good for you. Thank me later."

It's strange he's somewhere he's seldom been, and the rain reminds him of Seattle, but not quite. The university wasn't really known for their curriculum on criminology, but the psychology program was apparently well respected. He respects it. The campus is gorgeous, and his guide takes him around and lets him know some local places he can visit.

The lecture goes nicely. He quotes books and literature, and he explains the case studies they've all done, analyzing behavior and explaining classic serial killers, but the students seems much more invested in his face than what he's teaching. Which he's grown used to, in a way. He could try and pretend he doesn't understand it, but he doesn't. At least not in that way.

He almost misses when Morgan would call him pretty boy to his face.

He stays behind to check out what they have, though. There's a small neighborhood a little bit southeast of the university quite a nice little street to wander on, and Spencer finds himself stopping to look around. The name reminds him of things you had said once. Quite mumble under your breath when you had passed Pike Place in Seattle about how you liked it better in…

He stops at a coffee shop, ordering a pastry and coffee (sweetened. of course.), and he leaves his last name. He doesn't know what compels it. Well, maybe so his name feels a little more common. He's older now, so his name's dated with him, naturally, but he still finds himself using his last name.

The lady is kind enough — as she can be. She writes his name down and asks if there's a design he'd like on his cappuccino. (He asks for a heart), and he finds himself at the end of the coffee shop, ripping open a pack of pop rocks to dip his tongue into. He started carrying them around ever since you left. The popping on his tongue reminds him that he's not as numb as he believes he is. There's a starbucks across, but his guide had insisted that he try the local place. Been around since forever and still hasn't closed. Apparently it has surprisingly good prices too.

"Green tea for Reid?"

Spencer turns around at his name, watching as you step past him to grab the drink.

The words come out before he can think.

"You're buying your tea now?"

You freeze up in place.

"Latte with vanilla for Reid?" The barista raises a brow.

"That's me." He takes it, staring down at you as you stay still. "Talk to me."

"I don't see what there is to talk about."

"You hide behind a false wall of bitterness mirroring how I hid behind science and logic to not need to face how stupidly in love with you I was." Spencer swallows. "We both know there's stuff to talk about."

You blink up at him, raising a brow.

"Did Penny send you?"

"She suggested the university, yes. But a professor had reached out—"

"Then there's no need to talk about it. You'll go back to your job in a few days—"

"Twenty five."

You raise a brow.

"Twenty-five days." He swallows. "I… went to jail, and as an exchange for taking me back, I have to take a sabbatical for thirty days every now and then."

"And you decided all thirty days here was the move?"

"Garcia did."

and when he senses the pause you want to slip from, he speaks again.

"I know you're bitter about how horribly I treated you when I was calling Maeve three times a week and almost always on a case, and no, I don't expect you to forgive me or anything, but I miss you. I really do miss you."

"Oh, look at that. Doctor Spencer Reid using pathos." You mumble, checking your watch.

Spencer catches the familiar glisten of your ring.

"Listen. You can act like you moved on and no longer care about me all you want, but I think you know deep down that you're still clinging onto bits of me that I left behind, and the ring and your name is no coincidence—"

"Doctor Spencer Reid." You glare. "I don't appreciate being profiled like that."

He stops, clenching his fist as he stares down at you.

"I'm no different."

Your eye finds the ring on his finger, and you sigh.

"I hope you have fun here, and if the universe wills, may we meet again."

"And if I force it?"

You stare up at him.

"I think I know—"

"I don't know, Doctor Reid. I might just have to kick you out for it."

There's no real malice in your words, Spencer finds. There never has been, and he's almost comforted to find that even after all this time, you're the same as ever. The constant of your existence and the growth of you as a person. You dress warmer now and there's not an ounce of unhappy exhaustion on your face, and it almost feels like it's alright. You're doing wonderful on your own, all without ever needing to rely on him.

But he's grown too, he supposes. Years ago, the stubble on his face would have bothered him. A breeding ground for germs that have more "if's" than letting it be. The scar on his thigh from a blade in prison, and then bullet wounds all over. Bruises that he would have never got back when you were still with the team. In a way he's grown after being away from you too, and maybe it would be better if you both just grew on your own, but it doesn't. He doesn't want it to be.

"Tomorrow at Four in AERL 210." You grumble, but Spencer finds the ghost of a smile on your face.

"I love you." He hums, eyes full of affection.

The way you turn back to frown playfully tells him everything he needs to know.

And the tension is gone, he thinks.

In a way maybe you're resentful of him, but he's found that time's changed him beyond recognition. He doubts you had expected him to look the way that he did. There's a mess in his hair and a unclean look that you had always joked about him growing into one day, and maybe it's a testament to how well you knew him emotionally. The same way he knew how your brain moved and operated and not your heart.

but that was what made the two of you work so well. to know the part of someone that they themselves did not know as well. It was a testament of some kind.

to be vulnerable enough with someone that they know you better than you do yourself.

he wonders how you ever found it in yourself to forgive him of his crime, but perhaps time has healed you — and he has no intention of undoing all of that healing. he'll leave you alone after the thirty days if that is what you wish for. he's not one to force himself upon you after all the harm he's done, after all. he's shattered beyond repair, and you were not quite there to fix him up this time. he owes a lot of his life to you, he supposes.

it also amuses him that somehow you had written letters to his mother as well, telling her how you've been. he didn't know why he didn't search there, but when he had visited her after jail, she had told him about some professor writing her letters about her works and how wonderful her son was. it warmed his heart, after all. maybe he didn't know it was you, but it only made sense that it would be. after all, there is something only you would do that no one else would. he doesn't deserve you, in many cases. but ultimately you are the one who gets to decide.

He arrives twenty minutes before lecture with a cup of green tea for you, and you hand Spencer a clicker and a pack of pop rocks before telling him to file through the slides. He listens, and you tell him he'll be lecturing since you'd rather wring his brain dry when you can spare teaching. It's an excuse, he knows, because you'd never do anything to harm him, but you might joke about it. He finishes the slides in three, and he asks if there's anything else he should talk about (you tell him no— and when the class files in, you have a hand on his shoulder and a look on your face that can really only mean one thing.

"Class, meet my husband."

Emily Brontë once wrote “He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be, and if all else remained, and we were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger. He’s always, always in my mind; not as a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”

and spencer knows, somewhere an english teacher is rolling in their grave crying that it was never meant to be taken in the context of romance — catherine and heathridge were raised siblings, after all. but he supposes that finding a love where your soul's at rest needs not to be forcibly romantic for everyone.

It just so happens that his was.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #reader insert #☾.fics #its not much but its honest work (one flop post at a time)#i like going mia on this account (lie) and then dropping like a huge ass fic 2 days later anyways

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multifandom-nerds-blog · 2 days ago

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Me after chapter 201 (What took you)

So, about Ando. (And his contradictions) huh.

We start of with the most important thing, Sakamoto telling Ikari that she's a creep. (Thank you Taro, she really is. ) Before Shin picks up Andos weapon to threaten him.

It's clear that the stress of the whole situation is just getting to much to bottle up finally. He sneaked on the cruise to find him, in hope to reconcile with him. He's been on his own for FOUR YEARS, looking for information about Ando. Mind you, since he was only 9. He's barely even a teenager with 13 right here. He probably slept on the streets, and who knows what he had to deal with. He's skinny and probably doesn't get to eat regularly. Same for his eyebags, he probably can't find a safe spot often enough. (Not to forget the insane sensory overload he must feel compared to the underground lab. And I don't just mean his ESP with that.)

He's angry. His hopes for connection got crushed with his own father trying to kill him (multiple times). He's scared because at this moment he's probably convinced he will forever be alone. He's tired and probably hungry. He's overwhelmed so he points the gun at Ando.

Now Taro is trying to stop him, but mostly because he still wants to avoid the bomb going off. (Or so it seems at least) The fact that Ando has to die is less of a question for Taro, he's still his target. It's just a question of when and by who I think. He, already, doesn't want Shin to kill someone in anger. And although we can't see his thoughts here, he probably also doesn't want Shin to be the one to kill Ando specifically.

Now. Important is also that Shin only actually shot because Ikari scared him.

He says himself, he didn't mean to. He really just wanted to force an apology out of Ando. And as a child, that grew up on his own around violence, the threat of violence was probably the most obvious answer to do so. And yet, he didn't actually want to shot. He's a child, he's scared. And because he's scared, he physically jolted when Ikari started shouting and pressed the trigger. It's all inhis eyes. He didn't expect the bullet to come out. He didn't want to do this.

Now. Well. Ando. We have a short insight in Andos mind. While Ikari is trying to attack Shin, before he jumps between them to save Shin.

He's thinking about spending 13 years to escape the JAA, all because he saved Shin as Al Kamaar as a baby, only for Shin to show up with a hitman and mess it all up. And it very much sounds like he still resents Shin for it. He even thinks that he shoul've let him die as a baby. (In the official manga plus translation. In another translation he evn thinks about killing Shin as a baby.) And well, he then saves Shin, only getting injured even more.

And this is all just contradicting itself. Andos words and thoughts and actions. He talks about saving Shin as a baby, but who put him in Al Kamaar in the first place? He saves him, but who tried to kill him a few minutes ago? Who let Shin be thrown overboard a few chapters ago? (And it's very likely that Ando did that in order for Shin to have a chance of survival, somehow.)

One moment he resents Shin, in the next his parental instincts seem to show through after all. (And has Ando figured out that Shin can read minds? He seems to be Intentionally thinking those words here. This could support the theory that Shins powers are actually born, andAsakuras potion just triggered them accidentally.)

All in all, I'm pretty sure that Ando might be mentally unstable. (I mean, who isn't in Sakamoto Days. And at one point Ando mentions being soft in the head, which is probably just a throw away line. But who knows.) His mind can't settle between an urge to protect and resent Shin. It was probably a moment of clarity, that made Ando drop Shin of at Asakuras lab. And even though they already didn't seam to have seen each other for a long time at that point, he seemed to know that Asakura would take care of Shin/protect him. Even when Asakura would complain about it. (He also talks about "What would Asakura think about this?" when Shin is pointing the gun at him. Which makes Shin angry. This seems to be directed at Shin, but it might as well be directed at himself. Because what would his old friend think about him trying to kill the child he left in hi ssafety all those years ago? Surely nothing good.)

Shin is rightfully upset about all of this, curling up in himself. Because Ando couldn't even say those words about Shin having grown so much out loud. Now. Taro reminds us though that there's still a bomb on the ship, that will explode the moment Ando dies. (Is it like linked to his heartbeat? What.) Telling Shin to keep him alive long enough for him to find and dissarm the bomb.

When Shin says he's going with him to help, because the engine bay is to big, Taro actually tells Shin to stay back and use the remaining time he got left with his dad. Which... well. In the end Taro seems to understand that Ando is still important to Shin in some way. It's an absolutely messy situation in so many ways. Also because, again, the only reason they meet was because it was Taros job to kill Ando. But he wants Shin to be able to at least say goodbye to Ando. (Something Taro couldn't when Rion died.) But Ando also knows that Taro probably won't be able to find the bomb, which would mean Shins death as well if the ship explodes. So, seemingly set on wanting Shin to live in the end he decides to tell Shin the bombs location. And to go with him, while he will hang on until he gets back.

Which he probably won't. I think he just doesn't want Shin to see the moment he dies. Not to forget that Taro would protect Shin if the bomb goes off after all. In the end, his parental instincts are trying to protect Shin. Both physically, and mentally. Even if it's way to late for that.

Well. I'm definitely crying. This is all a huge mess. Taro, please get your newly adopted son to therapy instead of teaching him how to be an assasin.

#still an Ando hater #giving Shin to Asakura was like the only good thing he did #and even then there's the question #did he do that out of Shins safety or because it was harder to hide from the JAA with a baby?#not that Asakura didn't made some mistakes in my opinion #he raised a child in an underground lab without contact to any other children #and just let experimential chemicals stand in the open where Shin could reach it #but he's by far better than Ando ever was #not gaslighting or trying to kill Shin at least #now what about Shins mom???#and a mini flashback to when Ando dropped Shin of at the lab???#how close where they for Ando to just give him a whole baby #Ando: Here you go #Asakura: Is that a child? Hey! don't just run off #sakamoto days manga #sakamoto tarou #taro sakamoto #sakamoto days #sakamoto days shin #shin asakura #asakura shin #shin sakamoto days #Tasuku Ando #Sakamoto days Ando #Ando Sakamoto days #manga spoilers #sakamoto days spoilers

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spacemothsota · 2 days ago

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Cyberform AU - Part 3

Commune "Diego Garcia" (Autobot base for Cyberformed allies).

Warning: Attention: in this AU, all human allies of the Autobots are in the same universe (reality), for the sake of their psychological well-being.

The human government is not particularly happy about the fact that Cybertronians can change humans. It is quite logical that this scares them, fortunately the Autobots and Decepticons are not very inclined to cyberform just anyone.

In fact, the government was largely unaware of this until 1984 (or later) when Sparkplug and Spike were reported "disappearing" (that's right, they were the first). Also, the Autobots became more protective and closed during the disappearance period, not allowing human agents into part of the ARC. This behavior and unwanted questions created a couple of unpleasant incidents (Optimus was not very happy, he had to regulate the resulting friction and calm everyone down, although he knew what was going on). Later, when the "new bots" appeared for special agents and later the government, the puzzle came together. It was not difficult, since the former humans were still less accustomed to the new realities of their lives, they willingly used human terms, concepts and names. In addition, the Autobots began to request human items, such as pillows and blankets, the size of a Cybertronian. (All in the name of adaptation, so that it would be easier for a person to gradually get used to the new, plus old familiar things were gradually replaced with Cybertronian ones, a slow transition did not allow the former people to get nervous once again).

This was shocking, but it was decided to hide this information, firstly, not to cause panic among the public, and secondly, there were few cyberformed humans, it was easier to turn a blind eye to the disappearance of a couple of people than to question a politically (and not only) advantageous alliance. In addition, the government believed that it could use former people against the Autobots themselves in case of danger (later this resulted in an extremely unpleasant situation for the cyberformed, due to which they quickly left Earth and moved to Cybertron).

It was decided to give the Autobots another place for this process, so as not to disturb the agents and not to cause unnecessary conflicts (the protective nature of the Cybertronians at some stages was quite unpleasant for the joint work of people and bots).

Diego Garcia Island: It is a former military base, but it was completely given to the Autobots to develop it and keep the cyberformed away from the public eye until they are ready to keep their secret. And so that the cyberforming process does not traumatize other people who are not so close to the Cybertronians ("What is not there, does not exist / there are no witnesses, no victims" - said the human government and pointed towards the island).

If a human ally gets to the island, then a special department cleans up all paper or other sources about this person, erasing them from the system as if such a person never existed, since he will not return to the world of people. Sometimes you have to bribe people, but usually threats and money are enough to make them keep quiet. The old data that is not deleted is sent to the island for the cyberformed themselves.

On Diego Garcia, the Cyberform Commune was created, they have their own leader, a management system, they also work to preserve important cultural parts of their lives. In the commune, former humans undergo final processes and treatment (they receive support from those who have already gone through this). They receive an education from the Autobots and a profession if possible (if their human profession has a Cybertronian equivalent). The commune is mostly subordinate to Optimus and other high-ranking Autobots (they mostly do not participate in combat missions, the Autobots collectively decided that their comrades are not yet mentally ready for such things, although some enthusiasts show a desire to fight side by side. However, there are exceptions). Diego Garcia, in a way, serves as a support function for the Autobots, there is also a large laboratory with a medical bay.

In a way, Diego Garcia is practically a Cybertronian city, a small settlement by human standards. Access there is mainly through the air, a ship or a space bridge.

To understand what Cyberform AU is:

Part 1 Part 2 Q&A1 Character List

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springtiide · 3 days ago

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‼️ long post alert OH BOY

Being transgender is hard, especially in countries like the US or in the Middle East, but I’m doing my best to look not at everything we risk by being transgender, openly or otherwise, but instead look at the wonderful experiences we gain. Here are some of my favorite things about being trans (I’m ftm, so some of these may be transmasc specific!):

Gender euphoria is an obvious one, but!! I’m so serious! Getting gender euphoria from tiny things especially. Taking my T shot and putting on ✨ dinosaur footprint bandaids ✨ (so boy core), my dad cutting my hair for me when it grows out too much, finding new and creative ways to bind more comfortably, and the realization that the dysphoria has finally begun to not get worse, and has instead begun to get better.

Having the experiences of two sexes! I am a man, I identify as male, but I’ve had the same experiences many young girls have all the same, and I don’t see that as a detriment! I feel like I can be so much more open minded, so much more understanding, and as someone who wants to be a therapist, being able to do that is monumental. It’s hard some days, but I like trying to embrace the “”girly”” parts of my childhood too, even though I was lucky enough to not be super confined to my past gender role as a kid by my family.

Doing things as a boy. Full stop. Baking, cooking, sewing, drawing. Doesn’t matter how simple. It is now my boy activity to do as boy. I’m not saying these are boy exclusive activities, but that they hit different when I participate in them as my preferred gender!! /pos

Being able to be gay in a relationship with men. I love my boyfriend so much, he is fantastic.

The bonus hole™️

Getting to truly own my body at the end of the day and really call it “home”. Getting to mold it to fit what I love and who I am. Understanding that my old body was not a bad one, but my new one is so much more me. And I did that. Maybe I won’t make the incision when I get top surgery, but I will guide the cut, and when it’s all said and done, my body will be really and truly mine.

The journey. I love the journey. It’s not easy. Sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I wish I was just cis. But I’ve met so many wonderful people through this journey, and formed bonds that would take the weight of mountains to shatter. I’ve experienced the joys of starting HRT. Of getting my name changed. Of getting “M” on my drivers license for the first time. So many things that cis people take for granted—a deep voice, matching genitals, etc—but also things that they will never get to experience, that are exclusive to trans people. I love that my experience is unique in that way.

Giving advice to other trans individuals. Being able to tell them it will be okay. Passing forward the knowledge that was passed down to me from so many trans people and allies before me. Protecting trans kids and giving them hope.

Comparing my experiences to trans people on the other end of the spectrum! I love it when trans mascs and trans fems trade experiences. When they help each other, and laugh together, and get along. I love my MTF friends and I love so much that the girlhood that didn’t suit me makes them so, so happy. Love the girlies out there and I wish you all the femininity you desire, or masculinity if that’s more your speed! Masc women are awesome too 😎👏

Being alive in a time when, even though things aren’t perfect, I still have spaces to be myself, and still have spaces where I know I am loved. That can’t be taken for granted and can’t be forgotten, especially today.

Never forget that you are loved, if not by anyone in your life, then by ME, goddamnit. And never forget that your experience is beautiful, worthwhile, and deserves to be listened to. Even the rough patches. Especially the rough patches. But for today, If anyone else wants to share their top five or top ten or even their one positive trans experience I would love to hear. I at least could use some more positivity right now!

🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈✨

#positivity #transgender #mtf #ftm #trans youth #trans wins #queer #lgbtqia+#lgbt #lgbtq #transgender positivity #protect trans youth #protect trans lives #protect gay rights #we will win in the end ❤️#just hang in there #it will be okay #transgender 🏳️‍⚧️#loveislove 🏳️‍🌈

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nervoushottee · 1 day ago

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AHHHHHHHH OMG OMG OMG ITS HERE ITS HERE!!!

He deepens the kiss immediately. Tongue sliding into your mouth, taking, taking, taking.

Two sentences in and I’m already hooked.

His hold tightens on your hair and he eats at your mouth, as if he can barely control what he’s been trying to rein in.

JAW DROPPING OMG

He thinks he wouldn’t care if you stuck your finger in it if it meant having you even closer.

I want to applaud you for how in character your writing is Ezra (does that make sense?). Like this is such an Ezra thing to say that it makes me laugh and swoon at the same time.

The sentiment had been ripped out of his body without him even knowing, every plunge of his blade meant to protect you. A rage like he’d never felt before had taken over when the man threatened to violate you, surprising even him in its ferocity. His bicep was still sore from exertion, and looking at you now, he wants to find ten more men and do the same.

He wants to kill everyone on this planet just to keep you safe. Just to make sure you never feel that type of fear again.

UGHH that deep masculine protective man!!!! Like I can almost feel the this urge he has to destroy everything to protect Birdie. Like I’m in the crossfire of that protection yet at the same time I AM the one being protected. How you can make me feel that all by this paragraph I have no idea but I love itttt.

“Here?” he asks, smiling when you curl forward, resting your head against his shoulder. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on. Everything that you’ve wanted the entire time you’ve been stuck here with him swirls and blends with everything you’ve ever always wanted and never got, and when he adds a third finger you look at him with hooded, pleading eyes – only to see dark victory in his own.

Here? Someone call the doctor. I just passed the fuck out with my eyes rolled back. That four letter word will get me every time. Like UGHHHHH and also, three fingers? Omggg

You taste like you and like him, and he’s addicted, his cock firming with every lick inside your mouth. You whimper into the messy kiss, and it drives him to near madness the way he knows that if he would touch you right now, he’d find you soaked.

Here he goes again being a FILTHY FILTHY WHORE AND I LOVE HIM FOR IT. Just hungry and drowning in this wanted pleasure. It’s so primal, so raw and so eager from both sides. The want and NEED between them both finally being satiated. As I ’m reading it to me it feels like frantic and rushed almost (in a good way! ) Maybe I was just reading to fast bcc I was so excited lol but it just felt like that rushed and hurried, quick, “I can’t believe we’re FINALLY doing this” hungry sex and I loved every minute of it like I could not stop reading.

Loved loved LOVED this chapter. Love your writing so much and I love Ezra and Birdie. I can not wait to see what Ezra has in store once his injury is healed *smirks*

On The Green: 6

Ezra x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (finally!)

A/N: This came pouring out of me and thank god for the lovely @the-scandalorian who responded to my frantic “can you read today” messages with the support and grace and filthy heart and mind she always does ❤️ thank you my lovely ❤️ enjoy!

—

He deepens the kiss immediately.

Tongue sliding into your mouth, taking, taking, taking.

He fists your hair in his grip, tugging on the strands with a low groan of hunger that slips from his throat and you lean into his strength, matching it with your own. Your mouths move against each other’s, your lips molding to his firmer ones, and he kisses you with experience, with greed, with desperation. His hold tightens on your hair and he eats at your mouth, as if he can barely control what he’s been trying to rein in.

Your touch slides across his whiskered cheek and slips around the nape of his neck, your head tilting to the side with a soft, muffled moan and he tries to sit up, only to abruptly pull away with a hiss of pain.

The sound breaks the spell, and worry floods your features.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he assures you, breathless. “Just got…carried away.”

His eyes are still on your mouth, even with his hand over the fresh wound concealed under his thermal.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, shifting to put some distance between your bodies. “I never should have – not when you’re like that. I –”

He cuts your rambling, cupping your cheek to keep you in place.

“Shhh, Birdie. It’s okay.” A smile tugs at the edge of his lips. “I more than complied with your silent request. In fact,” he argues with a raise of his brow, “one could argue that I encouraged it.”

You match his small smile with a bashful one of your own.

“Though it is true that I might not be in the best form to…reciprocate, the way I want.”

Hesitation flits across your face. “And do you? Want?”

His gaze darkens, a shadow of lust that seems to overtake the deep brown. “Very much so, Birdie. Very much.”

His admission must pool slick and warm in the cradle of your hips, given the way you press them together. He notices. He notices everything when it comes to you. You pluck your bottom lip with with your teeth, and he can see the clear need on your face - the one you’re also trying to rein in. He knows he’s too injured for it right now, but he can’t wait to see what you’ll be like when you let loose. When you act before thinking, when you take what you want.

He’s weighing the decision of pushing through his pain to kiss you again when you lean back.

With eyes on you, he watches as you crawl over and pluck your blanket from your cot, before crawling back over to his. He’s making room for you before you even reach him, a space you eagerly fill with your body. It’s a tight fit, and when you stretch out alongside him, your limbs naturally fold against his. He drapes his arm over your side, and you’re careful not to touch his wound.

He thinks he wouldn’t care if you stuck your finger in it if it meant having you even closer.

“Is this okay?” you ask, timid and soft. The warmth of your breath skims across his neck, and his eyes flutter shut.

He hums. “More than.”

Rain starts to pelt the outside of the pod, a steady drum that fills the silence. He thinks maybe you’ve fallen asleep when you speak again.

“That was close today,” you murmur. “Too close.”

He says nothing for once, his hand sliding a soothing path up your spine. He maps the curve of it underneath his palm, tracing your vertebrae with his fingers. For all the nights he’s dreamed about touching you just like this, it feels better than he could have ever imagined. Even if his body is strung tight, wanting so much more.

Your hand finds his thermal and twists the worn fabric, clutching it. “I thought maybe I was going to…” You stumble on your words, and he waits, listening to the tremble in your voice. “I thought that would be it. That I would be…alone.”

He knows he should say something in comfort, but the words don’t come. Instead, actions do: a weight in his chest struggling to break free, his hands itching with the need to touch your face. His arm tightens its hold on you.

“I couldn’t make it if I was alone, Ez. I wouldn’t – I’d never be able to –”

Your breathing starts to hitch, and he frowns as if in pain and cradles the crown of your head, pulling you close.

“I need you.” Your words catch on a sob.

It hurts, the sound. It rips him apart, fracturing his hard exterior, exposing the soft core. Soft, just for you. Only for you.

You cry and your little body shakes with it, tears wetting the collar of his thermals, the delicate wings of your shoulder blades trembling. The high of adrenaline must be crashing within you, and he presses you tighter against him, petting your hair.

“It’s okay, Birdie,” he soothes. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

–

After that, you fall into a deep sleep.

Your body is boneless next to his, melting against him even more. The first time since he’s met you that he can’t sense any tension in your muscles, he takes the opportunity to close his eyes and revel in the feeling.

It’s been so long since he’s touched anyone – even longer since he’s touched anyone like this. Your small hand has slipped beneath the back of his thermal, your face tucked into his neck and with a careful movement and a wince of pain, he shifts onto his side to see you better.

The soft curve of your cheek in the dark, the flutter of your lashes as you dream. The slope of your nose, your lips parted only just with soft, steady breaths. He watches the thrum of your pulse beat in the dark, so delicate, your skin unblemished and soft. It calls for his mouth, but it calls deeper than that too.

She’s mine.

He wants to kill everyone on this planet just to keep you safe. Just to make sure you never feel that type of fear again.

He guides your head back into the crook of his neck, your nose fitting just right in the well of his collarbone as if it was always meant to be there.

A soft, sleepy sigh escapes you, and he closes his eyes. Tucking his chin against the crown of your hair, he presses you closer.

–

You half expect him to wake you up with a kiss, and half not. You aren’t sure how this is supposed to go.

He's still asleep when you wake up, so you slip out from beside him and take a shower. The warmth of his skin lingers in the small space, water sliding over your sore muscles.

“I’m gonna fuck that girl raw. Right next to your dead fucking –”

The memory of yesterday twists your stomach, and you scrub harder at your skin, as if the action could remove the words from your mind. They make you feel filthy, but more than that, it’s the mental image of Ezra’s dead body that haunts you. He came out on top yesterday, but if he hadn’t? You feel the weight of a sob gathering at the base of your throat, and you hold your face under the stream of water, letting the sound push everything away.

You don’t want to cry again. You had cried enough last night – cried in front of him, something you’d never done in front of anyone before, not even your father. Normally it wouldn’t be something you’d let anyone see, but last night…last night you couldn’t help it. The fear inside you had risen to a pitch and then crashed, too many feelings swirling within you: relief that he was alive, pride that he killed for you, shame following close on its heels. True, bone deep terror at the thought of almost dying, and later, the release of desire that had been bottled up for weeks.

You needed to purge every one of those emotions, and tucked against his body, you felt safe enough for the first time to do it in the presence of another human being. He petted your hair and stroked your back, absorbing it all in an uncharacteristic silence aside from the gentle sounds he made with his mouth. You poured everything out and he caught it all, holding you close until you felt calm enough to stop.

You had slept better than you had since you got here, and when you step out of the shower to find Ezra digging through the bin that held his clothing, you sense he feels the same. Certainly looks it, even for someone who had been stabbed the night before.

“Good morning, Birdie,” he greets you, fishing through the med kit. “Did you sleep well?”

You nod, feeling shy all of a sudden. Do you go over and kiss him? Do you talk to him like it never happened? The intimacy last night was so thick it was unbearable: all consuming, quiet and warm, safe from the light of day. A liminal space where the two of you let yourselves act on impulse. Did that still apply?

“I myself was going to take a shower. Did you leave any hot water for me?”

His casual words soothe your nerves. “Yea, there should be more than enough. I wasn’t in there for long.”

He tosses fresh bandages on the cot next to him, and you see the old ones, crusted with blood, lying next to them. He stands, and the sharp inhale of pain that he lets out has you reaching for him, forgetting all the uncertainty about how you’re supposed to act this morning around him.

“Are you okay? Did the bandage come off?”

“I took it off,” he says, and your eyes drop to the site of the wound, hidden under his shirt. His fingers lift the material, and you wince at the raw stitches. He drops the shirt, and moves closer. “I thought it would be best to clean it. Who knows where that blade has been.”

A new worry strikes: germs, the constant dust that covers everything on this godforsaken planet.

As always, he is quick to reassure you.

“Hey,” he says, using his knuckle to nudge your chin up until your eyes meet his. “You’re thinking about this too hard. You did a fine job stitching me up last night, and fine job cleaning everything before that. I just want to get all the grime off.” His thumb slides over your bottom lip, his eyes tracking its movement.

The small touch is enough to swallow your worry whole, replacing it with anticipation. He’s giving you the green light, and resting your hands on his hips, you brace yourself against the light-headedness that strikes when he starts to slide his touch down – down your chin, his hand curling around the side of your throat as his thumb traces the line of your jaw.

“I’ll be right back.”

He leaves you standing there, a girl-shaped pool of want, a loose-limbed trembling thing that aches – but it’s nothing compared to what you feel when he gets out of the shower.

Opening the door, he walks out in just his briefs. Your breathing hitches, your own clothing too tight on skin that aches to slide against his.

All pretenses gone, he sits down on his cot and the water droplets that linger on his tanned shoulders catch the light when he reaches for the fresh bandages. “Can you help?” he asks, holding them out towards you.

He leans back on his hands, thighs spread wide. There is so much of him: the streak of white more pronounced against his damp hair, his broad chest, his firm thighs. Hair that dusts along his limbs, more skin of his than you’ve ever seen. For all the ways you’d imagined a scenario like this happening, it catches you off guard how overwhelming the real thing feels.

In a haze, you move, coming to stand between his feet. He watches as you slowly kneel between his spread thighs, and the look on his face is almost proud, if it weren’t for the stark, blatant hunger in his eyes.

Unsure of where to start, you force yourself to focus on the task at hand.

His stomach tenses when you smear ointment over the wound. His throat bobs with a hard swallow when you lay fresh bandages in place, smoothing them down. Carefully cutting fresh strips of tape, you try to ignore the way his tongue slides along his bottom lip as your fingers gently press them into place around the edges of the dressing.

You perform a slow inspection to make sure it’s airtight – one that continues, even after you’re satisfied.

Your eyes flit up to his in question, and the look he returns is as steady as you’ve ever seen it, full of silent permission.

Splaying your fingers, the air between you feels heavy as you run an exploratory path along the curve of his hip, and up along the ridged muscles along his ribs. His body radiates heat underneath your palm, his skin smooth where it isn’t marred with numerous scars. Lighter against his flesh, they stand out: a thin slice along his ribs, a jagged, ugly looking thing on his inner thigh. When you get to the hair that collects beneath his navel, his thighs tense around your waist, but he remains otherwise still.

Your mouth waters at the bulge at the crux of his thighs, a slowly thickening heft that forms underneath the dark fabric. Resting your hands on the top of his thighs, you shuffle your knees closer and you can hear his breath catch when you bend forward, pressing your mouth just over his bandage.

The first sound he makes since you started rumbles out of his chest: a low, husky groan.

“C’mere,” he says, his voice rough. He pats his lap, and giving the bandage another kiss, you obey, climbing up to straddle him.

When you’re fully seated, his hands settle lightly on your hips, and he takes his time looking.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs, and you do, enraptured. A live wire in his hold, your body stands on the edge of a precipice.

“This goes only as far as you want it to. You say stop, I’ll stop.”

“And if I don’t?”

The grin that spreads across his face can only be described as filthy. Filled with intent, something inside him waiting to pounce. You can see it in his eyes, hidden underneath the rich brown. Lying in wait, letting you come to him. You’re both exercising your own amount of restraint – yours is a bundle of nerves, his is a deep chasm of hunger.

“Then I won’t,” he breathes against your lips, right before he meets them with his own.

The press of his mouth sparks to life the unlit match inside you that was waiting for this. Your arms wind around his shoulders, his own curling around your waist. His hands press underneath your shirt, splaying over your back, so big his fingers almost touch and you can feel the thick ridge of his cock beneath you. Grinding on it, you almost sob with how good it feels after thinking about it for so long.

You want to be filled so bad it hurts.

He keeps kissing you: hands cupping your cheeks to hold you in place, sliding down your sides in a weighty drag, shoving themselves underneath the band of your thermals to grab handfuls of your ass. Back up again to tug your shirt off, molding to your tits to push them together with a groan. His mouth moves to kiss them instead of your lips, his whiskers dragging across the skin just above your bra, his tongue sliding along your sternum with a lick.

Pulling back, he works at the front clasp of your bra.

“I’m afraid I can’t do everything that I’d like to,” he says, his eyes flicking down to his wound. “But I’m not totally useless.”

He tosses your bra to the floor, and your back arches when he uses his thumbs to rub the tight buds of your nipples right before he replaces the touch with his mouth. He sucks them each in turn, his tongue laving over each sensitive peak, drawing them into his mouth, and biting the plump flesh around them when he cups his hand to push more of it into his mouth. He’s rough with you as his hunger grows, guiding your willing body into position and pressing his hold against your back, his kisses move up your chest to lick at your throat, his teeth catching the skin there. He nibbles on the curve of your jaw, sucks on your earlobe and the crotch of your leggings are soaked when his lips brush along the shell of your ear.

“I’ve waited so long, Birdie. So long.” His hand slides into the hair along your nape, and he tugs, tipping your head back until you’re looking at him. “I know you have too.”

Your pulse racing in your chest, your belly jumps when you feel his other hand skim along your bare stomach. His eyes stay on yours as his touch skims lower and lower, teasing at the waistband of your leggings. He tucks his fingers inside, a fresh pool of slick wetting your underwear when he brushes against the soft thatch of your pubic hair.

“Is it wet for me?” he asks.

Helpless, you nod, swallowing hard. Your fingers curl into his biceps, and his hold on your hair tightens.

“Can I touch it?”

You nod again, and he grins, a dimple catching at his cheek. His hand slips lower, his wrist forcing your leggings down in the front.

“The amount of time I’ve thought about doing this. About touching you here.”

Tandem groans of relief sound through the air when his fingers meet the slick wetness that waits for him, his touch sliding through your seam before he presses his fingers up, up, up, your mouth dropping open as he fills you.

“You already feel like heaven between your thighs,” he says, the words dripping in reverence. “I wish I could taste the bliss that is your cunt.”

The filthy words ratchet you higher, the inside of your thighs straining as you grind yourself into his hand to force his fingers deeper. Like he was being quiet during your exploration only to ambush your senses when he was ready, his words are endless, dripping with intent.

“Tell me where it hurts, Birdie. Let me soothe the ache.”

“Show me, little one. Show me how you’ve thought about me doing this.”

Your hand wraps around his wrist as you steady yourself, a frown of pleasure etched deep between your brows and you fuck yourself on his thick fingers, your hips never stopping in their roll. His thumb finds your clit, and you cry out towards the ceiling of the pod, a sound that makes him chuckle, dark sounding and pleased.

A trembling mess on his lap, you’re helpless as he forces you higher and higher, his fingers filling and precise, sliding against a deep spot inside you that you’ve only dreamed of. Just as lethal as he is outside, just as in command as he always is, he plays your body like he’s played it a thousand times before – every stroke tipping you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” you whimper, breathless. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t have to goad you to tip you over the edge.

It’s like a forceful shove off a cliff, your body floating through the air. Your jaw is clenched, your cunt clenching even tighter in pulses that squeeze his fingers and he watches it all with a greedy, proud expression.

“There you go,” he talks you through it.

“There’s my girl,” he praises, capturing your mouth in a kiss.

–

It’s a scramble after that to get back down on the floor.

He’s sucking on his fingers with a low, desperate groan and you’re tugging his briefs down.

He’s watching as you take him out, hardening at the way your eyes widen.

Your hand struggles to wrap fully around him, but you don’t hesitate a second before bending to guide him into your mouth. Your lips stretch around the thick tip of his cock, your tongue sliding along the sensitive underside, tracing the line of a vein. Sliding him deeper along your palate, his balls draw up, his cock hardening to the point of near-pain. Your hand works the thick base while you press forward to fit him along the back of your tongue, and it only takes a couple of deep throated strokes to bring him to the edge, with how long he’s been waiting.

Wanting.

Driving himself to madness, thinking about the taste of your cunt.

At the thought, he sucks on his fingers again, and you raise your eyes to watch, a moan sliding out of your throat to caress the length of his cock.

“Shit, Birdie. Shit,” he warns, hands fisting the blanket on his cot as he leans back to widen his thighs. They tremble along your shoulders, the muscles flexing under your palm where you stroke the inside of one. You find the scar you saw earlier and glide your touch over it, pressing your fingers into his flesh as you force him to the back of your throat.

At that, he comes.

Loud and filthy, the groan that he lets out is strained at the end as he pours over the back of your tongue.

His fingers clench and flex, his eyes pinched shut as if he can’t bear looking as he fills your mouth with pulses of thick, pearly spend. Weeks of tension drain into your waiting mouth, enough that you can’t catch it all.

When you pull back to swipe at a glistening thread of it that escapes your swollen mouth, there is something so innocent about the gesture that he groans again, this time a plea of his own.

Pushing on your shoulders, he slides off the cot to drop to his knees in his haste to kiss you.

He can’t fuck you – not with his stomach the way that it is – but he can do other things.

So many other things.

“I knew it,” he breathes into your mouth, guiding you onto the floor beneath him. “I knew it would be this good.”

You preen underneath him, reaching to pull him down on top of you.

“I want more,” you beg. “Please, Ez. Please.”

The juxtaposition of how innocent you look while begging for something so filthy claws at his insides, his body reveling in the urge to teach you just how many ways he can make you feel good.

He grins, bending down to devour you whole.

#ezra prospect/you #ezra prospect/reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect x reader #prospect fanfiction #I love Ezra so much omg

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