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darkmatilda · 2 days ago

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𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: two years ago, completely by accident, you helped catch a serial killer. now, as mysterious events start to pile up around you, you begin to suspect that someone is after you, seeking revenge. terrified, you're willing to do anything to save yourself—even if it means reaching out to your ex, who wants nothing more to do with you.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: [these warnings only apply to part 1!] spencer reid x criminal(thief)female!reader, stalking, mention of dismembered bodies, serial killer targeting women, mention of abduction, mention of mental issues and addiction of the victim, reader is kinda morally grey

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6k

𝐚/𝐧: HUGE THANKS to my beloveds from the server who have been listening to me yap about this fic for the past few days!!! a few of my dear girls show up here as characters, in this part it’s @esote-rika i hope you like the role i chose for you <33

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

You hadn’t dreamt about it for almost a year now.

Before, that image had returned to your dreams regularly. A small, wooden vacation cabin in the woods—far enough from the bustle of the city to feel like a retreat, but close enough to avoid the unease that comes with complete isolation. An operation that had required you and your then-partners to meticulously study the owner’s weekly routine, gathering as much information about him as possible. There was no pressure of time—it was a place for vacations or lazy weekends, not for everyday living.

You had no trouble breaking in without even damaging the lock. You had your methods. The owner was due to arrive soon and discover that the painting in the small living room was gone. You wondered if he even understood its historical value. Wealthy people often liked to fill their properties with expensive works of art to catch the eyes of their guests and dazzle them with their price tags. But they rarely cared about the context or the circumstances of their creation. Often, if the artist was foreign, they could barely pronounce their name.

You liked labeling every person you robbed as ignorant. It gave you more motivation.

Your partners had immediately located the painting, while you started looking around the interior yourself. There could be more valuable items—jewelry or antique furniture. Once, during a robbery, you had been about to retreat when you found a hidden door leading to a basement, which turned out to be practically a vault. That year, you booked your dream vacation.

This time, you were heading down the stairs again, shining your flashlight ahead. The beam of light didn’t fall on a bust, a leaning painting, or an Art Deco dresser. It illuminated the battered face of a woman, bound as though she weren’t a living being, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

The waitress set a plate of pancakes in front of you, but you suddenly regretted ordering them. Your stomach was still in knots after seeing that image again in your dreams. You’d gone out for breakfast because you had no plans for the day and didn’t want to spend it entirely cooped up in your apartment. You adjusted yourself in the leather booth. The place had a 90s vibe, with its black-and-white checkered floor, red seating, and curly straws poking out of milkshakes topped with double whipped cream.

A cop slid into the booth next to yours with a sigh, ordering waffles with bacon. Out of habit, you tensed up slightly. As a member of the criminal underworld—a thief and active dealer of antique goods—you weren’t a fan of even fleeting interactions with people who carried handcuffs on their belts. You much preferred gold bracelets.

"...abandoned body parts of an unidentified woman were found along the shore of Neabsco Creek in Prince William County. This exceptionally brutal crime immediately sparked panic within the local community, following a series of murders that had occurred here just two years earlier. It was right on this riverbank that the limbs of the last victim of the killer were found before his capture…”

“The Waterside Butcher,” the cop to your left muttered, mouth full of waffles. “I don’t know if you heard, but that guy’s a real piece of work. Fuckin' psycho. But it ain’t him now—they got him locked up good.”

Thank you for sharing that unsolicited nugget of information I didn’t ask for, officer, you thought, as you remained silent. You didn’t want to engage in any confrontational interactions with the police. In fact, you couldn’t physically speak—you had a chunk of pancake stuck in your mouth, swelling up like a soaked sponge, and you had to spit it out onto your plate.

The cop shot you a look of disgust before turning his attention back to the waitress, bragging about his knowledge of the crime details. He even mispronounced the killer’s name. Robert Miller, not Roger. The man whose vacation cabin you broke into two years ago. The one whose basement you found a woman imprisoned in. The one you reported to the police, even though that meant exposing what you’d been doing in his house. Your case quickly ended up in the hands of the BAU profilers, who used your testimony and connected it to a serial killer they had been hunting for a long time, one who always dumped his female victims along the banks of water sources.

They even offered you a deal. Your testimony, and in exchange, you were only charged with one burglary, one attempted theft. They completely ignored the dozens of others that had happened before.

So, it could be said that you helped them catch The Waterside Butcher.

The cop was right about one thing. Thirteen murders, and he was locked up for the next few lifetimes. So, it had to be either a copycat or...

But if someone like that escaped from prison, would the public even know about it?

Your nightmare hit again. Right on that night. A bad feeling?

Your phone rang.

"Hey, Mrs. Hemingway," you greeted your older neighbor from the floor below, the one you’d swapped numbers with when you were helping her settle in after her hip surgery and taking care of her poodle. You were surprised she was calling you. "Everything okay?"

"Sweetheart, I told you to just call me Erika," she said gently on the other end, her voice carrying a note of tension. "I’m just calling to let you know you're flooding my floor again. Haven’t you fixed that sink yet?"

"Shit," you muttered under your breath. "I’ll be there in a sec. Sorry, Mrs...Erika, that this happened again."

You left the almost untouched pancakes on the plate and walked out of the restaurant, heading toward your building. You’d been moving around a lot because of your line of work, and this place had been home for maybe three months now. For about two weeks, something strange had been happening with the sink in your kitchen. You’d return late at night to find the floor completely flooded, leaking down to the apartment below, where Mrs…Erika lived. It happened every few days, almost regularly. After the second time, you hired someone to fix it, but he said everything was fine with the faucet. Either you kept forgetting to turn it off, or…you just couldn’t come up with a better explanation.

Oddly enough, that wasn’t what occupied your mind on your way back to the apartment.

Your thoughts were consumed by the murder case. You couldn’t help it; everything related to it made you uneasy. During the trial, you’d heard all the details of the crimes he’d committed. You’d seen photos of torsos of women, abandoned in various places, along with their legs and arms. You’d listened as the handsome profiler explained the psychology behind it all. How he lowered his voice with a comforting care, assuring you there was no chance he would ever get out of prison. You nodded, having no reason not to believe him. It was him who proposed the deal you took – keeping your earlier crimes under wraps in exchange for your testimony.

You made a mental note to check in on how Rebekah was doing later. You were the one who saved her, though you didn’t particularly like using that word—after all, you’d ended up there by accident. You kept in touch, but it was hard to call it friendship. You were bound by the situation in which she almost became just another limbless victim. You didn’t have much in common, but she had struggled a lot after that event, and you wanted to make sure she was okay. It was kind of like womanhood.

The first thing you did when you got back to your small but quite stylishly furnished apartment in a nondescript neighborhood was to turn off that damn sink. And then, you offered a heartfelt apology to Erika. In return, you promised to walk her poodle for a week.

“No need, darling,” she assured you, standing in the doorway of her apartment. She was an elegant woman, a fashion enthusiast. Dressed in a gray plaid skirt and a cleverly cut blouse with a tie at the neckline, large black earrings dangled from her ears. Sometimes when she went out, she wore a matching black bowler hat. Behind her, the poodle was frantically wagging its tail, excited to see you. “The doctor recommended I get plenty of walking. I take Coco out every day at eight for an hour. Just the cost for the flooded ceiling is fine.”

You agreed, silently promising yourself that you’d order her a massive bouquet of flowers in the coming days. But for now, you headed back to your apartment, walking straight to the bedroom where you kept a locked chest of drawers… and inside, an album of photos. And within those photos, a substantial amount of cash. Since your income didn’t come from legitimate sources, you steered clear of banks like the plague. You counted out the sum you planned to give Erika—more than she probably expected. But before you could lock the chest again, your fingers automatically grabbed the album. It wasn’t just money in there; you liked to capture moments in photos, and you had plenty of them. You always took them with you when you moved.

The first page showed several pictures from your early childhood, chubby cheeks, dreamy eyes. You quickly turned the page, then another…

Your fingers clenched tightly, even though your mind hadn’t fully processed what you’d just seen. You shook your head, thinking it was just your imagination playing tricks on you.

A photo of a little girl on her first bike. Her face should have been expressing joy, a toothless smile. Instead, all that was there was white, emptiness. A cut-out section.

With furrowed brows, you continued flipping through the album, almost in a trance. If every photo had missing pieces like that, it would’ve been easier to understand. But this was just one photo out of hundreds, one little girl without a face…

A graduation photo. You should have been smiling, hugging your friends. But your face was missing. Your breath caught in your chest. A trip with friends—your face cut out. A beach day, devoid of your face. Not every photo had been altered, but almost every stage of your life captured in that album had at least one case like this. It was as if someone was trying to erase you completely.

You stopped at the point where you had stopped taking as many photos. The last few were from your previous relationship. It hadn’t lasted long, but you had particularly enjoyed taking pictures of Spencer Reid, the profiler who had worked on your case. His brown hair, wide eyes in surprise because he hadn’t known you were sneaking up on him with the camera, the dimple in his cheek when he smiled, filled several good pages. There weren’t many good photos. He looked amazing in spontaneous shots, but in posed ones, his smile was always awkward, stiff.

That photo wasn’t one of your favorites. It had been taken by some stranger during your little vacation in Rome. Spencer had been wearing a light linen shirt, his arm wrapped around your waist. You remembered exactly how you’d stood on your tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, only to cringe a moment later—having just slathered him with sunscreen, you tasted that bitter aftertaste in your mouth. A smile flashed across his face at that, and he adjusted his arm around you, smoothing your heat-fluffed hair behind your ear. So many perfect angles for a picture you could have stared at for hours, but that stranger had only snapped one. You both looked like an engaged couple who had never spoken to each other before, and to make matters worse, it looked like the family expected six kids from you both.

Your face had been cut out of it.

You slammed the album shut and tossed it into the drawer. A gust of wind blew the money meant for Erika onto the floor, but you didn’t care. What did you care about? There was nothing in your mind. A temporary, filling emptiness, growing with every beat of your heart.

Your body moved toward the window on its own, discreetly peering behind the curtain. A black car pulled away from the driveway, followed by a red one, and then a gray one. Could it be…?

No, you hadn’t looked at that album for several days. At least not to review the pictures. They might have been damaged before, and you only noticed it now. You didn’t know which version of events scared you more.

The voice of the news anchor played in your head like a true-crime podcast, describing a recently discovered body with far more gruesome details than in reality. The return of The Waterside Butcher, the one you helped catch. A break-in at your apartment (you hadn’t done it yourself, had you, in your sleep?) almost at the same time?

A twist of fate? A stupid coincidence?

For a moment, you paced around the apartment, thinking. Robert Miller was a serial killer of women, whose capture had been made possible by a woman who broke into his home. If—purely hypothetically—he escaped prison, wouldn’t he be driven by a certain kind of hatred directed specifically at her? A desire to destroy her, more important than anything else?

But that was absurd. You hadn’t cut ties with the case, but surely someone would have informed you if he had escaped. Though…Spencer had been your source of information, and you hadn’t spoken to him since your breakup, over a year ago. You hadn’t been in touch at all since then. So maybe…?

You realized you were standing in something wet. The floor was still flooded from a tap that had been left running.

For the second time this week.

The self-turning sink, this tension, this dream, the cut-out faces, the next murder.

Another brutally killed woman left on the riverbank.

The thought was improbable, yet it refused to leave you alone. It was far more likely that you were dealing with some deranged copycat—after all, it wasn’t uncommon for serial killers to have their admirers. However, that prospect didn’t fill you with nearly as much dread as the idea of being in the crosshairs of this particular man.

You had to find out if there was even the slightest chance that he was out there, free.

“Hands up and turn around, slowly.”

Quick disclaimer—you and Spencer Reid didn’t break up on the most peaceful terms.

Aiming at your head was a bit much, though.

Without a hint of fear, you calmly closed the cabinet in his kitchen, from which you had just taken out a package of brown sugar cinnamon Pop Tarts. You immediately shoved one into your mouth, chewing the sweet bite while staring into the eyes of your ex, who was pointing a gun at you from about four steps away. His hair was longer than you remembered, and there was a trace of stubble around his mouth that caught you off guard. Or rather, how good he looked with it.

“I preferred your old place,” you declared, leaning back against one of the kitchen cabinets. Another bite of Pop Tarts, and a crumb fell onto your clothes. Oops. “Do you even have a microwave here? I could warm this up.”

“How did you get in here?” he asked, clearly irritated.

He still hadn’t lowered the gun, and you were starting to suspect he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you.

“It’s always how did you get in here?” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “Never what’s up? how are you? your hair looks amazing, did you know that? and that outfit?”

"You wouldn’t be yourself without all that pretentious talk, huh?" he scoffed, finally easing up a bit. His stiff posture, caused by holding the gun, relaxed, and after a beat, he lowered it and tucked it into his waistband. He accidentally pulled back part of his black blazer, revealing a dark purple shirt underneath.

You shoved the rest of the snack into your mouth, wiped your hands off, and swallowed.

"I’d be boring without it. And you wouldn’t be yourself without this overdramatization, right? Aiming at my head like I’m some criminal..."

"You broke into my apartment," he interrupted, folding his arms. It was evening, and if you hadn’t turned on the light before coming in, the place would have been drowning in cold darkness. A little of it slipped through the window that wasn’t fully covered. "I think that’s a pretty good reason to point a gun at someone. So what are you doing here?"

"You were right," you said softly, helplessly spreading your arms. "The path of crime doesn't lead to anything good. I should have listened to you, thrown it all away, and become a model citizen."

Spencer gently nodded, listening to your words. Then, he let out a laugh.

"And seriously?"

"Was I not convincing enough?"

"Did you get yourself into something again and need someone to cover your back? Because there's no better alibi than the words of an FBI agent?"

"Stop acting like I ever forced you into it. You did it on your own."

"Because I didn't want my girlfriend ending up in prison."

A tired sigh escaped you, not expecting it to take just three minutes from the start of your reunion to begin bringing up things from your relationship. Well, the fact that you even got together two years ago still seemed incredibly absurd and enigmatic, especially to outsiders. Let's be honest. An FBI agent and a criminal caught during a break-in for theft. Then, still a criminal, though with good intentions.

You couldn’t help that you didn’t see an end to that career, and you were pretty sure Spencer secretly hoped you'd give it up. During the less than six months of your relationship, you felt as though you were constantly on the police radar, even though he’d never turn you in. What’s more, once or twice, he vouched that you were somewhere else when you weren’t. To put it simply, he gave you a fake alibi.

That was roughly when everything started falling apart, as it slowly dawned on him that he couldn’t change you. Things got even stormier, and one day, after one of the many unpleasant exchanges of words at that stage, you just walked out, slamming the door behind you, and you hadn’t seen each other until now.

End of the story.

"Listen," Spencer began after a moment of silence. "You broke in here for a reason, and I highly doubt it’s to reminisce. I should just tell you to leave, but out of some remnants of respect for you, I’ll let you say what this is really about."

"Oh, look at you, how gracious," you scoffed bitterly. Remnants of respect. He was right, though. You hadn't come there to reminisce; you were only interested in getting an answer to one specific question. You cleared your throat. "I’m assuming you’ve heard about the discovery on the shore of Neabsco Creek?"

Spencer took a step forward, furrowing his brows slightly. He still kept more than a necessary distance, as if you were the one pointing a gun at him.

"Your assumption is correct," he replied slowly, cautiously. "I just don’t understand the purpose. Do you have any information related to the case?"

Although it didn’t quite fit the topic, the corner of your mouth twitched.

"Are you hoping I’ll help you catch another serial killer?" you asked, immediately shaking your head. "No, I don’t know anything that could be useful to you. But I do have some bad feelings about it."

You saw him gently press his lips together in thought. Almost immediately, he understood where you were going with this and gave a slight nod. His eyes were still analyzing you carefully and distrustfully. You also noticed how carefully he chose his words, as he always did in the presence of someone who could mean trouble.

"Spencer," you said his name for the first time during this conversation, pausing for a moment to think about how it felt on your tongue. You’d almost forgotten. "Is Robert Miller still in prison?"

"He murdered thirteen women, of course he’s still in prison," he replied with conviction. "And he’ll stay there forever. The body we found... the modus operandi is the same, but only because we’re probably dealing with a copycat."

"Copycat," you repeated. "And not an accomplice?"

"He didn’t have an accomplice. We figured that out during the investigation."

"Are you sure?"

"What exactly are you getting at?" he asked, his voice tinged with genuine confusion, his brow furrowed deeply.

You set the Pop Tarts box down on the counter. You’d thought about it a lot. Few knew about your involvement in the investigation, it hadn’t been made public, just like the exact circumstances surrounding the capture of the suspect. He, however, knew. He’d seen your face in court, heard your name. The entire previous day you had been obsessed with the fact that he probably had the right to correspondence in prison. He might have found a way to inform his potential accomplice about your identity, convincing him to take revenge on his behalf.

"Someone's stalking me," you said casually, as if you were telling him about what you had for lunch that day. "It started right when that murder happened. Just before the body was found on the shore. Someone...cut my face out of photos in my album."

Spencer stood still for a long moment. A look of concern briefly flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by something else—skepticism.

"No offense," he began, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "but are you sure it’s not just someone from your circles?"

"Even if it is, so what? I'm still being stalked."

"Then, that’s not my problem”

Okay, that was cold.

“If someone from my circles wanted to kill me, they’d just do it. They wouldn’t be sneaking into my apartment, cutting my face out of photos, and turning the water on in my sink. The Waterside Butcher, as the media's calling him,” you tried to sound calm and logical, but your heart began to race as the memory from the dream you’d had two days ago—and the one that came to you last night—hit you. This time, however, you hadn’t found Rebekah in the basement of the house, but yourself. “Something’s not right. I can feel it. You guys should look into this. I mean, BAU. But not as a copycat. As someone connected to Miller."

You could see Spencer mulling over your words. His jaw tightened slightly as he processed what you said.

“Are you getting any real threats?” he asked. “Or is it just a busted sink and…”

“It’s not busted! Someone’s turning it on!” you cut him off, irritation creeping into your voice. “And not just someone—a serial killer I put in prison.”

“And who’s still there.”

You could feel yourself losing track of your own thoughts. Well, you’d barely slept the night before, and your brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.

“Or his accomplice,” you corrected yourself.

“Or?” Spencer picked up on it, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, frustrated by his calmness.

"Well, sometimes you catch the wrong person," you said uncertainly.

Spencer exhaled deeply, briefly staring at the ceiling. You didn’t see the seriousness, the readiness to act, that you’d expected when you showed up at his apartment. There was no declaration that they would take another look at the case, maybe reach out to Miller again and try to get more information from him. The thought crossed your mind—if something like this had happened two years ago, would he have reacted with more urgency?

“I interrogated him two years ago,” he began. “Personally, for many hours, even days. He confessed to everything, nothing in his behavior suggested he was trying to manipulate us. He had a motive—he selected his victims based on their resemblance to his mother, whom he also murdered by pushing her off a boat during a family trip. At the time, it was considered an accident.”

As he spoke, memories of the courtroom and the police station resurfaced, when everything was just starting to come to light. And as he slowly moved closer to you, probably unknowingly, you also recalled the first time you really interacted, when he drove you home. You weren’t innocent, but that day, you had heard some truly horrifying details of the crime, and you felt a distinct unease. For the first time, you talked about something other than the investigation. I’m like Robin, but not like Hood. I rob the rich, but I don’t give to the poor you said, making him laugh.

"Our profile didn't include a partner. Trust me, we've handled plenty of cases where there were two or more perpetrators, but this isn't one of them. One person is responsible for this," he continued, trying to catch your eye, making his words more direct, wanting to make sure they reached you. "If someone's stalking you, it's probably not even connected to this case. And normally, I'd recommend you report it to the police... but I get the feeling that's not really an option."

You scoffed, because he was right.

"Highly unlikely they'd do anything about it. You know, the faucet could always be broken, and the photos...that can be explained away," you said, sitting up suddenly.

"Are you calling me paranoid?" you asked sharply.

"You always have to label things so harshly," he muttered, shaking his head. "No, I’m not saying that. I’m just suggesting that the previous murder and the media panic could have influenced how you're perceiving things, making you more susceptible to suggestion. Your mind has connected it with past traumatic events and added..."

"So, you're saying I'm paranoid. Just in scientific terms," you shot back.

Spencer sighed in frustration.

"Call it whatever you want."

For a moment, you just stared at him in silence, a rush of angry words pushing at the back of your throat, but you realized they didn’t make any sense. Why had you even assumed from the start that he would believe you? Leaving aside the fact that your argument was admittedly a bit stretched, the truth was, you weren’t the person he chose to trust anymore.

You briefly lowered your gaze, letting out a sigh, then lifted it back up as you got closer. Spencer tensed, almost moved to pull away, but quickly realized you weren’t threatening him. You simply reached for his purple shirt, slipping something into the tiny pocket on his chest.

"My current phone number," you explained, tapping that spot on his chest. "In case you find out anything. Oh, and one last thing. Do you remember what shape my birthmark is?"

He tilted his head, surprised by the question, the sudden shift in topic. Without waiting for an answer, you pulled at your shirt slightly, exposing a patch of skin just below your collarbone.

"It’s in the shape of pi, like you once pointed out." It hadn't reminded you of that at all before, just a vague shape, but ever since he'd mentioned it, you'd seen it only that way. And from then on, every time he kissed you, he'd always lingered at that spot for a moment longer—it was his personal, favorite point. You let go of your shirt, and Spencer immediately locked eyes with you.

"I just wanted to make sure you remembered," you added, before turning to leave. "In case I end up dismembered on some shoreline and they need to identify my body."

Spencer’s mouth fell open, unable to say a word.

"You knew it very well," you added casually as you made your way out.

You didn’t need him to escort you. You had gotten there on your own, too.

Three days later, when poor Erika was flooded once again, you decided to take action. You contacted the right people to have the locks in your apartment changed and to secure the place in a way that would make breaking in nearly impossible—at least for an average burglar. You knew, however, that someone with the right skills, like you, could still get in. With difficulty, but it was possible.

You also made sure to refresh your knowledge of handling a gun.

And you called Rebekah.

You didn’t like scaring her, but you preferred her to stay vigilant. If someone was targeting you, they might just as well try to go after her too. The problem was, she wasn’t answering your calls, despite you trying every hour throughout the day. Shortly after being freed from the murderer’s grasp, she hadn’t taken up any work, and since you were doing relatively well, you had been supporting her financially. Recently, however, she had managed to find a steady job, and that could explain why she wasn’t responding.

Spencer was right about one thing—you were slowly becoming paranoid. That’s exactly why, later that evening, you decided to head over to her address to make sure everything was okay. It wasn’t just about outside threats anymore. It was simply that… Two years was a long time, but not when it came to rebuilding a life after being abducted by a serial killer. Those years had been especially hard for her—there was the added struggle of addiction—and you just wanted the reassurance that she hadn’t done anything to herself. At least then, you’d be able to sleep more soundly—as much as the circumstances would allow.

Her apartment was located in a truly awful neighborhood, on the second floor of a stairwell covered in graffiti. You knocked on the door several times, pausing between knocks, trying not to panic or come across as aggressive—you didn’t want to scare her.

"Rebekah, are you there?" you called out when no one answered.

You spent a moment leaning against a spray-painted cock on the wall, letting out a sigh as you reached into the pocket of your jacket. The lock on her door was a simple one, requiring only the most basic tools—tools you carried out of habit. You made a mental note to send someone over to replace it.

Even if she wasn’t home, you wanted to take a look around and gauge how she was doing based on the state of the apartment. It wasn’t exactly ethical, but sometimes our surroundings say more about us than words ever could. Besides, there was a good chance she’d never even know you were there.

You stepped inside, calling her name again. The light was already on. Her jacket was hanging on the coat rack, suggesting she was home—but it was also possible she’d just worn a different one. You slipped a wad of cash into the pocket of her jacket. She’d find it later and probably think she’d just forgotten it was there.

The interior had dark green walls, and the apartment consisted of three rooms: a modest living room, a tiny bedroom with just a bed and wardrobe, and a bathroom you’d never been inside before. When you glanced into it, your face reflected in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. You looked really sleep-deprived.

Finally, you headed to the bedroom, clinging to the faint hope of finding her asleep in bed. The fact that all the lights were on worried you—if she’d gone to work, she would have turned them off. Anyone mindful of their wallet would’ve turned them off!

The bedroom door creaked softly as it closed behind you, leaving just a narrow gap that provided a sliver of a view into the living room, specifically the apartment entrance. That was when you saw it swing wide open.

At first, you wanted to leave the bedroom, assuming it was Rebekah and that you could greet her. But it wasn’t the petite, feminine figure of your short friend—it was a tall man, or so you guessed from his stature, despite the hood obscuring his face. Instinctively, you leapt back from the partially open door, making sure you were out of sight.

Heavy footsteps cut across the apartment, heading, by the sound of it, toward the kitchen area. There, they paused for a moment.

You didn’t even try to convince yourself it was some friend of hers dropping by for a visit. Deep down, you already knew—instinctively felt—who it was. And that thought paralyzed you so completely that, despite the gun tucked under your jacket, you quietly slid open the wardrobe door and squeezed yourself inside.

The door creaked as it moved, and you cursed silently.

Whoever it was, you hoped they were too focused on whatever they were searching for to have heard it.

You listened closely to the footsteps in the room next door, your mind spinning with one relentless question: Where was Rebekah in all this? Was she at work, completely unaware that someone was in her apartment during her absence? You tried to recall the last time the two of you had spoken. Certainly not in the past few days—perhaps not even in the past week.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your breathing to quiet, to steady.

Theoretically, her apartment could’ve been empty for days now.

But who was this man?

The footsteps suddenly grew louder. The bedroom door creaked open. You drew in a sharp breath and froze, halting your breathing altogether. You had no idea how much the tight, dark confines of the wardrobe muffled sound.

The footsteps stopped.

You could only imagine the figure standing in the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping the room, taking in every detail. Did he sense someone else might be here? He couldn’t know for certain. But it was possible—likely even—that he subconsciously felt another presence, much like you did in your own home every single day.

Fragments of the nightmare that had haunted you over the past few days came rushing back. It felt as if you were descending those stairs into the basement again.

And then a smell wafted through the air—faint but distinct.

It was the same scent you’d inhaled back then.

Two years had passed, but you still remembered that mixture of dust, decay, and sweat.

Were you really smelling it now? Or was it just a cruel projection of your terrified mind?

The footsteps began to retreat.

You listened with your eyes closed, straining every nerve to track the sound. Your legs felt weak, and it took everything in you not to slide down the back wall of the wardrobe.

The sound of the apartment door slamming shut echoed through the silence. Even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

And then your phone rang.

The sudden, sharp sound shattered the fragile quiet, making you choke on a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Your fingers acted on their own, quickly answering just to silence the noise.

“Hello?” someone said hesitantly, your name hanging in the air like a question. “...It’s Spencer. I’m calling because... something’s happened. And you need to know.”

No.

You tilted your head back, squeezing your eyes shut as if that could block out the reality creeping in.

The silence on your end must have encouraged him to keep talking. You heard the faint sound of him swallowing, the nervous gesture twisting your stomach into knots.

“Robert Miller escaped from prison”

You pressed the phone to your face, even though it was already on speaker. Words tangled in your mind, refusing to form. Spencer said your name twice more, his voice edged with concern, before you finally forced yourself to speak.

“You need to come here,” you croaked, your voice barely recognizable. “Please.”

part 2 soon

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf @nachrosas @angellic4l @awordsmith

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spence reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you

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keeryhours · 14 hours ago

Text

nothing else matters - eddie munson

Older! Eddie Munson x female reader

Summary:

Eddie is bummed about turning 40 - you help him feel better.

Warnings:

Smut (18+), oral sex (m receiving), unprotected p in v, restraints?, age gap

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N:

This is my entry for the @corrodedcoffinfest Birthday pop up! Thank you @punkrockmlchael for your help as usual, ily bestie

Prompts: Birthday, 40, 25, “Seriously? Age is just a number” and gift | Word Count: 2818 | Rating: E | POV: Reader | Relationships: Eddie x Reader

The delicious smell from the cake you were baking filled your apartment. It made your mouth water - you always had a sweet tooth, and you wished you could take a bite now. You put the oven mitts on your hands and opened the oven, carefully pulling the pan out and sitting it on top of the stove.

Things had to be perfect for Eddie’s birthday. It was a big one - 40. And he was kind of freaking out about it. He had never minded your age gap - 25 and 39 - but turning 40 was making him really self conscious about it. You wanted to show him age was just a number and turning 40 had no effect on how much you loved him.

The cake looked perfect, and you had the icing and sprinkles set out on the counter ready for when it cooled. You were determined to make this his best birthday ever, despite his existential crisis.

While the cake cooled, you decorated the rest of the apartment with streamers, confetti, and a Happy Birthday banner. By the time the decorations were perfect, the cake was cool enough to decorate. You covered it in white icing, adding sprinkles to the side. You used the bag filled with black icing to write Happy Birthday Eddie! on top.

Perfect. Everything was perfect.

You heard the front door opening right on time, his keys jingling in his hand as he walked into the apartment. “Babe,” he said, a laugh in his voice, “what’s all this?”

You popped out of the kitchen, a big smile on your face. ��Surprise! Happy birthday!”

Eddie smiled as he approached you, blue coveralls dirtied with smudges of oil from work. He reached you and placed a lingering kiss on your lips. “Thank you, baby. How about I go take a quick shower and we’ll have some cake together?”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, kissing him one more time. He reluctantly left you, heading into the bedroom down the hall.

While he was showering, you arranged the candles just right on top of the cake. You poured yourself a glass of wine, possibly downing it and pouring another before Eddie sauntered out of the bedroom, dressed in a pair of jeans and an Iron Maiden tee. You were already wearing his favorite Metallica one, oversized on you and nearly covering the shorts you were wearing. You handed him a beer as he walked over to the cake.

He was smiling, but you could see something else swimming behind those brown eyes. You grabbed the lighter and lit the candles, then smiled up at your boyfriend. “Ready to make a wish?”

“I already have everything I could wish for,” he said, wrapping his arms around your waist, making you giggle.

“Stop being so cheesy and make a wish!” You said, giving his butt a slap. He laughed and moved towards the cake.

“Okay, okay.” He thought for a minute. “Okay, I’ve got one.”

“Haaaappy birthday to you,” you began to sing, Eddie letting out a playful groan. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, my dear Eddie…happy birthday to you!”

Eddie laughed, then leaned in and blew out his candles. Once they were all out you lifted them from the cake and cut each of you a slice to bring into the living room.

Eddie collapsed onto the couch with a huff. He looked tired, and you could tell he’d had a long day at work. You had suggested he try to get the day off to celebrate his birthday, but he insisted it was just another day and he didn’t want to make a fuss out of it. You didn’t know the definition of “not making a fuss” out of things.

You cuddled up next to him on the couch and he immediately put an arm around you, his plate sitting on his lap. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on, finding a rerun of Day of the Dead, a favorite of you both.

As you ate your cake together, you noticed your normally high-spirited Eddie seemed…dejected. You knew he had been stressing about his birthday, but you hoped the little celebration might make him feel better.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You asked him, sitting your empty plate down on the coffee table in front of you. You reached up to hold his hand on your shoulder as he took his final bites before pushing his own plate onto the table.

“Ah, it’s nothing, baby girl,” he said, giving you a smile with no heart behind it. You weren’t buying it for a second.

“Ed, you can tell me anything. What’s bothering you? Your birthday?”

He sighed, a hand running through his wild curls, still damp from his shower. “It’s just…40 is a big deal. And sometimes I feel like a real creep for having a young little thing like you as my girlfriend.”

Your heart ached for him. “Eddie, baby, you know age is just a number. I don’t care how much older you are. We’re both adults, we can make our own decisions. I love you for you. I love you because you’re fun, and you make me laugh, we have similar interests, you’re handsome…I could go on.” You poke him in the side with a small smile that he returns.

Eddie held out his arm, showing the faded bat tattoo that’s been touched up a few times over the years. “You know I got this tattoo when I was 18, right? I was out getting drunk and high while you were still crawling.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Eddie, that doesn’t mean anything. It’s okay that you’re older than me, believe me. I certainly don’t mind.” You trailed a hand up his thigh, and he raised his eyebrows at you. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

Eddie placed a large hand on your thigh and pulled you onto his lap, facing him. His hands rubbed up and down your bare thighs. “You’re too good for me. I don’t know how I landed such a hot little thing like you. You know they used to call me Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson?” He laughed, shaking his head. “I was not popular.”

“Well, they were idiots,” you said, placing a kiss on his lips. “Because you’re the coolest guy I’ve ever met.”

Eddie pulled you back into a kiss, deeper this time as your lips work together. Butterflies went wild in your stomach like it was the first time, even though you’d been with Eddie for 2 years now. His tongue slipped into your mouth and you moaned into the kiss, pressing back against his tongue with your own.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he mumbled against your lips, hands sliding around to grab your ass and squeeze. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

You grinded down against his lap, feeling his hardness beneath his jeans. He gripped your hips and guided your movements, a low groan coming from his lips. “Want you so bad, Ed,” you whispered, leaning forward to place kisses on his neck.

“Fuck, I want you too, baby,” he groaned, his eyes half lidded as he looked at you. “Is this my birthday present?” He teased. “Because I’m okay with that.”

“One of them,” you said with a playful smirk. You kissed him again, hungrier this time, gently biting his bottom lip and making him moan. His fingertips dug tighter into your hips, his head tilting back as you moved back down to suck at the sensitive spot on his neck.

Eddie’s breathing grew heavier, soft moans spilling from his lips as you left a mark closer to his shoulder, where his coveralls would hide it. He didn’t need the guys at work teasing him about it.

He reached around to squeeze at your ass again, hands slipping underneath your shorts. “Need you right now, baby,” he mumbled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard in my life.”

You moved off his lap with a smirk, Eddie watching you intently as you moved to your knees between his legs. He groaned, watching you undo the button and zipper of his jeans, lifting his hips for you to pull them down.

His cock sprung up against his stomach, already rock hard and leaking for you. You licked your lips at the sight, desperate to get him in your mouth. Eddie caressed the side of your face with his hand, looking down at you affectionately.

“Gonna take it in your mouth, baby?” He asked sweetly. “You’re so good at it. You suck dick like a fucking pro.”

You smiled up at him. “I do?” You grabbed his cock, wrapping your hand around it and stroking slowly as you stuck your tongue out to lick a bead of precum from his tip.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathed, watching every movement you made. “The best. So why don’t you go ahead and suck it, baby?”

Anything he wanted for his birthday. You wrapped your lips around his cock, swirling your tongue around his head. He groaned, cock twitching in your hand. “Fuck babe, take it deeper, please.”

You lowered your head, taking him deeper down your throat as you held eye contact with him. He pushed your hair out of your face and held it behind your head to see you better, to see the way your lips stretched around his thick girth, the way your eyes watered as you took him deeper and deeper. He fought the urge to thrust up into your mouth, forcing the remaining inches down your throat. He was trying his best to have some self control here, but it was hard when you looked that good.

When you took all of him, his head dropped back against the couch cushions for only a moment before he remembered he didn’t want to miss a second of this. As you lifted up he slowly began thrusting into your mouth, and you let him, let him use you for his own pleasure.

“Fuuuuck, that’s it. Lettin’ me use you like that? Such a good little slut for me.” His voice was strained, the pleasure almost too much for him. He didn’t want this to be over fast, he had to fuck you first, feel you wrapped around him and fill you with his cum. That’s what he wanted for his birthday.

But he could enjoy this for a little longer.

He fucked your face slowly, his grip on your hair tightening as he held you still and did all the work. You looked up at him with wide watery eyes and it nearly undid him right then.

“Fuck, you’re doin’ so good baby. Letting me fuck your face. You’re just a good little cockwhore aren’t you? You like letting a real man use you. Guys your age wouldn’t do it for you, huh?”

You moaned around his cock, sending vibrations through him and making him moan louder. He thrusted his hips up into your mouth a few more times before he was pulling you off of him, gasping moans spilling from his lips as he tried to calm himself and not cum right that second.

“Shit. Take those clothes off and get back on my lap baby,” he begged, fisting his own cock. You obeyed, sliding your shorts and panties down your legs and throwing your shirt off. You climbed onto his lap, lining yourself up with his help before sinking down onto him. You both moaned together at the feeling, and Eddie’s hands quickly moved to grasp your hips. He pulled you down as he thrusted up, cock buried in you to the hilt as you cried out from the sudden feeling.

“Oh my god, Eds,” you moaned, starting to bounce on him, your head tilted back as he helped you keep your rhythm, his thrusts meeting you with every downward motion of your hips.

“Fuck, fuck,” he cursed, each time sinking into your tight, wet walls undoing him more and more. You leaned back, placing your hands on his knees as you bounced on his cock, giving him the perfect view of your bouncing tits. His eyes locked on them, drinking in how hot you looked. “God, you are perfect. Such a sexy little thing bouncing on my dick for me. You like that? Do you like taking my cock like that?”

“Fuck, yes,” you moaned, lost in the pleasure he was giving you. “Feels so good, Eddie. Jesus, you’re just so fucking big, so deep.”

“Why don’t you bend over the side of the couch for me?” Eddie asked, breathless. “Wanna fuck you from behind.”

He didn’t have to ask you twice. You lifted off of his lap and moved to the arm of the couch, leaning over it as Eddie stood and moved behind you. You felt him dragging his cockhead through your folds, seeing just how soaking wet you were for him.

“Hands behind your back.”

You moved your arms behind you, and Eddie grabbed both wrists in his large hand just before he sunk inside you, filling you even deeper than before. He hissed as you moaned loudly, and began thrusting deep into you at a brutal pace.

“God, look at you,” he grunted out as he pounded you hard from behind. “So helpless. Desperate for cock and taking everything I give you. Little slut.” He slapped your ass hard with his free hand, making you jump and cry out, and leaving a bright red handprint he smoothed his hand over. “So fucking hot.”

“More, Eddie,” you whined. “Fuck me harder, want you to fill me up.”

“Aww, baby,” he cooed, “that’s all you had to say.” He sped up his hips, leaning over you as his pace became ruthless, much more intense than before. It was exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna cum for me?” He asked, reaching around to rub circles on your clit. “I think you are, baby. I can feel you tightening around me.”

You were close. Your eyes began rolling back in your head, the combined pleasure of his cock and his hand pushing you to the edge fast. “Eddie, Eddie-“

“Come on baby, cum for me. Cum around my dick, make a mess all over me, let me feel you,” he encouraged, cock pressing against that perfect spot with every thrust. “Go ahead and let go for me.”

Stars exploded behind your eyes at that moment, and you let out loud, whiney moans as he fucked you through your high. “Oh my god, Eddie, fuck yes, fuck yes, ohmygod-“

He thought you looked so fucking hot like this, falling apart on him, because of him. His own orgasm hit him unexpectedly and he bent over your body as he came inside, pumping his cum into your tight walls with every shallow thrust. “Fuck! Yes baby, take it all, take my fucking cum. God, I’m filling you up so fucking good, keep taking it just like that, fuck yes.”

When he was done he pulled out of you, calloused hands caressing the skin of your perfect ass, enjoying the view. “You’re so perfect,” he remarked, nearly to himself.

He pulled his jeans back up and collapsed down onto the couch, pulling your naked body down onto him as you giggled. He held you close, placing kisses all over your face and body.

“I love you so much,” he said. “This might have been the best birthday present ever.”

“Oh!” You said, jumping up and pulling your shirt and panties back on. “I almost forgot your actual present!”

Eddie laughed as you ran out of the room and into the bedroom. You poked your head around the corner, a mischievous smile on your face. “Ready?”

“I’m ready,” he said, a grin on his face at whatever you were up to.

You came around the corner holding a gorgeous black electric guitar, a bow around the neck. Eddie’s eyes widened as you brought it over and he took it from your hands.

“I know this will never replace your sweetheart, but…”

“Baby, this is incredible,” he said, taking it from you and removing the ribbon before strumming it. “I can’t believe you got me a fucking guitar. You’re my dream girl.”

You were beaming, pleased that he liked your gift. “You really like it? I wasn’t sure which one to pick out, but I thought you’d like this one…”

“It’s perfect, baby,” he assured you. “Now sit down so I can play you a song.”

He plugged the guitar into his amp, keeping it down not to annoy the neighbors. He tuned it, then began strumming the opening chords of Nothing Else Matters by Metallica. You smiled up at him as he sang for you, still in disbelief that this was your boyfriend, your dream man, your heart.

So close, no matter how far

Couldn't be much more from the heart

Forever trusting who we are

And nothing else matters

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crescenthistory · 2 days ago

Note

carina!!! congratulations on 2k followers 🥳🥳

could i ask for a drabble with rockstar au and barty?

thank you my love<33

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

i will ARGUE for prompt 33 "rockstar au" with barty crouch jr.

carina's 2k celebration

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

cw: gn!reader, slightly suggestive, you're wearing lipstick, doing barty's makeup

wc: 666

"Sit still."

Your left hand was holding Barty's jaw tightly to keep his face immobile, knowing that this boy did not have it in him to remain in the same position for long. Your right hand was leaning against his temple as you gently applied eyeshadow beneath his eyes in a thin streak to match what you had already applied on his eyelids.

He was grinning up at you, eyes wide and concentrated on your movements.

"'S hard when I've got such a pretty thing in my lap."

"I'm sure it is hard."

Your voice was quiet and so was the smile that you simply could not wipe off of your lips. Barty must have noticed because his hands on your thighs squeezed momentarily, appreciatively.

This had become your new routine – you fixing his hair and makeup moments before the show while straddling him for better access. At a gig a few months back, you had teasingly suggested you do his make-up properly before he heads on stage instead of him just wiping some black eyeshadow messily over his eyelids in two back-and forth motions. To be truthful, you more than enjoyed the messy look as well, but you thought it would be fun to glam him up properly for once.

Barty insisted that he simply loved it so much that you just had to become his own personal makeup artist.

You still think it’s just because he enjoyed how you sat in his lap. Perhaps it gave him the rush he needed before going on stage for a few hours. He kept proving your point by murmuring sweet nothings as you worked on his face, hands roaming to his heart’s content – but there was no part of you that truly wanted to complain, so you let him be.

“Wish everyone could see you like this.” His smile turned cheeky as he looked past your shoulder into the mirror he was supposed to get ready in front of himself.

You squeezed his jaw a bit tighter, jerking his head back in place where it was supposed to be. “Do you now?”

His pupils were blown and he tried to do a so-so movement with his head, but you held him still yet again. “Well, not really. Just wish everyone could see how bloody lucky I am.”

You pretended his words didn’t get to you as you bit your lip to keep a smile back. “Sing about it, then.”

In between brush strokes – you’ll give him as much – Barty threw his head back laughing as he squeezed at yet another handful of your flesh. “You know I do, baby.”

You hummed in agreement, narrowing your eyes at him, deducing that you were almost done. Before he could say anything else, you leaned down and pressed a pursed kiss to his mouth, purposefully missing it just slightly. When you pulled back, he had a light lipstick stain covering half his lips and the corner of his mouth.

The way his lips pulled into a wide grin told you he knew what you were doing. “Cheeky minx. Making me all pretty?”

You let your hands drag up his arms to settle happily in a cross behind his shoulders, allowing your smile to be just as lovestruck as need be. “Isn’t that my job?”

“Nah,” he drawled. Kissing you one more time, not caring about the lipstick – or perhaps chasing it . “Your job is to be pretty. Everything else is just a bonus.”

The laugh that escaped you was more of a huff and he pinched your nose endearingly before grabbing a tight hold of your underside as he got up out of his seat, effortlessly hoisting you with him.

He carried you all the way to the door before looking up at you, white teeth sharp and blinding. “Where’d you wanna watch tonight, dragă? Backstage? Crowd? Lights?”

You nudged your nose against his, careful not to smudge any of your work before it’s supposed to be naturally smudged by the gig. “I’ll sit just behind the curtain like last time, so I can be alone but see you.”

He spun you around with a gleeful laughter, taking to carrying you out and over to the curtains where Evan and Dorcas were already waiting. “Your wish is my command, my love.”

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snake-spire · 2 days ago

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So I’m not sure if I should talk about this or if it’s even worth mentioning but, there’s a post trying to villainize Harlan for posting about the US election and “promoting” Malevolent, if anyone has seen the twitter post and those in the Invictus discord would know. And is actively trying to make him out as ableist and racist, and I am absolutely floored by this response and how people aren’t really thinking about it deeper than that. I am censoring the person’s username because I don’t want them to be attacked. Just block them and move on if you end up finding the post.

First of all, Harlan lives in Canada, and I ask, why can’t he say anything to give his audience, who’s primarily queer and American, hope to push on? He uses his podcast as an example to make his point clearer. Because people can relate to it.

It’s insensitive to think that the United States live in this bubble that other people living in different countries can’t care about what’s going on, especially when Canada’s borders are now closed. And the fascist President is actively trying to make it the 51th state for god knows why. (This tumblr post was made at least two days ago)

I’ll come back to twitter because there is actually something about promoting Malevolent that can be seen as pushy (and I do think it was) but it really comes back to bite the op if you aren’t actively paying attention and can’t be bothered to look at the person’s account.

But there are three very heavy claims that this tweet makes that without thinking, are very damning. So let’s dissect that.

1. No one cares that most women characters are dead. And if they do, they really shouldn’t. Harlan is the sole creator of the show. He is the sole actor. Because he wants to. That’s his decision to not bring on other voice actors. Would it be nice? Yeah, absolutely. But I don’t care in the sense that I’m neutral about it. Who’s alive and who’s dead shouldn’t matter. And again, this idea that the women who have died had no impact on the story is diminishing their value as women. They didn’t die for the male lead (most of them anyway). They (especially in season one) were actively doing something and they are quite literally, the only reason the story is happening in universe. So yeah, if you want to be as shallow as possible, there are many dead women in the show. Congrats.

2. What ableist undertones? No really I would like to know. Is it because you think they’re ableist? There are 0 examples in the post to back this up. Are you claiming that the entire show’s undertones are ableist? I am working with absolutely nothing here. If you’re trying to make a “call-out” post or want people like me on your side, give me something. So yeah, I’m tossing that away because op never cares in the first place.

3. Now this is the second most damming thing in the post. Because it’s a somewhat serious allegation to frame Harlan as being racist. But that’s easy to refute: it’s in the name of Shub-Niggurath. And it’s barely in season 1.

Now I’m going to state an obvious fact: H.P. Lovecraft was racist. And there are far worst examples in his work with creatures just straight up named racial slurs and many of his works contain those on the basis. And it’s bad that he wrote that.

I want to make it clear that I am white, I’m not a person of color. And the op isn’t black either after I checked their page. So neither of us can fully comment on the “time period racial slurs” in Malevolent in full. But my college roommate who is black can. And they said it was absolutely ridiculous because there are no slurs being used as it’s a part of the name. and as that roommate pointed out to me, I guess we have to go after Arnold Schwarzenegger because of his last name.

And besides, if you’re going to get on Harlan for saying the name, what about every other piece of Lovecraftian media that included Shub? Because unlike Malevolent where she’s a small drop in the overall story, she’s actually integral to those pieces of media (ie: Sucker for Love 2)

Now remember how the racism accusation was the second most damming thing about the post?

Yeah I think the Nazi claim is there too.

And when someone asked in the reply for proof, the answer boiled down to, look it up. Because again, op couldn’t have been bothered to provide evidence or examples. Is that person still in there? How long ago was this? Does Harlan share those same views now? Does said Nazi still have those views?

I’m not implying that this did or didn’t happen. I don’t know because there is nothing to implicate anything. I shouldn’t have to do the work op couldn’t do themselves.

Now to circle back to the initial Twitter screenshot and something that Harlan can be viewed as being pushy about, I unfortunately couldn’t get a screenshot of the screenshot (again I blocked said person and I do not and will never get twitter) but I do know that when WolfytheWitch had started their listen of Malevolent and got to episode 20, they made a tweet about it and Harlan @ ed them. He had mentioned how fans and Cain needed a distraction in trying times.

Do I find that pushy? Yeah. But again, I don’t really care. Because this show means a lot to people. And they know that if they need to shut the world out for a moment, it’s just a click away.

But what really irks me were the tags about Cain in OP’s reblog of the post where this section is. And it really goes to show that the op has no clue what they were talking about and couldn’t be bothered to provide examples and evidence.

Cain is from the Philippines. They do not live in America. And it’s in their bio everywhere. They don’t hide it. This isn’t a “oh I didn’t know.” It’s an “I couldn’t have been bothered to check.”

I don’t like the idea of call out posts. Hell, I don’t even like that I have to make this post in the first place but it doesn’t sit right with me because I want people to think critically when there is no evidence besides opinions. And the claim that he didn’t ban a nazi which again, I don’t know if that’s true or not because op should have at least provided evidence when throwing out a claim like that.

And I will iterate again, please if you end up finding the post or someone reblogged it, do not harass the op or the person that reblogged it. Because that’s gross and disgusting and you have no place here.

Now I’ve said my piece about a post I probably should have ignored. But I didn’t. Because it was eating me up all day today.

Stay safe y’all

-Snake-Spire

#most of these tags are just to spread the word #malevolent #malevolent podcast #arthur lester #john malevolent #kayne malevolent #private eyes #detective noel malevolent #oscar malevolent #the butcher malevolent #harlan guthrie #malevolent rambling #media analysis #masked

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bedlam-barbie · 2 days ago

Text

Attention

Pairing: Hwang In-hu x recruier!fem!reader ; slight Salesman x fem!reader

Warnings: jealous!In-Hu; slightly obsessive!In-Hu; slightly suggestive themes and words: yearning; angst; probably ooc!In-Hu

Word count: ~4k

Author’s note: sooo this is my first fanfiction I have written in 10 years, what this man does to me… I needed some more recruiter!reader as I am so obsessed with the idea. I also included the Salesman as he is my other guilty pleasure. I deeply want to write a part 2 , let me know if you are interested!

Hwang In-Hu had always hated clubs. He hated the obnoxious music. He hated the smell of sweat and desperation. He hated people pushing into each other. He hated the shameless displays of people grinding and almost taking their clothes in the middle of the dance floor. He hated the cheap liquor diluted with water. He hated random people getting it on in those disgusting toilets. It was safe to say, In-Hu would rather be anywhere else than there.

But there was one thing he didn’t hate about it.

Her hair was bouncing to the rapid rhythm, her body somehow knowing how to sway to every beat of every song, sending him into a trance. She would always make eye contact with him lip syncing to the filthiest lyrics. Her lips always painted in a beautiful red color almost begging him to come over and taste them. It was almost like their own ritual. He would sit at their reserved table in a leather armchair, nursing a glass of whiskey, while she would be just within his eye reach dancing, a mischievous look behind those oh so pretty eyes.

But tonight was different. Tonight, unless absolutely having to, she would not look at him, not address him. It was like In-Hu was not worthy of her attention. He was aware he fucked up, that was the whole reason he even showed up to this God forsaken rats’ nest. The more she ignored him, the more starved he became, a combination of anger and hurt playing at his heartstrings.

Lust and guilt coiled tightly within him, indistinguishable from one another. She wasn’t just beautiful—her beauty was deliberate, a weapon she wielded with precision. And him, unarmed and unprepared, stood squarely in her sights. He should’ve looked away. He didn’t. In-Hu took another sip of the whiskey as he watched her dance with him as he contemplated what has brought him to this specific moment.

It was a sunny morning in Seoul, a rare occurrence in the grey autumn. He looked over at the other side of the bed, finding her sleeping peacefully. She was sleeping on her back, her beautiful hair splattered on the black satin pillow. Her chest was slowly rising and falling, his white crisp shirt covering almost nothing of her perfect figure. For the first time since he had met her 3 years ago, she looked delicate, youthful, carefree. Gone were the sassy attitude, the makeup, the expensive clothes and her sharp tongue. In-Hu placed a soft kiss between her breasts as he made his way out of the bed into the shower.

The smell of her skin, the sound of her voice moaning, the softness of her delicate body, they were all stuck in his mind, as well as her little love confession. He was planning to get started on breakfast, make some coffee, treat her like a princess. As he exited his shower, he took a look at his phone, making sure he hadn’t missed any important work-related calls. The games were going to start in just over a week and everything had to be perfect. That’s when he saw the date.

25th of October.

In-Hu’s heart dropped as he read it over and over again. No, it wasn’t possible. The 25th was going to be in a few days. He franticly opened his calendar checking again.

And again online.

And again, on his physical one.

And all over again on his phone.

He felt a rush of panic wash through him. Hwang In-Hu was not a man that panicked. Or a forgetful man. Ever. But even so the thought was plaguing his mind: He had forgotten. How could have that happened? Afterall, it was the anniversary of his wife’s death. He would always buy her flowers on the 25th. He would always bring them over to her grave. He would always spend at least 2 hours speaking to her, to her and their unborn child.

Well, until now, he did at least. Uncontrollable anger burned through his mind. Anger at himself, anger at her. He was supposed to be at the cemetery. Not saying yes to her invite to have some drinks at the bar near their work. Not letting a spoiled insane subaltern seduce him with her long lashes and playful smiles. Not fucking said stupid girl who was two whole decades younger than him.

He didn’t even realize when she sneaked behind him, putting her arms around his waist and smiling into his back.

“Good morning, handsome” her voice whispered softly.

The sweetness in her voice made his heart flutter. Which in turn, made him even more inexplicably angry. His body tensed up under her touch and he pushed her arms away.

“Someone woke up to the wrong side of the bed” she teased.

Under any other circumstance, he would have been amused. She would always tease him and he quite frankly found it as endearing as it also turned him on.

“It’s time for you to go” In-Hu replied coldly.

He could see her tense up as well. Her hands crossed over her body. His dress shirt which he found so unbelievably hot on her earlier now looked like a painful reminder of his own shame.

“Excuse me?” her voice was controlled but she was hiding her built up anger as well.

“I said, you should leave. You were great last night and everything, but let’s not treat it as if it was more than us scratching an inch.” His voice was measured and he looked into her eyes. He could see she was hurt by his words. Damn it, he hated seeing her in pain.

“In-Hu, you said you loved me last night. You told me how long you’ve waited to say it, to kiss me. You kissed me as if you were dying and I was the only thing that could save you.”

God, she was right. He did and say it all, and he did mean it. His face was cold unenterable.

“Maybe you should not listen to what old perverted men like me tell you. God, your father really did a number on you if you are dumb enough to sleep with any old men.” In-Hu knew his words would hurt her, but he needed her to stay away. It was better like this. The anger he harbored in that moment for himself and for her would only end in one way: violence. And while he was all for rough play, he would not touch her in that way.

“I called you a taxi already”

Smack

The sound of her hand hitting him across the face echoed in the penthouse. His jaw clenched, his eyes suddenly burning of desire. The thoughts of his wife finally stopped and there was nothing but silence. Without giving it another thought, his palms found her cheeks pulling her into a desperate hungry kiss. He felt her body tense up and she pulled away.

Smack

Her eyes were burning of unspoken anger and pain, some tears threatening to fall. She angrily spit in his face. It took him by surprise. Everything was so quick.

“Fuck you” she whispered.

She turned around grabbing the remains of her dress and heels and she hurried out. She looked almost pathetic. Her figure gathering everything in the stupid white shirt. To him, she never looked so small, so broken and his heart almost ached. When she left, silence took over completely. In-Hu knew he screwed up, badly, but in that second, her feelings were the last thing on his mind.

The next time they met was just after the games, earlier tonight. She had not tried contacting him after the incident and neither did he. Whether it was guilt or his shame it did not matter. He poured it all into the games. In-Hu tried to pretend it was just another incident that did not affect him in the slightest. At the end of the day, she was just another employee, another recruiter. He promised himself he would never betray the memory of his wife again. As long as he did not see her it was fine.

Then it came the celebration. Oh Il-Nam decided for everyone in the company to meet for dinner and a poker night at one of the most reputable places in Seoul. Their blackjack table was set apart from the others in a private room overlooking the city. It was a tradition after all, every year after the end of the games, they would come together to celebrate it. As he was very much aware, that would probably be the last one hosted by Il-Nam and as Frontman and the next in line to take his place as the Host, he knew it was mandatory for him to attend regardless of personal feelings.

At first, he told himself that it was fine. That he will see her again and they would both be acting professional for the sake of Il-Nam. While she was an attention seeker through and through, In-Hu was not about to grant her the satisfaction of regretting his choices. As expected, he was one of the first ones to arrive. One by one all appeared before the scheduled time 20:00. His heart quickened as the arrival time came and went but she was not there. He scoffed to himself. Of course she was late, always making an entrance, always captivating the eye of every man that dared to breathe in her presence. In Hu liked to lie to himself and say it never affected him like that. Sure, she was stunningly beautiful, but she was just another woman. And then she did finally appear.

Dressed in a mini black Yves Saint Laurent dress hugging every curve of her body, her red bottom heels clicking as she made her entrance. Her signature red lipstick and blow out making her look utterly ethereal. She had a black leather trench that one of the valets quickly pulled down. She was wearing tight high stockings and for a few seconds, In-hu forgot how to breathe. The officer looked at him knowingly and handed him a glass of whiskey.

She was a storm that commanded surrender, and everyone fell willingly.

Throughout the whole night, she did not even glance once towards him. She sat down next to the Salesman. God, how he disliked that one. In-Hu saw him as nothing more than a psychopath. A useful psychopath, but none the less, a psychopath. He never even bothered to know his name, for him it did not matter, he was as important like a gum stuck onto his shoe. He could remark that he was a loyal one though, every year bringing one of the biggest number of recruits for the games, as big as the ones she did. After all, he was the one that recruited him as well. He supposed his disdain for the man came from that.

As dinner finished, the mandatory game of blackjack started. At this point it was tradition. It was Il-Nam’s favorite game and as it was most probably the last year he would take part in it; he saw it as proper to participate. However, he could not concentrate on the game. He heard her giggle, and his eyes instinctively went to find her.

In-hu saw her arrange the Salesman’s tie, while whispering seductively in his ear, her hand touching his chest for a little more time than necessarily. He felt himself getting angry as he saw the perfectly manicured hands traveling onto the other man’s body. It was not like he has not seen it before. He was perfectly aware of her flirtatious manners, at the end of the day, she acted the same way towards him. So why was he getting so irrationally angry?

“I win again. At this point, you guys have to try a little harder, it is getting exhausting to keep on seeing you lose” she said smugly as she dragged the tokens towards her, a smirk playing on her perfect lips.

“And what do I win, if I may be so indiscreet?” the Salesman’s voice purred close to her ear.

“Children, behave, there are elders present” In-Hu’s voice rang before he could control it. He was starting to get irritated by the sound of his stupid voice.

“Oh, In-hu, it’s fine. I think it is rather exciting to raise the stakes. You know how these young ones are, they would do anything for the thrill” Il-Nam’s voice said amused. “And after all, I think they would make quite a dashing pair.”

Jealousy coiled in his chest like a venomous snake, hissing and writhing with every stolen glance he dared to throw at her. What did he even mean? The Salesman was 40 for god’s sake, and she was 25! It was not as if they were witnessing some sort of young exciting love story. No, it was a psychopath and a brat trying to get his attention. However, he gave a cold smile towards the pair and returned to his hand, wishing this night would end already. He had no idea that it was just getting started.

After about two hours, Il-Nam announced that he would be leaving. And that was the moment, In Hu knew things were about to take a turn. Until that moment, everything between her and the Salesman were casual touches. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he was aware of her intentions to make him suffer in every way she could imagine, and he was not about to let her succeed.

“Full house” her voice sang.

She won. Again. It would have been impressive if it was not so annoying. Did she have to be so good at everything? In Hu thought gritting his teeth. It was unfair how natural everything came to her. She was the most interesting and exciting person he had ever met. Every single move was perfectly executed with grace laced by playfulness, her fingers intertwined with a martini glass in one hand and a cigarette in another. Every time her lips pressed to the filter fascinated the Frontman completely. Every strand of hair framing her soft features, reminding him of the night they spent together.

“Not going to lie, you guys are really boring” she said raising an eyebrow. “But since I won again, I propose the following, you each owe me a drink at a place of my choosing.”

“And where would that be?” The Officer asked.

“Oh, I want to go dancing” she smirked as she left the martini glass on the table.

“Dancing? I would rather shoot myself” In-Hu scoffed.

“I’m sorry, did you win? No, I didn’t think so” she said looking straight into the man’s eyes.

If looks could kill, he would have been a dead man.

“Well, I for one would love to take you anywhere you wanted. A deal is a deal” the Salesman added, his hand slipping on her exposed back.

While going to a club was the last thing that In Hu wanted, he was not going to let him take her out of his sight. He clenched his jaw tightly. He thought about how easy it would be to simply pull out his gun on that psychopath’s head and simply end it right now. God why did she have to make it so messy? While replaceable, he thought about the hassle he would have to go through to find another man to take his job and actually do it as well. No, killing the Salesman would only create more problems for himself, but the image of her pretty face being covered in a quick splash of his blood was tempting.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

And now there he was, watching her like a hawk, toying with his drink, while she was dancing with someone he should had squished like a bug, the second he got in power. No matter, in all due time, he would be gone. His beautiful muse was swaying seductively to the beat of the song while playing with the Salesman’s tie, her eyes hungry for more. In Hu knew that look well. It was the same look she had in her eyes while she was on top of him just a few weeks ago. Hungry, desperate, mischievous.

“So, are you going to do something or let that piece of trash get your woman?” the Officer inquired pulling the Frontman out of his spell.

“I have no idea what you are talking about” In Hu replied coldly downing the rest of the drink. He had asked the bartender for the whole bottle; he knew he would need it the second they entered. He lit up a cigarette while pouring another glass, his eyes still stuck on the two of them.

“Come on, you look ready to jump and kill him on the spot” the other man said lighting up a cigarette of his own. While technically not allowed on the premises of the club, what were they going to do? Kick them out?

“Maybe I will”

“We both know that would be unwise. And besides, I’ve seen her stealing glances at you, that is exactly what she wants. So do all of us a favor and fuck her good, cause if you don’t… I just know he would make sure she screams.”

“Mind your tongue, Officer.”

“Come on man, we both know her type. Bitches like her need to know their place.”

The second the words came out of his mouth, In hu took his cigarette from his lips swiftly and extinguished it on the back of the man’s hand. He would not have anyone speak that way, not of her. The Officer winced in surprise but did not have the courage to say another word. This was a warning.

“Next time I will not be so nice about it. Speak another ill word about her and I just might shatter a glass and cut that finger of yours off. Or better yet, your tongue.”

His eyes went back to the show in front of him. There was his woman, dancing now on the top of the bar with a bottle of Don Perignon champagne. Her smile was big and seductive, her moves perfectly rehearsed. God, the more he looked at her the more stunning she looked. Her skin glistened under the club light. Her hair once styled to perfection was bouncing around wildly to the music. She moved effortlessly, like gravity was an afterthought, and the air around her seemed taut, tethered to her presence by an invisible string.

Seeing her like that, made his heart flutter. She truly was spectacular. And for a second, she looked at him again. He could have sworn the planet stopped spinning in that moment. Everyone else fading into darkness as if they were the only two people in the world.

“Do you believe in true love?” Her question surprised him.

It was the night they met randomly in the bar by the office. In Hu was dressed in a jet-black Versace suit, his hair slicked backed. Expensive shoes were slowly tapping to the sound of jazz music in the background. He took a moment before he responded, his face staring into his empty glass.

“If you had asked me this 5 years ago, I would have said yes.”

“And now?”

“Only sometimes. Usually when I look at you.”

His words surprised even himself. Maybe it was the one too many glasses of whiskey, or the way she looked at him from behind those doe eyes. Maybe it was the way her knee was slightly touching his or her scent. Amber and vanilla. Always amber and vanilla, sometimes with a faint cigarette smell. She smiled and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. If only she knew the effect she had on him, he would never hear the end of it.

“Now, Sir, maybe you should stop speaking like that or I might start to believe you are in love with me”

In Hu did not respond but a smirk appeared on his lips. He leaned over to her and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. His palm then travelled onto her cheek finally resting by her lips. She looked at him, a seductive grin taking form. Carefully, she kissed his palm, and each finger, while maintaining the Frontman’s gaze. When done with her little show, she lightly took his thumb in her mouth slowly sucking on it.

“Tsk tsk, little dove, careful what you wish for” he warned her, his face stern but feeling his heart rate go slowly upwards.

Her eyes effortlessly left his, her attention peaked by the Salesman’s voice, breaking their trance. As soon as he no longer felt her gaze, In-Hu made up his mind. He had made a mistake, one that he would do anything to fix. While he hated the way the Officer spoke about her, he was right about one thing. She was his woman after all, and this cat and mouse game was getting old. He was man enough to admit that he had lost against her and now all he wanted was to take her to his bed and fuck her hard to show her who she belonged to. He got up the sofa just as he saw her get down from the bar.

“Finally,” the Officer muttered.

“Did I not make myself clear last time?”

In Hu’s voice snapped glaring at his colleague, taking his eye off her for just a second. His gaze went back to the spot he had left her but she was no longer there. In the dark he saw a glint of the back of her dress leaving towards the side of the bar. The Frontman finished his drink and made his way to follow her. He was not even sure what to say to her, he had never acted impulsively before. Every single one of his actions had been perfectly calculated for the past few years.

Lost in thought he had caught up with her. That’s when he saw the scene unfolding in front of him. Her back was pressed against the wall, her hands folded around the Salesman’s neck, fingers tangled into his dark black hair. His woman’s legs were resting around his torso. He could make out the man’s face buried deep into her neck kissing it sloppily, her head tilted slightly on the side, a soft moan escaping her beautiful lips. And then she looked straight ahead into In Hu’s eyes. A sarcastic smile played on her mouth. Fuck you, her eyes said before capturing the Recruiter’s lips in a passionate kiss, her beautiful legs pulling him in closer to her own body.

The Frontman froze for a few seconds as he watched them kiss as if there was no tomorrow, their bodies busy in a seductive tango. Anger and jealousy danced within his veins fueling his body completely. Not now, he thought desperately trying to keep his mask of coldness from cracking under the club lights. But deep inside he also felt the familiar sting of a feeling he long ago buried.

Pain. Gut wrenching pain.

#hwang in ho x reader #hwang in ho #the salesman #squid game #hwang in ho x you #salesman x you #squid game s2 #squid game headcanons #squid game netflix #in ho x reader #the recruiter

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usercelestial · 2 days ago

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What if Evan Buckley decides fuck it I quit my job because nothing makes me happy anymore and opens a bakery and then Tommy starts ordering pastries from him for the 217 and they finally reconcile after buck makes him the best damn chocolate muffins Tommy's ever eaten

Tommy's been ordering from this bakery for the last five years. After he was promoted to captain of the 217, he made it a point to bring in treats to win over his old coworkers turned employees. He orders a couple dozen muffins once every week to keep people happy. Originally, it was supposed to be one time but goddamn if they weren't the best damn muffins Tommy's ever had. His crew was happy enough with the incentive and it became somewhat of a tradition at Harbor that a delivery boy would show up at their door with a few pristine white boxes to hand over to Captain Kinard.

Five years and he's never had a problem getting the pastries delivered on time. Early in the morning of the day of delivery, before the sun even came up, he got an email explaining that his delivery had been cancelled and a refund had been processed.

"Shit," Tommy wipes the sleep from his eyes and sits up. He has to get to work in a few hours and he knows his crew well enough to know how cranky they'd be if they had nothing to start the morning with. He fumbles out of bed, throws on his clothes, and heads down to the bakery to see what he can do.

It's a little place not too far from Harbor. It's called something like Emergency Eats, it has a cliche first responder theme. First responders get a 15 percent off discount with each order so the weekly spending makes it a little worth it.

Tommy rushes inside, the sun barely having risen and the cold morning air settling on his skin. The bakery is light and warm around him. It feels like one of those places someone would call home. The decor stays true to the theme and centers firefighters. On the wall behind the counter, there's a mural of a fire station. Along the wall in the dining area, there are pictures of different first responders. He recognizes Athena in one and smiles to himself. The tiles are black and white checkered and there's even a fire pole standing next to the counter. He walks up to it and rings the gaudy bell that hangs from the ceiling that says “pull for service” despite the immense amount of cringe he feels while doing it.

“Be right there!”

Oh.

Oh no.

He knows that voice. He’s spent five years thinking about this voice, dreaming about it, being haunted by it. He’s spent five years feeling terrified of hearing it on the radio, at an emergency, on the street.

Evan Buckley walks through the curtain that covers the entrance to the kitchen, holding a tray of pink and white colored cookies.

“Oh fuck,” Buck’s face goes ghostly white and his knuckles strain to keep grip on the tray.

The room is still and quiet in the soft morning glow. The black and white tiles are painted with the delicate shadows casted from the trees lining the sidewalk. The two men breathe the same air and let the shock wash over them.

Tommy isn’t allowed to break the silence first. He relinquished that right when he walked out of Buck’s life five years ago. Buck seems to pick up on the fragile air between them and breaks the quiet for the both of them, “Are you here about your muffins?” He sounds apologetic, maybe a little weak.

“Uh,” Tommy kicks up invisible dust on the ground, “Yeah, I was gonna see if I could order something else if you’re out of the ones I normally order.”

“Okay, listen, I’m sorry about the delivery mishap, it’s just that normally I have more people delivering but most of them are out sick and I’ve been so busy lately and I just-”

Buck continues babbling while Tommy only half listens, questions burning in throat.

“Is this your shop?” Tommy interrupts.

Buck’s face dances between expressions before landing on surprised, “I thought you-” he cuts himself off and shakes his head, “Yeah. Yeah, this is my shop.”

“You're not at the 118 anymore? You're-you’re not a firefighter?”

Buck glanced down at his feet and puts the tray of cookies down on the counter. He takes a deep breath and speaks, “I thought maybe Eddie or Chimney would have told you.”

Tommy furrows his brows, “We don't talk that much about-” he swallows, “you know…” About Buck. About them. About the breakup. He hasn't heard a word about Buck in five years. He hasn't even heard his name.

“Yeah,” Buck nods his understanding.

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees.

“Um, yeah, this is my shop,” Buck continues, “I opened it about five years ago. A few months after.”

They're dancing around saying it. Tommy's not sure how much longer they can keep this up for.

“Why’d you quit?” Tommy asks. That's the question at the center of this whole thing. Why, why, why.

Buck blinks, like he’s got something at the tip of his tongue but it caught between his teeth, “Few reasons.” He looks down at his legs again, “Uh, I got into an accident a while back. It took me out of the field for a while and I-” Buck stops and searched for the words, “I couldn't think of many reasons to go back to how things were before so I figured it was time for a fresh start.”

Tommy lets the information wash over him. He can't imagine Buck being content with being out of the field but this bakery- it's tribute to first responders, it's pictures on the wall of smiling firefighters and dispatch operators- it's peaceful. It's like he’s found the happiest middle ground possible.

“P-plus, I teach on the side,” Buck adds like an afterthought, “Part time, it's good money. Only have class a few days a week so it gives me time to run the bakery and keep business up.”

Tommy smiles at that. Buck was always a busy-body, constantly needing to be moving in order to stay stimulated. Without being a firefighter, Tommy had wondered how he manages with all the extra free time but of course Buck would fill the days however he could. He’s never been sedentary and he won't start now.

“Sounds like you've been busy,” Tommy comments lamely. Like he's a stranger. Like this is just small talk. It's almost nice. The small talk- pretending these small intimacies are something he still gets to enjoy.

A moment passes before Buck claps his hands, “Your muffins!” He disappears into the kitchen and bustles around. Tommy can see his shadow passing through the window in the center of the wall.

When Buck re-emerges, he’s holding the signature box of muffins that gets delivered to his station. “For you. We had them, it's just that I couldn't get them to you. Sorry about that.”

Tommy shakes his head and steps forward to grab them, “No, don't worry about it. They're just for my crew, I’m the captain now and I’m trying to keep everyone happy.”

“Captain?” Buck quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head, and smirks. Tommy's heart hurts. “You've been busy too.”

“You could say that,” Tommy tries not to overthink whether or not it sounds like he’s flirting. He doesn't know if he intends it or not. Instead he focuses on the way Buck ducks his head and hides his smile. Tommy feels like a wrong move here is going to cost him. He wants to be delicate, he wants to flirt, he wants to friend-zone him, he wants to reach across the counter and pull him in and never let him go. It's been five years, it's been seconds, it's been no time at all. Seeing Buck again feels like taking your first breath after being underwater for too long. His lungs are burning. The right thing to do is to keep burning. It's selfish to do anything else. To gasp for breath the way he wants to. But-

“Listen, Buck, if it's easier on you guys,” Tommy mentally flays himself for starting the sentence, “I could swing by in person instead. So you don't have to worry about delivering to us.”

Buck considers him. Tommy waits for him to say what they both already know. That it’s not a good idea, they should lose contact, forget each other.

Buck sucks his teeth. Suddenly, Tommy feels a wall rise between them. Then he exhales and says, “On one condition.”

Tommy shrugs, keeping himself nonchalant, “Of course.” Anything, obviously, I’d do anything.

“You can't call me Buck. It’s Evan or nothing”

Every alarm is going off in his head. Red, blaring sirens that have always told when to run sing through his skull and fall on deaf ears.

“I can do that, Evan.”

Evan smiles. For the time, the smile finally reaches his eyes. They twinkle like they used to. This is such a bad idea.

“Same time next week?” Tommy holds the basket with one hand and does finger guns with the other. He’ll never stop embarrassing himself.

“You know where to find me,” Evan leans against the wall, blue apron tied cutely around his waist. There's a pink tint to his cheeks that Tommy tries not to read into. Gentle is the name of the game and he’s trying not to let himself expect anything he shouldn't. They're just two old friends catching up once a week. Tommy's just a customer in Evan’s shop. They hardly know each other anymore.

Maybe they’ll get to know each other better than before he cut loose and ran. Or maybe Tommy will just become a recurring customer. He’s nervous to find out which. Either way, he leaves the shop far too excited for the week to come to an end. His crew comment on his quote-unquote glowing cheeks and far off look in his eyes.

Picking up muffins becomes Tommy’s favorite part of the week.

#i have thoughts for like a three chapter thing i might make out of this ??? perhaps ???#perhapssss ????#bucktommy #firefly tag #oops there will be drama and emotional infidelity ...

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mindmelter · 9 hours ago

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A Body Stealer Tale: Magic Hands

People looked at me oddly, questioning why I wore black gloves at the beach. I assure you there's a good reason for it. My hands are just too powerful, they can accomplish almost anything I desire. It was a gift I was born with. Wearing gloves would block the power so I wouldn't use it by accident.

Just like now, the weather was becoming cold and the sky grey. So I took off one of my gloves, and with a simple wave of my hand, the weather became sunny and perfect for a beach day.

After a while, the beach started to get more crowded, and that was when I noticed this group of guys playing soccer on the sand. One of them caught my attention the most. He was an absolute hunk in white speedos, his muscles glistened with sweat as he showed off his soccer skills by doing kick-ups. He was exactly my type of man.

I took off my right glove and snapped my fingers, and just like that, everything and everyone around me stopped in time. The distant sounds of conversations and the sounds of waves ceased.

Everything became dead silent.

I walked towards the frozen hunk, he was about to kick the ball, and the ball was frozen mid-air. I casually pushed the ball out of the way and stood in front of him to give the hunk a closer inspection. I just had to cup a feel of that body before wearing him. So I took off my left glove, and gently caressed his muscular sweaty chest. I pinched his nipples a little and even twisted them—I knew I would feel that later.

My hand slowly moved down towards his white speedos and found its way inside. I grabbed his shaft and pulled his huge dick out. He was very well hung, 8 Inches soft I would say. I kneeled right there on the sand and started to suck him off. His cock and balls were musky, which only added to the flavor. It was hot to suck this frozen hunk right in front of his friends. He became hard inside my mouth in less than a minute.

Though he wasn't aware, his body still responded to sexual stimulation. However, he couldn't climax in this state, so his body kept accumulating sexual energy. I continued sucking and pleasuring this frozen hunk's body until I was certain he had stored a lot of sexual energy, just waiting to be released."

I stood up and walked behind him. I then concentrated and pressed the tip of my index finger on his nape, a faint glow formed at the part I was touching his nape—a clear sign my power was working. I then slowly ran my finger down his spine, until I reached his coccyx. Leaving a glowing opening right where I ran my finger.

I then started pulling open his back like a suit. Inside him, you would expect to be dark and hollow, but there was only a bright light inside of him. I pulled open his back until there was enough space for me to step inside. First, I inserted my legs inside his, then I put on his upper body, and for last, I put his face on.

As soon as his face slid into place over mine, I felt the opening on his back sealing and that's when I suddenly was hit by a strong wave of sexual pleasure—All the pleasure I gave his body while he was frozen resumed as soon as the body-stealing process finished.

I let out a deep baritone moan as my knees weakened and my new huge hard cock started spurting cum at the sand. This was my favorite trick, nothing like experiencing orgasm in a different body.

I looked down at my huge cock still pulsating and shooting its last drops of cum. At last, I pulled his white speedos back up and snapped my fingers, resuming time. The soccer ball fell to the sand and his friends looked confused at me, expecting me to kick the ball to them.

"Sorry guys, I think I'm just going to relax a little. See you guys later." I put my sunglasses on and walked to the beach chair I was lying before. As I relaxed on the chair, I allowed my new tattooed hands to explore my new muscles. My nipples were aching but that didn't stop me from playing with them. This guy had sensitive nipples, so I couldn't help but moan.

People started to give me weird looks. I guess it was weird for a man to be moaning while playing with his nipples in public. So I made a gesture with my hand, making everyone at the beach ignore me and think I wasn't doing anything wrong.

Now that I had some privacy, I began exploring my new body in earnest. I pulled off the white speedos and stroked my huge shaft, moaning like a madman while no one batted an eye.

There was nothing like a relaxing day at the beach.

#male possession #bodysuit #male bodysuit #possession #male body suit

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goldcleaver · 2 days ago

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Phainon will fail Nikador's trial.

Let me explain;

TLDR; Phainon will fail the trial as Nikador will reject him. However, he will be chosen by Kephale to lead the people of Amphoreus to victory. The coreflame of Nikador will instead go to an unwilling Mydei.

Soooo, Phainon is off on a big adventure trying to claim Nikador's divinity after surrendering their coreflame to the Vortex of Genesis since the ambassador of the prophecy doubts his strength of will. I'm here to tell you that he will fail this trial in some shape or form.

Throughout the trailblaze mission, Phainon proves on multiple occasions that he worries about those he cares about constantly. Obviously, the best example of this is how desperately he wants to help Mydei fight Nikador. When he's denied, and sent to discover Nikador's weakness instead, he spends the next couple of hours in-game yapping about how much time they're wasting. He's worried out of his mind, and the rest of the cast picks up on it all the time.

Not only that, but he doubts himself. Something troubles him ahead of surrendering the Coreflame to the Vortex, which both Castorice and Dan Heng notice. He seems to have no qualms about admitting it, but he clearly can't shake whatever it is making him falter.

While there is nothing explicitly stating what he's worrying about, the possibilities are endless. Prior to being chosen by the prophecy, Phainon was fuelled by his desire for vengeance, described by Castorice as being a "hollow shell". She questions whether or not his new mission takes priority over his desire for revenge. Similarly, Mydei says Phainon's fear holds him back, and that his resolve must be toughened if he is to withstand whatever Nikador throws at him. Phainon evidently wears his heart on his sleeve, and it's a very troubled heart.

What this shows is that Phainon is not ready to dedicate himself entirely to the fight, which Nikador demands. Nikador uses extreme violence to extinguish strife and war to maintain the balance of Amphoreus, which currently doesn't quite line up with Phainon's character. He is more inclined to using violence as a way of defending and protecting people.

Now, that's not to say that Phainon has nothing to do with Nikador at all. He seems to be a figure the people can rally around and follow into battle, much like Nikador. However, I don't think this is enough to see him through his trial.

So, while Phainon will be rejected by Nikador on account of his fears, he will instead be chosen by Kephale.

Phainon is the Deliverer. This isn't just a silly nickname given to him by Mydei - it's his role in the story of Amphoreus. When he has overcome his own struggles, he will lead the people and the Chrysos Heirs through the crisis and towards a new dawn. In Aglaea's own words;

Now, what exactly she means by this is unclear, but it gives me an uneasy feeling. The only miracles we have seen so far have all involved looking back in time, which Phainon currently cannot do. However, Aglaea's words are eerily similar to those describing the legend of Kephale's return in the Tides of the Basin. Here, Kephale leads the people to victory against the black tide, which seems more fitting for Phainon's character.

So, Phainon will be chosen by Kephale, whether that means receiving their Coreflame or assuming their identity, or perhaps he already is Kephale, in his own way.

This is not only conveyed to us textually via foreshadowing within the story itself, but it is also communicated via visual design. Phainon's design is positively littered with Kephale's symbol and other sun-related imagery.

I can spot at least 12 instances of Kephale's symbol or sun motifs in his design. That's no coincidence. In comparison, the only real reference to Nikador is the fact that he wears white, which Nikador also does, according to the information provided via the Tides of the Basin.

But if Phainon won't get Nikador's divinity, then who will?

Well, the game basically shoves the answer in your face; Mydei. He's the prince of Castrum Kremnos, he has some manner of bloodlust, and he has no reservations about using violence as a means to an end. On paper, he's the perfect candidate, which Phainon states to Aglaea. However, Mydei has refused the Coreflame. He has done so implicitly, as well as explicitly, to both Phainon and Aglaea. He doesn't want the Coreflame, nor the divinity that comes with it, because he's afraid of leading his people down the same dark path as his predecessor. Seemingly, the only reason he wanted to deliver the final blow to Nikador was for bragging rights.

Thus, something has to change drastically for Mydei to not only be offered the Coreflame, but to accept it. What this will be, I have no idea, but it will start with Nikador spitting Phainon back out without making him a demigod.

And if that wasn't enough to convince you; they are literally associated with these Titans in-game:

In their respective entries in Amphoreus' Saga of Heroes, Phainon is depicted with the symbol of Kephale, whereas Mydei is depicted with Nikador's. Whether this is an oversight on hoyo's behalf or a not-so-subtle attempt at foreshadowing, we will likely never know, but it's interesting food for thought.

Now, this isn't some earth-shattering revelation, nor is it some super deep character analysis, but it will be super interesting to see Phainon's story unfold. His character development has the potential to be some of the best stuff hoyo has ever written if they manage to pull it off.

#like I’m calling it right now #he’s gonna fail the trial #mydei will get the core flame against his will #and then at the end of amphoreus’ arc phainon will be chosen by kephale to lead the heirs against the threat that will end the world #also!!#while I have seen some 3.1 leaks I'm trying to stay away form them #and they haven't influenced this post #there's a fair bit of #phaidei #in here too #they're two halves of the same coin!!#I can't help it I'm constantly wearing the shipping goggles when it comes to them #they make me lose my mind a little #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr spoilers #honkai star rail spoilers #phainon #character analysis

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seravphs · 2 days ago

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sick in the head

Gojo and Geto try marriage counseling because the therapist is hot.

wc — 1.5k

tags — obviously this is not how therapy actually works, imagine clocking into work and these two supervillains show up I’d quit

“You need serious help,” Shoko says, somewhat kindly as she observes Gojo on the phone with his favorite criminal. He’s just started his twenty minute break from tracking his residuals all over the world, trying to minimize the harm he’s causing without actually being willing to kill him.

She’s either joking or completely serious. It’s hard to tell with Shoko. Maybe a little bit of both?

“Huh?” Gojo says, a little peeved she’s taking his attention away from Geto.

“I said, you need serious help. The professional kind. I looked up a therapist for you.”

Gojo’s expression clears with understanding - then annoyance. “I told you I didn’t need a shrink. Nothing wrong with my brain, anyway.”

Shoko loves her friends, she really does, but sometimes she walks a fine line between healing and the opposite of healing.

“Just try it,” she says. She’s smarter than to try and rationalize with him. “It’s a couple’s counselor. Maybe you could see Suguru more if you sell him on it.”

Hook, line, sinker. It was so easy to get them to cooperate when it came to each other. They were so convinced that they were unreadable to anyone but themselves, but they always forgot Shoko had been there too. All three years she had been on the outside looking in, watching the glances they cast at each other. Sometimes, she felt like she understood them more than they understood each other.

She had always been there, silently watching. Just because they didn’t realize it didn’t mean her presence was negligible. She loved them anyway, despite knowing she was a third, and thirds were always the leftovers tacked onto a pair.

That was how love worked. It didn’t really matter whether or not Gojo would Geto over her, or vice versa. They were her friends. She’d watch out for them.

“Here,” she says, handing Gojo a business card. “She’s a friend, so be nice, okay?”

Gojo whistled at the picture on the clean, embossed cardstock. “I can be better than nice.”

Shoko squints at him. “You’re disgusting. You’re going to meet her with your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and?” He smiled wolfishly, with teeth. “I know Suguru’s type.”

Geto Suguru was in the middle of taking a bath when his best friend and mortal enemy appeared next to him, right when he blinked. Most people would’ve screamed. Geto was not most people. Most people were not that close to Gojo Satoru.

“I’m showering,” he said mildly. “Get out or pass me the soap.”

Gojo does neither of these things, because when has Gojo ever listened to anyone. “Look at this,” he said, flapping a tiny rectangle of paper on his face.

Geto sighed and lifted pruney fingers to the offending object. It had been a long day of scamming non-sorcerers and wreaking general havoc, but of course Gojo couldn’t let him rest, on top of working overtime to undo his work. He only let the bitterness of going up against a natural prodigy consume for a moment before he remembered where he was.

The epsom salts had been a gift from Mimiko and Nanako. No matter how irritated he was, they worked magic. His muscles could never stay tense while he soaked in the perfumed water, and he relaxed into the tub again.

The card was nicely made. It was clearly expensive, crisp black ink of thick white paper. What caught his eye, however, was the portrait on the front. The smile was sweet, sincere. He checked the business card again. A marriage counselor - that made sense.

“Why are you showing me this?” Geto frowned. “Is this a proposal? I’m not accepting this. You can do better.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gojo says. “Isn’t she hot?”

Geto hums in agreement. “Yeah. Nice smile.”

“Should we…?”

“I don’t have time for games, Satoru.”

“Think about it,” he says. “It can be like the good old days. You and me, the dream team. When we worked together, no one ever said no to us.”

“She’s a marriage counselor. You shouldn’t be playing these types of games with her.”

“Don’t act like you’re such a goody two shoes,” Gojo said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just me. Drop the theatrics.”

Geto let a smile tug at his lips, feeling strangely pleased that he saw through him so easily. “Say I agree. Then what?”

They hadn’t worn suits in a long time, but Gojo insisted. He wanted to make a good impression and-

“Ladies love a man in a suit,” he said, unbuttoning his top two buttons.

“Slut,” Geto said lovingly. He leaned over to press a light kiss to the collarbones that now peeked out of the gape of his shirt.

Gojo flushed, the tips of his ears turning a pale pink. Geto reached up to tug lovingly at them, and then smooth down stray pale hairs. He was more relaxed than Gojo was about the situation, but he still wanted to look nice.

It had been years since they had done this. There was a part of him that wanted to prove that he still had it.

Gojo strode into the office like he owned. Geto followed after, trying his best to remember what it was like to look apologetic. There wasn’t much he was sorry for, nowadays.

You look up, startled. Your patients were sometimes early, but never this early. It was almost enough to make you worry that you’d gotten the time wrong, but you were meticulous with new patients. They had picked a good time - you didn’t have any patients scheduled before them, otherwise you’d have to kick them out immediately. As it was, you were still considering it.

“Mr. Gojo? Mr. Geto?”

The one with white hair shivered a little. A strange expression crossed his face, almost delighted, if there was anything to be delighted about while sitting on the opposite of a marriage counselor’s desk with your significant other.

“Suguru is fine,” the dark haired one said.

“Call me Satoru,” the one with white hair agreed.

Suguru and Satoru. Even their names fit well together. You tried not to judge anything until you got the fuller picture, but you always tried to be optimistic unless you had reason to believe otherwise. People came to you to save their marriages after all. You hoped you could do the same for these two.

Satoru sits down in the armchair across from you. He’s the showy one, with that bone white hair and piercing blue eyes. Accordingly, he picks the emerald green velvet, as brilliant as a peacock’s feathers.

Suguru chooses the left hand chair, a little less eye grabbing. It’s a cool dove grey, the fabric soft to the touch.

Sitting like this, they look good together. They seem comfortable too, coming in together smiling and laughing. You wonder what they’re here for.

“There’s still twenty minutes until the session starts,” you tell them.

“Oh, I know,” Satoru says. “But I thought it would be nice to get to know the woman that’s going to be picking apart our brains. Look, I even brought a peace offering.”

He presses a box of expensive sweets in your direction.

“I can’t accept gifts,” you tell him regretfully. “And I won’t be doing anything of the sort to your brains.”

“I went through all this trouble to get them though!”

“Satoru, don’t be a baby,” Suguru says. “She clearly said no. I told you so, anyway. It’s not my fault you can’t listen.”

Satoru bristles. “Oh yeah? Why don’t we-“

“Please don’t fight,” you cut in. “I can’t take gifts these expensive, but once we get to know each other better, it’s okay to be more comfortable with me. Is that alright?”

“Fine, fine,” Satoru says with an easy going smile, pleased as if he hadn’t been irate just seconds earlier.

Suguru’s anger takes a moment to dispel, but the clouds clear from his face nearly as quickly. Scary. It seems like you have your work cut out for you.

You can already tell they’re the kind of people that’ll be hard to direct, so you accept the extra twenty minutes they’ll get out of you. Satoru seems like a Karen, and you’re not in the mood to deal with a back and forth right now. You’ll just lock your doors next time and let them in when you’re ready.

Against your will, you find yourself drawn into conversation with them. Satoru and Suguru play off each other so seamlessly it almost feels like they’re working as a team to disarm you, to make you feel at ease smiling and laughing along with them, but that can’t be true. They’re here for marriage counseling - surely they can’t be such a cohesive unit.

The alarm rings. You sit straight up, startled, and try to ignore the way Satoru laughs like he thinks you’re the cutest thing in the world.

This is going to be a long session.

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #getou suguru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader

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luvingspence · 3 days ago

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headcanons | ryohei arisu

author’s note: i started aib and ohmygod this man, smut hc’s are definitely ooc but i just need him so bad so i’m feeding my own delusional.

warnings: nothing much, just my first time writing smut hc’s😭

synopsis: pre-borderlands hc’s! also this is LONGGG, i have too many thoughts.

not proof read

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

♡ pre-borderlands

♡ he’s a loser, you know it, he knows it, his friends know it, and his father definitely does. but it makes him all the more endearing.

♡ he’s so, so nervous at first, but once you both grow more comfortable in your relationship he’s giving into your every wish, genuinely at your beck and call. you’re his whole world and he just wants to make you happy <3

♡ he’s a little gamer! mainly pc (unfortunately, i’m a ps5 girly) but he knows his stuff. definitely uses emulators to play games like resident evil and the last of us.

♡ he prefers online shooters and stuff, but he doesn’t mind story based games if they’re more action based, like re4.

♡ i think he’d prefer a girlfriend who doesn’t mind video games (or loves them like him) so you can play together and talk about games :(

♡ would definitely emulate it takes two on both his pc and yours so you could play together, it’s such a cutesy little couple game! you guys would have a blast playing together! :(

♡ if you had a console best believe he’s using it for at least an hour every time he’s over, won’t admit it’s better than his PC but you both know it’s what he’s thinking.

♡ loves it when you sit in his lap while he plays :( and you love it too.

♡ arms wrapped around your waist as he rests his controller on your thighs, chin on your shoulder as he plays, but he always gets distracted, giving you the attention you want so easily, kissing your neck gently, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs and hips as he whispers in your ear.

♡ i can’t imagine he uses pet names often, if he does they’re classics like ‘baby’ and ‘babe’.

♡ “Baby, you wanna hop on call for a bit?” he texts you at least once a day every night you aren’t together, he ends up screen sharing a movie or show you can watch together.

♡ is also a boyfriend that makes you watch him play i’m so sorry but he just is. you see him rage far too often over COD.

♡ loves it when you call him ‘honey’, just does it for him.

♡ he’s a nerd so that definitely extends to different parts of his life other than video games, when you go shopping you always end up browsing new posters, figurines, and mangas.

♡ AOT is my favourite anime/manga so i’m gonna hc that it’s his too! ;)

♡ his favourite character is eren. without a doubt, just thinks he’s so cool, and absolutely loses his mind when he sees him turn into the attack titan for the first time, “Babe! Fucking look, that’s so cool!-“

♡ thinks you’re so pretty. while girls loved karube, the same couldn’t be said for him. in the show he’s in his 20s so i won’t say he’s a virgin, but definitely not super experienced.

♡ just can’t believe he has a girlfriend as pretty as you, no matter what you look like, goth, emo, a girl who loves to dress up and wear makeup, or if you prefer dressing down he thinks you’re so stunning.

♡ “you’re the prettiest girl ever.” (literal heart eyes)

♡ “your makeup looks really nice, baby :)”

♡ *stares at you in the mirror while you brush your hair.*

♡ “baby can you play a game with me, i’m bored :(.”

♡ dates are super lowkey! but you both love it that way.

♡ walks in parks, cinema dates, shopping dates, lazy days on the couch or in his bed watching movies are the most common ones.

♡ he does splurge on an actual restaurant for anniversary’s and valentines and your birthday with whatever little money he has.

♡ dresses up on those days too! He’ll wear a plain black shirt or white button up (whatever is more appropriate) instead of a graphic tee and some nice jeans or black slacks (he steals them from his brother.)

♡ for gifts he also keeps in lowkey, and so do you! you both can’t afford much so you just appreciate what the other gets you.

♡ he gets you little figures and posters he thinks you’ll like, or plushies! if you like makeup he’ll splurge a tad and get you a nice lipgloss you said you’ve been wanting.

♡ is definitely a boyfriend who gets gifts catered to your interests and things you like rather than buying you stuff he thinks all girls like.

♡ just over all very thoughtful, sweet, and very very handsome even though he refuses to believe it.

♡ pre-borderlands smut hc’s

♡ isn’t a virgin, but not experienced. one or two bodies before you i’d guess.

♡ let’s talk abt his dick 🤭

♡ he’s above average, but not insanely big. 6 inches, decently girthy but not so much so that it would hurt. it’s so pretty. a perfect size, two toned, a few veins and perfectly straight.

♡ i see far too many people hc him as a sub, but i honestly don’t see that, he’s neither and doesn’t have much of an interest in power dynamics

♡ you’re his equal, his baby, why would he wanna control you in anyway? :(

♡ such a titty guy. he is’t picky about size, but loves the way yours sit so pretty.

♡ soft pecks slowly grow into heated and lustfully heavy touching above your clothes, his big hands and lithe fingers shyly manoeuvring under your top. Inching their way up your soft flesh, they always find your breasts, caressing them gingerly as he softly loves on you.

♡ positions are nothing crazy, he loves classic missionary sometimes, just staring into your eyes, watching your face contort as you whine and moan. god you just look so good.

♡ but he also loves prone bone, getting you on your stomach, sliding himself in, slowly, almost torturously so. he fills you to the hilt, groaning into your ear softly as your bodies press together, sharing their warmth. he props himself up on his elbows, thrusting into you gently and slowly. he wants to savour every moment. without a doubt, he always brushes your hair away from your face, putting a large hand under you chin to crane your neck around to him, kissing you slowly as he fucks you into the mattress.

♡ bro LOVESSS head. like so bad. he loves giving, of course, he’s never been much of a ladykiller, so knowing he’s able to please you drives him mad.

♡ but he’s always down for you to suck his dick. he prefers laying with his back propped against the headboard, letting you work away. with a hand gripping your hair, or caressing the back of your head, and his other hand behind his own head, his mouth agape and eyes fluttering closed.

♡ on certain days, he thrusts up into your mouth, but poor boy always ends up feeling a bit bad :(

♡ ohgod and his fingers.

♡ long, lithe, slender. his hands are dexterous, soft and not overly calloused. anytime he uses them on you, he has you laying beside him whilst he leans over you, pumping them in and out, his thumb giving all it’s attention to your clit.

♡ the dirty talk is light, just filled with praise and light teasing

♡ he’s just too soft with you, he could never degrade you in the slightest.

♡ “attagirl, baby.”

♡”doing so good f’me.”

♡”you look so pretty, baby, my pretty girl.”

♡”makin’ me feel so good.”

♡ and just strings of curses as he praises and loves on you

♡ he’s just too good to you :(

#kacey talks <3 #arisu ryohei x reader #arisu x reader #arisu ryohei #alice in borderland #alice in borderland x reader

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shehungers · 3 days ago

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TINCTURE OF ACONITE

werewolf x mysterious!reader | 2.4

a destitute man stricken with lycanthropy either seeks out you—the practitioner—in hopes of either being given a cure for his affliction, or granted death and freedom from it and his guilt.

warnings; dark content, lycanthropy is treated as pure suffering, some graphic descriptions, murder, mentions of suicide, implied witchcraft/magic use, kinda-sorta forced kiss, roughly proofread.

a/n; reposted from my old blog theoxenfree.

please interact & reblog if you'd like a second part!

From the hawk-nosed widow selling stale bread and some wrinkled, gray potatoes with mysterious growths, he'd learned about a dilapidated inn fringing the northwest end of the village. There, she had said warily, with keen and wise eyes showing wide whites and tiny bloodshot threads, he would find the answers to everything he had never asked for.

He would find the Practitioner.

It took him less time than he thought to find his way across the village, away from the cursory and reluctant and distrustful looks as he lumbered through in his heavy boots and loose-fitting black tatters he'd sewn together himself time and time again. His face was haggard, skin wet and ashen, and he couldn't remember the last time he held a blade to shave his face, tame his long, dark hair.

To the townspeople, he must've looked like a wildman; uncivilized; belonging to the deep wood and meadows and smelling thickly of untouched nature, mud, and musk. Perhaps, now, he was just that because he also could no longer remember a time where he'd been welcome to sleep in a bed, ate a meal cooked and seasoned with cutlery, allowed himself to be gripped by scalding water and bath salts, reveled the touch of another person.

Upon reaching the inn sometime later, a tiered, hulking structure which seemed to rot from the inside out; the middle of the massive thing bowing inward as though slowly being sucked underground—into hell, he was greeted at the entrance without ever having needed to knock.

“Second floor,” was all the older fellow said, a man with unhealthy grayness to his complexion that rivaled his own. All of the vigor, pink liveliness was long gone from his face and his eyes reflected nothing—not a want, a wish, a worry, or thought beyond remembering to move one foot after the next to keep locomotion.

He moved beyond the gaunt, wispy fellow who quietly closed the door, then shuffled off through another threshold leading elsewhere. He'd been instructed to go to the left, to the end of hall and through the door which faced him.

When he did this, the somnolent dreariness of the world outside fell away and he was sucked into silence filled with static. The room was sentient, almost, swirling with immense wafts of burning herbs, fragrant flora, dark tendrils of smoke emerging from wilted candle wicks and the cherry flickers at the tips of them.

“Well, aren't you a sad sight!” Your voice was deceptively upbeat in comparison to this room, this place. He noticed you seated in a high-backed chair padded in ripped red velvet, a large table stretched out before you and sprawled with many, endless things. “It isn't easy to find this place. Who told you about me?”

“The potato seller at the village.” He said.

You pressed a flat, metal tip between your lips and sucked in on some weird instrument, blowing out a profuse cloud of faint, purple smoke which smelled otherworldly and familiar.

“You mean the widow with the crazy eyes?”

“I…suppose so, yes.”

“She's crazy, you know?”

“She told me you'd be able to cure me.”

You smiled like he'd just told you an amusing joke, wooed you a bit in the process. He watched your teeth come out from behind your lips and clench down on the metal tip.

“Cure you? She wouldn't have used those words. She despises me and likes to think people she sends my way meet their death. What a vindictive old bitch. She’ll get hers one day.” You said, then gestured to the empty chair opposite the table to you. “I’m flattered you think so highly of me, though. We’ve only just met. But, I know a desperate man when I see one. I know a cursed man when I see one.”

The chair was uncomfortable, not at all wide enough, strong enough to bear his form but it did not collapse under his weight, only creaked and whimpered. You were observing him as casually as he would have had a friend a long time ago, with such little regard for safety, little fear of this brawny and moody stranger sitting across from you at a table with countless, shatterable objects.

It occurred to him after an awkward moment of silence (on his end, you were perfectly at ease), you were waiting for him to diffuse his anguish, his worries, his curse—why he was really here in this room with you now. Only, he wasn't sure where to start, nor what information he could give that you'd consider pertinent apart from the rest.

He'd forgotten how to speak to people during his long, lonely solitude as well, it seemed.

“The woman—the widow—she told me you're a practitioner in the Devil’s Magic. Is that true?” he mumbled, for one second considering taking one of the hundreds of baubles on the table to turn over in his hands. “I do not much believe in any of that. The workings of any god or evil, it isn't related to my affliction. But, I want to know if you're actually capable of curing me, or a charlatan scamming the poor to be even poorer.”

You exhaled more of the luxurious smoke from your strange pipe before finally setting it aside to take up a round flask made of clear glass. Despite it appearing empty, something unseeable sloshed within—water, perhaps—and it smelled foul when you uncorked it.

“Devil’s magic,” you seemed to consider his wordage with a derisive smile, but he had a feeling this wasn't about him. “That old wretch is something else. Handsome Sir, I am a lot of things and no one important. I am no witch, wizard, magician, druid, and I am certainly no charlatan. I might be able to help you with your case of lycanthropy.”

Hope reignited in his eyes, still but a dull flicker waiting to be snuffed as it had many times before, yet he always dared to feel this way whenever a possibility arose.

“I—never mentioned my affliction." Surprised as he was, he now knew he'd made the right choice spending his afternoon finding the inn rather than continuing onward for the next town. “How can you be so certain that's what I suffer—”

“A man of your destitute and good manners aren't the types who get stricken with vampirism or cursed by hags. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'll bet. A good man, loyal to a fault to an… owner? An employer? A lover, perhaps?”

You were staring over his face searchingly at the end, carefully winding your wrist with the nauseating, invisible concoction in your hand. For a moment, there was nothing but silence as he considered the meaning behind your exact curiosity, trying to pry an answer from you with a stern look he'd used to terrify and award himself some small, scarce comforts.

When you didn't falter, he slouched deeper into his seat, clearly defeated by your eccentricity and dumb fearlessness.

“Thousands of miles away, I once served a Duke and a Duchess as their guard. One night, I was sent out as the baleful cries of some beast had sent My Lady into a frenzy, my My Lord into a fit of rage. Those lands were cursed, everyone was well aware, but I've never thought above my status and so I went.

“The night was all around me. Something lurked in the trees, perhaps lost souls, perhaps something else. The mist moved as though alive, a limb, an arm, an extension of the forest itself and I could scarcely see. But then, I saw it: an enormous, bent creature in a man’s torn clothes. It had the vicious face of a wolf, yet it could walk upright like a man and when I gave chase, it could sprint unlike anything I'd ever seen.”

You were leaning to one side of your throne now, an arm bent on top of the armrest while you swiveled the bottle, still watching him as though he were simply divulging some asinine discontent.

“I—” he paused, breathing arrested behind the rise of ugliness in his throat, something that tasted as vile as it was to remember.

Until then, he had been speaking to you quietly and sullen, like a man resolved to his fate. But now, he listened to his own voice fracture, quiver, and croak. Beyond that, his face and ears burned, aching from embarrassment, every emotion he had belittled himself into hiding away.

“I—was restrained by the damned thing and it took a chunk out of my side. I thought it would rip me apart; part of me wishes it had. Everything after that for a while is a blur to me even now, and I never remember the instances when I… change… only that the night calls to me, the moon a siren’s song.”

“Have you killed anyone as a beast?” you asked.

The mention made his gaze shift down to his hands which still groped the bauble, finding it a safe thing to concentrate on in that moment. Fortunately, the impossible heat in his head was quickly receding and he could once again fully regain clarity.

“I would have to believe so, yes,” he chose to say, honestly. “When I become the monster, I never have a recollection of the things that happen. But, I've awoken enough times covered in blood, surrounded by mutilation to ever claim otherwise.”

Now, you had the pipe back in your mouth and were inhaling the dreamy fumes. Letting the purple haze out of your nostrils. You were no longer looking at him, instead skittering the vastness of things across your tabletop, obviously in search of something.

“I want to be forthright with you, though you've only kept an air of mystery around yourself the entire time,” he started, replacing the object back on your table with the rest. “Either, I want your help for a cure, or I want you to develop a poison that will kill both myself and the beast inside of me.”

Your eyebrows ticked up, conveying the most emotion he'd seen out of you yet. “Those are both extremes. I cannot promise you anything because I am not a practitioner of magic or miracles. I am simply: the Practitioner. You will be the one to decide your own fate, for I cannot decide it for you.”

“I don't understand.” He looked at you helplessly, weathered and weighted.

From among the mass of stuff before you both, you pulled out a small notebook bound in leather, secured with a strap. You resumed puffing away on your pipe once he took it from you, studying it with some measure of apprehension and revulsion.

“This notebook contains many different specimens I've studied over, oh, some years. One of those specimens is a plant called aconite. You must find me a bushel, along with a handful of other things, and bring them back to me for me to create the tincture you need to either be cured or poisoned.”

He examined the notebook front to back several times, as though all of his answers would suddenly materialize across the covers. Of course, no such thing happened. “You have this table of the strangest things I've ever seen, and yet you don't have the things needed to create the tincture. I’m finding you to be a liar.”

You gave a great huff of exasperation, blowing purple smoke towards him in retaliation. “And I'm finding you to be among the dullest of men I've ever met. These things that I have do not serve a purpose to individuals. You must be the one to create the tincture for yourself. It is the intention behind it; your thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and desires. You have to decide what you truly think you deserve—what you truly want.”

“That is witchcraft,” he said, incredulous. “It's magic!”

Again, you gripped the metal with your teeth and smiled around it. “Is it magic, or is it the power of your own thinking? Is your lycanthropy the result of a beast or your own illness? Will you live or die? I can't answer those things for you.”

“Then, I must go.” He found a pocket inside his coat that hadn't worn or torn with all his previous transformations and tucked it there. When he rose from the crackling chair, wood springing back to life once he was out of it, you surprisingly stood with him. “I'll find the answers I need. I'll return to you with these things.”

You were less awful seeming up close, a normal person dwarfed by his size. It was an odd feeling to be in such close proximity to someone else, one who didn't shrink and cower beneath the severity of his face—the dark brows and dark hair and unshaven jaw. But, you stood there with him next to the door to let him out, unafraid and fixed in your confidence that he would bring you no harm.

It moved him.

It moved him so deeply that he reached for your warmth, or your illusion, and kissed you deeply. He relished the touch of your lips, the press of your body against his, and the taste of your fragrant smoke which was effervescent and sparkling in his mind.

He could have taken you to bed right then, lain naked with you, damp with sticking skin while tangled together in an embrace, luxuriating in the afterglow.

But, he could not answer those desires while with his affliction as you would die, and he couldn't burden that sort of grief after knowing the touch of another. He even wondered, with some shame, whether he deserved to know someone of your caliber, your mysticism and wisdom, after slaughtering men and women whom he'd never know the names of. Those whose families would never know closure.

He kissed you once more, letting it linger and swell with his feelings before he let you go and went for the door.

“I'll return to you.”

You still had your pipe and smoked it, smiling evenly and contentedly.

“I wonder what you'll choose in the end.”

a/n; so, a second part would be a longer piece sort of covering his journey to collect these things while being followed by a blackbird and thinking of mc. a lot of lewd thoughts. there might be smut towards the end, not sure.

I'd like to actually take this concept and write it as a dark fairytale sort of story. but, yeah.

#werewolf x reader #werewolf #werewolves #werewolf x you #werewolf x human #monster x human #monster x reader #monster x you #monster romance #werewolf romance #monster story #monster fucker #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you

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osakhee · 2 days ago

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sad summer daze, wonbin x reader

! wonbin has blonde hair in this, smoking and alcohol consumption, making out but nothing crazy

🎧 summer daze by all time low...

wonbin sighs as he digs his back into his seat. the music in his headphones covers the noise of the old and rusty fan that makes his blonde hair fly into his face. these days, even in the early morning, the temperature is unbearably hot, the sun casting shadows on the floor through the glass doors of the convenience store. wonbin already knows it will be another boring day where he would scroll through his phone, trying not to fall asleep on his chair with his feet on the counter. summer was never his favorite season, but with this job, he feels like each day lasts for a week, only making his shift hours longer.

the clock hits nine and wonbin stretches his arms, his white tank top riding up to show a glimpse of his stomach, and he stands up to go through the empty aisles. now away from the metallic fan, the air becomes a lot thicker and the sudden warmth almost makes him dizzy. wonbin ties his hair into the smallest ponytail to stop the strands from sticking to his neck due to the invisible layer of sweat covering his skin. a few blonde hairs still fall in front of his eyes as he checks out every shelf, he makes mental notes of what's missing to refill them.

the store is dusty, the tiled floor that used to be white turned into a ash grey color, and the windows that let the sun inside leave a yellowish glow on the walls. behind wonbin's counter, piles of magazines and diverse boxes threaten to fall each time his elbow hits them, his eyes filling with panic at the thought of having to put them back in order -even though it would probably be more entertaining than dozing off-. no matter how hard he tried to clean, the black marks on the counter never left and the old stickers on the walls never really got fully off. and the best part? most of the time, it's just wonbin inside of the store, either with his music, looking at his phone, or the creaking sound of the fan while he stares at the ceiling that looks like it would fall on his face.

wonbin expected nothing from this summer job. he's not really a person with a lot of expectations. for him, summer isn't like any young adults movie cliché, no pool parties, no hookups, no holidays at the beach, no all nighters at the club, no afternoons with his friends. summer is more of a brutal reality. at least during the year, he's lucky enough to stay at his university's dorm, he cherishes each of his music and composition classes that gives him a comfortable routine. but as soon as the first days of the summer break start, wonbin is thrown back into the real and harsh world. a world where his angel face and voice would not get him anywhere. and who would get money to monthly repay the electric guitar he got last semester if not himself?

anyway, i just need a job, wonbin thought. he would have wanted one with little to no human interaction, his reserved personality being an obstacle to most place he went too. never from the employer, only from himself. the cafes were too busy, the restaurants too loud, and working at the train station really? wonbin could barely remember his way through the same supermarket he's been going to for the past year, so giving people directions? not his thing. and when wonbin saw the notice on the small convenience store near his friend's apartment that they were looking for someone for the summer, he was already desperate. he only wanted two things, getting out of anton's place that reeked like alcohol everyday and finally make some money. he never really expected that he would sometimes go days without seeing anyone, anton living quite far from the city center. most of the time, it was either busy workers coming in the last hour of his shift for premade dishes or kids buying candies and ice creams after going to the local pool. and wonbin was just a passerby in their lives, he's just "the cashier", "the young blonde boy", and it was more than fine for him.

wonbin fills with new bottles one of the shelves, he keeps one under his arm for himself. it's hot and he's working, and who would see that anyway? he checks the other aisles when the glass doors make a very uncomfortable noise, and the silence that was once only broken by the fan is replaced by loud chatters. wonbin walks back to his counter with a sigh, he avoids the customers by walking through the very last aisle of the small store, and he sits back down on his chair. he gets down half of the water bottle he took from the back, and the duo of people his age come up to him with much needed groceries. different alcohol bottles and cans, small snacks, and a pack of cigarettes, they both add when wonbin looks up at them from his seat. he doesn't need to ask for their id, wonbin already knows them. they don't follow the same course in university but they're good friends of anton. are they actually friends? wonbin just believes all the party goers are somehow friends.

"aren't you anton's friend? wonbin right? you play the guitar."

wonbin just nods, and hands the pack of cigarettes with a bored look. not that his job is really interesting, but he isn't there to make friends either. one of them gives him some cash and wonbin hands him back the change without saying anything else.

"i don't see why anton is friend with you, you're so... you know. well..."

the silence is too loud in wonbin's ears. what is he, silent? reserved? introverted? uninteresting? different? both the guys in front of him just scoff when wonbin looks into their eyes. wonbin knows his beloved friend anton only keeps him around for his own good. he's great, top student, he never misses a single day or assignments. he knows the sleepy bass player enjoys his presence during class because wonbin doesn't talk much and his handwriting is easy to read for when he'll copy the lesson later. though anton is a really nice person, and their friendship based on their musical composition classes gives wonbin a great opportunity : having somewhere to sleep during this awful summer instead of going back to his even more awful hometown.

"why don't you come to tonight's party with anton? is it not good enough for you?"

"none of your business."

"you know, being alive isn't so bad. you should try."

their laughters echo in the empty store and the door closes behind them. wonbin leans against his chair, his head drops back, the fan messes with the strands he couldn't tie. what's the link between late night parties and being alive, is he missing something? suddenly he feels upset. concerts are the only loud place he enjoys, not cramped apartments full of alcohol and other addictive things he doesn't really want to try. he never really had fun when he followed anton to the uni end of exams celebrations, all he remembers is being sick after two drinks and his heart beating in his ears when he woke up the next day. he felt lightheaded for hours, never again, he told anton who seemed to do just fine when they met in class later.

the day is slow. wonbin decides he needs a break before the horrible noise of the fan makes him insane. he hasn't seen anyone in hours, it's hot but sunny, and the air inside the convenience store feels so stuffy and heavy wonbin can barely breathe. he opens the large freezer and chooses a blue popsicle before walking outside. he rests his back against the wall next to the glass doors, the cold treat resting between his lips. if it's hot inside the store, outside is even worse, the sun feels like a burn on his skin. his ice cream doesn't help, it melts in his hand and drips down his fingers, so wonbin is quick to finish it. and with a sigh, he walks inside the small shop to go back to his previous activity : falling asleep on his counter.

his alarm rings at 6pm, wonbin stretches his sore arms with a pleased noise and grabs the set of keys, turns off all the lights and the fan -that stops with a clanking sound-. it's still really hot and bright when he steps outside, locking the doors behind him. his headphones find their place back on his head, music loud in his ears as he walks back to his friend's place. anton would be out tonight, which means he'll have the apartment for himself. it's easy to tell it's friday night from the people outside. middle aged men hurrying home, kids playing outside with no parents in sight, students excitedly coming back from their summer classes and heading to the latest club. out of all of them, wonbin just walks with one thing in mind, finally settling back on his friend's couch like it's a luxurious bed and sleeping. wonbin feels pity for himself. what a sad fucking summer.

anton rests against the window, he blows out the smoke of his cigarette when the door opens. he turns his head to look at wonbin, his blonde hair friend walks inside and drops himself on the couch without even taking his headphones off. his eyes flicker to anton and he lazily gets up as his friend hands him the pack of nicotine from a distance. the cigarette rests between wonbin's lips as he lits it, he inhales deeply and the weight on his shoulders slowly fades away just like the white smoke in the air. there's this comfortable silence between the two of them, until wonbin breaks it after exhaling deeply.

"who's party are you going to tonight?"

"sungchan's. why?"

"can i come with you?"

from anton's expression, wonbin guesses his friend had no idea he was about to ask that. they both lived on different timezones in the same apartment. while anton would enjoy his summertime, partying from the moment the sun sets until the early morning, coming home with the smell of whatever drinks he had clinging to his clothes, wonbin's evenings were quiet, lost into music sheets and his guitar resting on his lap. his own safe haven, like a home for himself even if anton's apartment is far from home to him.

"are you sure about that wonbin?"

"i figured it wouldn't kill me to... try to live."

"oh."

is that all you have to say? the question burns on wonbin's lips but he stays silent. there's no need to explain why he wants to join him. maybe this experience will be better, maybe he will hate every second of it, but he at least needs to give it a try, again. anton chuckles and gives a pat on his shoulder before leaving wonbin alone at the window. wonbin tries to gather some thoughts but it all gets lost into the swirl of smoke coming out of his lungs. he clings to the sound of anton getting ready behind him, his bassist friend hurrying around the apartment to find his belongings scattered everywhere. there's nothing for wonbin to take with him other than a black zip up hoodie covered in blue crosses and his phone dipped into his pocket. everything else is anton's possession. they get down the dirty stairs of the old building, a warm breeze messes up wonbin's hair, and he reaches behind him to untie them. as they both walk in the loud silence of the city, anton lits himself another cigarette.

sungchan's apartment is dark. it's packed, it's messy, and it's hot. there's a smell so strong it makes wonbin lightheaded, a mix of alcohol, cigarette, heavy perfume and too many people's scents at the same time. he already regrets his decision, looking for a way out, but with the half drunk anton holding his shoulder tightly, it's impossible to even try. the music is so loud in his ears, he can't barely hear what anton tells him. is this what being alive feels like? then it fucking sucks, wonbin doesn't realize he speaks out loud.

go have some fun, just be yourself. what a easy thing to say. maybe alcohol would help wonbin with his tied tongue, and he makes his way to the kitchen. he lost anton... somewhere. he has no idea where he came from and which way he needs to go, the dim lights and the waves of people threaten to drown him. he finally reaches the cold white counter in the kitchen and almost messes up all the cups. wonbin contemplates the different drinks. first he eliminates all the ones he doesn't know, then the few ones he remembers anton got sick of, which didn't leave much options available. he chooses the last beer bottle that stood in the corner, the taste of alcohol burning his throat along with the strong aroma of cherry. not bad, wonbin would even say he likes it.

wonbin still takes the first exit he finds, which happens to be the balcony door. it's finally night outside, the air cooler and breathable. on the balcony, there's no one else but wonbin. people are too busy clinging to each other inside, not caring about the city's show of lights or the few stars that painted the sky. wonbin reaches for the half pack of cigarettes anton gave him before he lost him in the crowd, and he takes a while to form a thought, looking at the rolled paper between his fingers. is drinking and smoking all by himself a good idea? wonbin would never find out, because when he looks around his pockets, he can't find a lighter. the smoke between his teeth, brows furrowed, he checks his back pocket again with no luck.

the familiar click of metal makes him turn his head, the dancing flame lighting up his face. alone with him on the balcony, there's you, holding up a lighter to his face. the night feels warm, his skin glistens and his eyes shine until the fire disappears. wonbin feels stuck in place, stuck to the ground when he meets your eyes, he stops breathing. the world around him is on pause when you take a step closer. wonbin lowers his head a little, strands of blonde hair falling in front of his eyes, and you click the lighter again until the edge of his cigarette burns with a faint smoke. wonbin's face brightens with the flame, it dances in his eyes, and make every details and flaws look more precise. and there's the silence. the cars vanished from the streets and the music stopped playing from the windows. your eyes are locked with wonbin until he looks away to blow the smoke on the side, and suddenly the noises start again, filling your ears and his.

wonbin's heart beats to an unsteady rhythm. is it the addictive taste of the cigarette mingled with the cherry of his beer or the intensity deep in your eyes when he turns back to you? wonbin can't find an answer. his mind feels foggy just like his lungs, and he breathes out the smoke once again, resting his arms on the edge of the balcony. you do the same, your elbow brushing his, and warmth blooms from the single touch. it courses wonbin's veins the same way alcohol does, it makes his face hot, and more than that, it stirs something in his stomach, a mix between fireworks and a roller coaster. maybe a bit of both. both your arms touching feel comfortable, like a special link between the both of you as if the windows of the balcony took you both to another place.

"i was wondering why someone like you was alone out there."

wonbin turns to you. of course it's someone like him again, like anyone else thinks. wonbin hopes you will be quite creative at least, so is he pathetic or just weird?

"what do you mean by that?"

"you're beautiful."

the words get stuck into wonbin's throat just like the smoke of his cigarette and he's forced to cough. blush tints his cheeks, ears and neck, he's thankful his face is engulfed by the night so you don't see how fuzzy your words make him feel. this time the silence is thick and heavy, wonbin knows you're looking at him, and he's too scared to dare laying his eyes into yours, he's scared the actual party would happen in his stomach and he'd feel shooting stars in his heart and body. the deep breath he takes is hidden by his cigarette.

"you're really pretty too."

"did you need a break from the party?"

"i'm not really a party guy. too loud for me."

too loud, too much people, too much scents, but if it means seeing you then wonbin wouldn't complain anymore. if you like parties then wonbin will like parties, if you want to drink wonbin will gladly drink with you.

"honestly me neither, i just followed a few friends. they're somewhere inside."

"mine is too, he kinda gave up on me."

"you smell like cherries."

you catch him off guard again and wonbin swears you're secretly trying to kill him. you're trying to take his heart out of his chest and put it in your pocket to keep it safe, and wonbin would even hand it to you. he gives up on his cigarette and faces you, he straightens his back and tries to appear more confident. with nothing but a quick look, he hands you his bottle of beer, it's almost empty but more than enough fo you to have a taste of the fruity alcohol. wonbin doesn't know what he wants, all he knows is that the time stopped again. he remembers how his days at the convenience store felt like weeks, and right now it's just the same, every second feels like an hour, every move slowed down to match the pace of his breathing. the drink stays in his hand, you make no move to take it, so wonbin brings to his lips to take a sip. you watch him swallow the burning liquid and the droplet that rolls down his chin and neck, the way he licks his lips afterwards.

"is it good?"

"it is."

"can i try it?"

it's like you both knew. like you both spoke to each others through your minds and eyes. wonbin's hand cups your jaw and you grip his shoulders before he presses his lips on yours, the sour cherry taste filling your senses. the kiss he gives you is like a dream, the kind of kiss you expect only in movies. his hand that holds your face wraps around the back of your neck and brings you closer, until one of your hand reaches for his hair to keep his face in place. wonbin is slow, lips warm from his drink, and your mouth only makes it warmer. the candy-like taste of his beer mixed with his cigarette makes you addicted, you feel high, high on him and the scent that clings to him. the fingers you tangled in his hair play with his blonde strands and wonbin deepens the kiss a little more, his tongue pushes on your lips for an entrance. you deny it, and wonbin parts away, he gives a quick peck on your lips to get rid of the strand of saliva that still connected the both of you.

his flushed face and half lidded eyes, the heavy rise of his chest and his parted lips, it takes your breath away. you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, and wonbin rests his bottle on the balcony, his now free hand finds its place on your waist. sungchan is lucky to have such a big apartment and such a large space outside, wonbin makes a mental note to thank him later. he guides you further away on the terrace until the few lights coming from the opened windows stop shining on your face. you can barely see wonbin now swallowed by the night, but you can feel him. you feel his fingertips under your shirt, grazing your skin without going further, you feel his mouth in your neck as he kisses behind you ear, you feel his chest against yours each time he remembers to breathe and stay alive, you feel the star charm of his necklace on your collarbone. wonbin feels you too, your finger mindlessly twirling a strand of his hair, your arm wrapped around his shoulder, your head resting against his and your breath on his skin. it's like a fever dream, wonbin wonders if the alcohol and the hot weather messed him up and created some kind of illusion to play with his heart. but when your hand lays on his chest and feels the loud beating under his skin, louder than the music, wonbin knows he's more than awake.

he rests his forehead against yours and for a few seconds, you admire his face so close, your fingers caress his chin and lips, follow his jaw and rest on his cheek. you want again the feeling of his lips, you want the drug he seems to get you on and flows your system like liquid fire. you presses your lips on the mole on his jaw and savor the small noise in wonbin's throat before he holds your face again to kiss you. this time you let his tongue meet yours in a heated valse, your arms wrap fully around wonbin's neck and he pushes you against the balcony railing, both hands resting behind you. he traps you against, towers you and takes control of the movements of your lips, he takes the lead of your heartbeat and your shaky breaths between his warm kisses.

wonbin can't get enough, the more time he spends tangled in your lips, the less he feels like he could keep living without it. now you taste like cherries too. one of wonbin's hand claw at your waist, he brings you closer until there's no more space. he needs to breathe, but dying this way sounds like heaven, you're slowly taking away his life by making him addicted to you. his fingers feel at home on your skin just like your hand in his hair. wonbin allows himself to breathe only to trail his lips on your jaw and down your neck, his mouth hot and swollen as he discovers your body. but he doesn't want to get away from your mouth, he steals your lips again and again, blown pupils lost into yours before you finally hold his head steady.

wonbin feels like a kid that's denied a sweet treat, but in a desperate way, he's about to throw a tantrum to have his favorite candy back. you brought him up to heaven and stole his soul, he surrendered to you having his heart in your hand. his nails dig into your hips gently as a warning, he brings his face closer, and you finally say the magic words.

"wanna get out of here?"

boom fireworks in his stomach, fireworks in his head and fireworks in his heart. the sparkles race in his veins and ring in his ears.

"i don't have a place to go."

"but i do."

wonbin's lips crashes against yours again, he wants to ground himself and tell himself it's not a dream. his teeth bite your bottom lip and you tug on your hair, he traps you again on the balustrade, his hand now finding your back to press yourself against him. wonbin gives you a kiss on the corner of your lips before licking his own. he finally breaks into a smile when you push yet again his hair out of his face. you take his hand, and you both hold tight when you walk through the drunk people in the apartment. this time the door is easy to find, and the empty streets somehow feel really comforting. your hand in his, fingers intertwined walking in a direction wonbin doesn't even know. this must be it, this must be what being alive feels like and what they all talk about, wonbin wonders if he's too drunk on his cherry beer or the taste of you for these thoughts to cloud his mind. yet they're all he can think about, and he wouldn't want it any other way.

a sad fucking summer indeed, a summer daze he hopes never fades away.

#riize wonbin #wonbin #max's cat >_<#wonbin song 🎵#wonbin x reader

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undeadoracle · 2 days ago

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c3 has certainly been the least satisfying campaign so far, but the interesting thing about that is that i don't think you can point to any single point of failure and say "there, that's where it went wrong." it's been more of a death by a thousand cuts. this is going to be criticism, but very broad strokes from a narrative perspective.

first off: to try and play out a campaign with such monumental stakes is already quite ambitious, and unfortunately the player characters for this campaign were exactly the wrong mix for dealing with divinity. bells hells never really had a reason to do the right thing; vox machina's story was very clear cut good-and-bad, along with the personal investment of seeing their homes and people they care about under threat. the mighty nein floundered at times, but had enough self motivated and strongly opinionated characters with outside ties to keep the game moving even when they weren't sure where they were going. molly's death also galvanized them to Give A Shit about consequences and what was going on around them in a way they hadn't before.

bells hells, on the other hand, has never had any personal stake in any of this; laudna, chetney, ashton and braius are functionally alone in the world, with nothing to fight for and no close relationships to see threatened. (sure, braius is ostensibly a paladin of asmodeus, but sam himself has admitted he's not good at staying committed to evil characters. i appreciate the intention behind bringing a religious character back into the campaign after fcg's ending, but braius has been flaky, at best, about his loyalties.) fcg was just beginning to forge those bonds when they died. fearne's family is safely squirreled away in morrigan's piece of the feywild, away from consequences, and she doesn't give a shit about her father. imogen only had her mother, who she always kept sort of holding out hope for and keeping at arms length at the same time. aside from her, orym is the only one with emotional stakes in of all this, and even that was more attached to ludinus himself than the larger plot of predathos being released.

ergo, none of these characters except imogen and orym have personal investment in the story they're spearheading. obviously this is accidental; with them going into campaigns blind, there's no way they could have predicted they weren't going to mesh with the plot. in a story like c1 (largely black and white apocalypse scenarios solved by stereotypical hero work) or c2 (some political maneuvering, but, again, straightforward "stop this tyrannical flesh city" consequences) these pcs might've worked fine, but having characters who are not only disconnected from the gods, but from other mortals, means they never really figured out who or what they're fighting for. each of them is too caught up endlessly ruminating over their own isolation; none of them played a character with enough purpose and/or stability in life to really bring the team together for any common goal. fcg, again, almost got there, and their loss re-fractured the team. chetney sometimes steps in, because travis is a player with great instincts, but it would be playing against his established personality to always have him take on this role. no one else has the emotional intelligence or social skills to encourage the others on paths of personal growth, and with the plot essentially being on a timer for so long, there hasn't been room for the sorts of side trips and time skips that both c1 and c2 had to allow offscreen character development to happen. they've been hurtling at their goal for most of the campaign with no opportunity to work on themselves, and it shows. the characters have largely remained stagnant.

then there's the lack of meaningful npcs. this is partially because they've been all over kingdom come, and partially because they've never really committed to being on anyone's side long enough to form bonds with npcs. they have no "home base," no faction loyalties except orym's loyalty to the ashari and fearne's loyalty to morrigan, and again, few personal ties that would easily translate into recurring npcs. given that the purpose of npcs is largely to keep the plot moving forward . . . you can see how the hells have suffered without them.

this next part is going to piss some people off, because it's (gentle) criticism of matt, but it needs to be said. i do not think he should have told this story. i'm not talking about technical ability as a dm, i mean more from a philosophical, anthropological, religiological perspective. exandria is a world the opposite of ours, in which the existence of gods is unilaterally accepted and observable, but their "right" to act as such is now under debate with the revelation that they originated elsewhere, came to exandria, engaged in cultivation of exandria's raw materials, & killed the titans who technically had the "right" to the land but wanted to wipe their creations off the face of the earth. then things devolve into polytheistic dualism, a pantheon of good gods and a pantheon of bad gods, and they spend a long time warring with each other and killing each others' creations before, eventually, mortals figure out how to kill them, and they join forces to stop that before agreeing to withdraw their presence behind the divine gate.

then he includes this confusing angle that "divine" magic isn't actually divine in origin, it's just another kind of magic that exists and the gods have taken credit for it. then he becomes vague as to what sort of "cultivating" the gods actually did--whether they're responsible for life as it's known on exandria, or whether or not they've just taken credit for what was already there. which is a level of ambiguity that's deeply unsatisfying in a setting where any sufficiently devoted priest can directly talk to their god. the conclusion, then, is that the gods withhold the truth from mortals--not because mortals can't comprehend it, it seems, but because it is beneficial to the gods to withhold it.

there is no real world religion (that i know of) that is in any way comparable to this sequence of events. dualism as a concept does not play well with polytheism as a religious structure, and titan-type figures, aka superentities that are "othered" from the gods, are generally considered as fearsome forces that cause problems but aren't specifically interested in wiping humans off the face of the earth. and the gods themselves, it is understood, are of this world; typically they're either inhabitants of it in some abstract way, or they live in a plane of reality adjacent to it and are directly responsible for making it what it is. but they also, it is understood, cannot be held to human standards; that's why they're gods.

the reason exandrian religion crumbles under interrogation is that real world mythology is metaphor, and exandrian mythology is not. in the real world, mythology is a reflection of humanity, struggling to make sense of big concepts; in exandria, it's objective fact, but there's not really any theological rhyme or reason to any of it. when we tell stories about gods and demons we are not speaking of literal things that our great grandparents experienced, we are telling the stories for their deeper meaning. when you try to do that with exandrian mythology, it becomes a story of how the natural world has to be conquered and die in order for mortals to survive and the underpinnings of the universe are one big illusion, but they can still grant you real, tangible power. when you try to take it as a metaphor, it kind of sucks.

i'm not suggesting matt did this on purpose; i think it largely happened by accident. in c1 they started out using pathfinder deities, and then he transitioned into a sort of half-original version of them, then solidified them into a specific pantheon with clear influences from preexisting deities, but with his own explanations for why they exist. i also think he deliberately avoided making them too much like real world deities in order to avoid stepping on any real world toes, which is understandable. it is the struggle of any high fantasy enthusiast to have tangible gods make sense without being world breaking. but the point is that all these little changes and additions and careful avoidance of real-world issues added up to paint a poor picture in their own right, and then he drew his entire audience's attention to it by choosing to do a campaign about whether or not the gods should be allowed to exist. and even so, this might've worked out okay, had the players come to the game with a different mix of characters. we can see the difference in how vm and m9 reacted to the situation; a different group could've taken this story down a much more compelling path than bh did.

in the same vein, i think another ongoing issue in how this has played out is matt being anxious about people projecting their feelings about real world religion onto the plot. i don't blame him; he's under immense pressure to perform with the size of their fanbase nowadays, and i remember how many people were shitting their proverbial pants over the traveler's offhand comment about how there's no purpose to the universe back in c2. i get why he doesn't want to deal with that again. and i think the players are also afraid to be seen as either condoning religious oppression or condemning personal belief, so they've been hesitant to take a strong stance on anything, for fear that no matter what they choose fans will bring their own feelings about religion into their reactions to the game. the only exception, really, has been taliesin, and we see how much anger and criticism he gets from fans every single week who assume he's using ashton as a mouthpiece for his own ideals, even though he played an explicitly pro-god character last campaign.

and matt, presumably realizing this was becoming a problem, has backtracked instead of doubling down on the stance of "this has nothing to do with reality, stop projecting," both to his players and the audience. instead, he's grown increasingly vague about what, if any, the actual consequences of all this will be. there was no question of the consequences in c1 or c2 being catastrophic. but now we're working with a plot for which, it seems, there are no real consequences either way. apparently, everything will stay the same no matter what the bh choose, because apparently, saying "there will be catastrophic consequences for releasing a godeater" is the same in some people's minds as "mortals need religion in order to be good." it's the issue of our real-world religious metaphors running into the exandrian religious literalism again.

the problem then becomes that, in order to not take a stance of either "religion bad" or "religion necessary," he has had to create a plot for which all outcomes are the same, so bh just have to make the moral, philosophical decision on behalf of the entire world of whether or not the gods "deserve" to live. which is crazy! no wonder the players have constantly been plagued by indecision, second guessing, and lack of direction. by removing any distinct outcome either way, they've avoided making a statement that anyone might be upset by--and also created an ending with no substance or emotional impact.

honestly i feel like i could dissect this more, but i think the point has been made well enough: this campaign has died a death by a thousand cuts.

#critical role #this is so longgg i just can't stop picking it all apart

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