#but doing everything in his power to prevent it

[unhingedgirlythings]

You’ve got mail

A/N: Okay, I gave you all an awkward Spencer. Now I give less awkward older Spence cuz I love both, and the music I’m listening to right now is just screaming confidence lmao. I also apologise if the writing is funky I tried to edit which I do not do but I’m trying to get better at it lmao ENJOY

SUMMARY : You keep getting Spencer Reid’s Mail, and based on the content of his magazine subscriptions, you wouldn’t be surprised if he murdered you one day. It was strange; you found him quite intriguing, but without context for his odd taste in reading materials, you decided it was probably best to just stay clear and ignore him. But when you order something, it ends up in Reid’s mailbox. You’ll do everything in your power to get it back because you will not survive the embarrassment if he opens that package.so you do what any sane person would…. Break into his apartment.

TAGS: breaking and entering, the universe has it out for reader , hot older Spencer you’re welcome, reader buys a sex toy … that’s it lmao.

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The cryptic man living in the apartment next to yours was either a true crime enthusiast or a serial killer in the making. Even though you’d only caught glimpses of him over the years, you sure knew a lot more than you should or wanted to about your neighbour and his interests. The sheer volume of magazines featuring killers, cults and serial rapists that were mistakenly slid through your mail shoot was somewhat concerning at best. You could understand a few subscriptions, as you were a bit of a true crime fiend yourself. Still, the number of subscriptions was far too alarming for anyone to claim sanity.

This was a shame because, despite your caution and best efforts, you often found the idea of a true crime-loving brainiac stuck in your mind, even if he seemed to survive on an unhealthy amount of takeout judging by the copious amount of menus shoved under his door.

Aside from the few gruesome crime magazines, you’d also discovered a fair share of thrillers and classical books catalogues, alongside subscriptions relating to chess and some annoyingly advanced puzzles that always left your brain feeling fried after attempting to solve them. Your curiosity about him grew with each missent letter and subscription, pulling you in despite the logical warning to keep your distance and avoid him at all costs, just in case he was a creepy serial killer fanboy.

Yet you couldn’t even catch him in time to give him his mail back, let alone try to converse in a conversation, so you settled on avoiding him at all costs.

Instead of handing his mail to him like a normal, sane person would, you resorted to shoving all his mail through his door as best you could, along with a note urging him to do something about how much of it you were getting. Despite your best efforts to prevent his mail from becoming a tripping hazard in your apartment, here you were once again standing in front of his apartment door sporting a freshly applied face mask, fuzzy hot pink PJs, and a copy of Serial Killer Weekly in your hand. All you wanted was to get back to the comfort of your couch, but it seemed like fate had other plans.

Forcibly, you jam the magazine into its owner’s mail slot, grimacing as you watch the once-smooth edges start to wrinkle in retaliation. “Seriously, why do they make these things so goddamn small” Your frustrated remarks were interrupted by the sound of keys jingling, followed by footsteps echoing down the hall. “Shoot”, giving up and abandoning the magazine, you book it to your apartment, slamming the door behind yourself just as someone turns the corner. Catching your breath, you rest your back against the door, allowing the sudden burst of adrenaline a second to cool its jets before making your way back to the comfy little blanket-like nest you had been lounging around on all evening. The tea you had previously abandoned was now lukewarm, not ideal, but there was no way in hell you would waste a cup of tea. Bringing the mug up to your lips, you stretch yourself across the couch to where you had thrown your laptop, careful not to spill your drink whilst pulling it back onto your lap as you settle in to resume your nightly internet deep drive.

Did you have a slight online shopping addiction? Yes, yes, you did. It wasn’t unusual for you to shift from reading some odd article describing the history of how pillows were made to one of your bookmarked shopping sites. The one thing you loved about the internet is the abundance of useless random Shit you can buy, and boy, did you love useless random Shit. You knew you should be spending your money on something that you actually needed instead of cute little magnets of animated cats. Still, you were only human, highly irresponsible with money, but human nonetheless. A few minutes quickly turned to hours as you added things to your cart, justifying to yourself their importance and why they were an investment in your happiness. Any thought you had of your neighbour melted away as you got sucked back into the World Wide Web.

An all too familiar irritating burn scratched at your eyes, screaming at you to put the laptop away and go to sleep before you burnt a massive hole through your savings. Just as you were about to give in to the little nagging voice in your head, a scandalous ad floated its way across your screen, perking your interest. It was no secret that your sex life sucked majorly, and you weren’t usually the type to buy risky items. The only things you did own were stupid gag gifts hidden away in your closet that your friends had brought as a joke. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at them, let alone use them; it was as if they were mocking you for not being able to get any.

Maybe you deserved to buy one last thing before calling it a night; you just won’t look at your bank account in the morning and regret your life choices. As sleep starts to catch up, you quickly enter the billing address, not bothering to double-check it, before closing the laptop and making your way to your room.

Weeks had passed since that night; honestly, you had forgotten all about the order until you were interrupted mid-shower, screaming some trashy song with a notification from the postal company. Your package was arriving in the afternoon, so, like any normal person, you put all plans for the day on hold as you waited anxiously, sitting on your couch by the door. There was no way in hell you were going to risk your neighbours seeing the promiscuous packaging; the little old lady living right next door, who you just adored, thought you were such a sweet girl and could do no wrong you’d be damned if you ruined that image for her.

The urge to pee suddenly appeared as you and the door were in the middle of a weird yet intense staring match, you tried focusing all your attention solely on the door . And yet, the bursting need to pee was starting to strain. After pushing yourself to keep it in just a bit longer, you caved. It was only going to take a minute; surely, they wouldn’t drop it off whilst you were doing your business. Snapping away from the door, you push yourself off the couch and bolt towards the toilet, trying to make it in time, not really wanting to pee yourself today or any other day for that matter.

Just as you sit down, your phone lights up, alerting you that your package has arrived and has been dropped off, “Shit, of course, just my luck; here’s to praying Mrs Paddington stays inside. “grumbling whilst you finish up as quickly as possible, you stumble your way out of the bathroom rushing to the door still trying to pull your pants back up. Hastily, Swinging the door open only to reveal absolutely nothing, no package, not even the mailman walking up the hall to hand it over, just an empty hallway. Raising your brow in Confusion, you pull out your phone to double check, yep definitely says it was dropped off ... that’s when you saw it, fear shot its way through your body as you looked up at the address you had put down weeks prior, how you made such a stupid small mistake was beyond you, but fuck did you hate yourself right now.

“Please, god, no, please don’t be doing this to me right now,” you pleaded while clinging to some delusion of hope. You walked over to the little mail slot that belonged to the door just in front of yours.

Bending down, you push it open as far as it would allow; your eye hovered over the tiny opening as you peeked inside, praying to some god that it wasn’t in his apartment. But seeing as your luck was just so amazing right now, there it was, sitting right there on the other side of what you’d assume was a locked door, which, of course, belonged to the one and only neighbour that you swore to yourself you’d avoid like the black plague.

Now you were truly, royally fucked.

All you wanted to do was lay down and die, bury yourself in the ground and never come back. How in the hell did you end up in this situation? To say you were embarrassed was an understatement. Never in your life have you fucked up this badly, and you fuck up frequently. Yet, here you were, banging your head on his door, wanting nothing but to simply disappear and not have to deal with the explanation of why your newly brought vibrator was sitting in his apartment.

As you sat there, forehead pressed against the hard wooden door, ready to admit defeat, a thought crossed your mind.

Who said he needed to ever know about the package?

Was breaking into his apartment one of your brightest ideas? No, probably not, but it was the only one you could come with. No way were you going to just leave it there for him to discover and have whatever dignity you had left destroyed by embarrassment.

Rushing into your apartment for a split second, you grab a trusty bobby pin from the bathroom and make your way back to his apartment, ready to put all the knowledge from the late-night crime shows you’ve binged to good use; it didn’t matter that you’ve never picked a lock before, how hard could it be.

Focusing all your attention on the lock, you shoved the pin in and jiggled it around, hoping something would click into the right place and do something.

Just as you were about to give up and resort to just kicking the door down out of frustration, you heard the clicking noise of the door unlocking. Your face lit up with pride; of course, you never doubted your skills for a second, okay, maybe just a little, but that wasn’t something you were about to focus on right now. Your victory was short-lived as you remembered your little mission. Carefully, you pushed the door open and stepped into the apartment, taking in your surroundings as you did so.

It looked like a library that had exploded everywhere. There were books and files scattered around in a somewhat organised way. Oddly enough, despite the chaos of every surface being covered with reading material, the space was immaculately clean. Confused: You walked past your package towards the cluttered dining room table. You ran your finger across the wooden surface, expecting there to be some dust residue. Yet, despite the house looking abandoned, there wasn’t a spec of dirt anywhere. “What an odd dude. “As hard as it was, you ignored your curiosity, not really wanting to risk being caught snooping through his things.

As you make your way back to your package, you let out a sigh of relief as you pick it up, holding it close to your chest. “Crisis avoided, thank god” Just as you were about to make your way out of the apartment to the safety of your own home, your body was roughly slammed into the table you were inspecting a second ago. Its edges dug uncomfortably into your stomach; your cheek was pressed against the loose sheets of paper as your assailant held you down in place. One hand was wrapped around your wrists, holding them in place behind your back, and the other had a firm grip on the back of your head. The colour quickly drained from your face as a bolt of panic hit your core. “What are you doing in my apartment?” a low, assertive voice grumbled against your back; a shiver ran down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin; suddenly, all the jokes about your neighbour killing you didn’t seem to feel that funny anymore.

“i-I promise there is a perfect explanation for this”, your voice betrayed you as it trembled pathetically, throwing away any image of composure out the window.

“You broke into my apartment? I’m not quite sure if there’s a good explanation for that; you realise you can get up to 10 years in jail for breaking and entering, right. “

Oh shit, you didn’t think about that.

“Seriously, I wasn’t stealing anything; there were no ill intentions. I didn’t even realise you were here. That’s why I broke in the first place” The words were spilling out, and there was no way you were going to be able to stop them. “That sounded bad, didn’t it? “

“Very. “The sound of his feet shuffling around on the wooden floorboards gave you a sickening uneasiness deep in your stomach. “Didn’t look like that to me; what’s this then “his grip loosened as he bent down to where you had dropped the package. There was not a sound coming from you, no pleading or begging. You just stayed there still and silent, knowing there was no point in stopping him now.

There was no need for you to see his face; the image of a shocked expression that your mind conjured up was enough to cause an embarrassing heat in your cheeks. The eerie silence that filled the room definitely didn’t help calm your racing thoughts. Before it could get any more awkward between the two of you, the once-restricting grip holding you securely in place loosened completely, leaving you free to push yourself off the table.

Your eyes danced around the room, making sure to avoid the apologetic look you felt coming from the man in front of you. Not wanting to subject yourself to this torture a second longer, you somehow mustered up the tinniest bit of courage and pushed your way past him, grabbing the box in the process and trying to save what little respectability you had left. Thankfully, there were no protests made as you barged out of the apartment; neither one of you dared to utter a word as he watched you escape back to the safety of your own apartment.

Aggressively, you tossed the scandalous box onto the couch, along with yourself. A loud groan left your body as it made contact with the softer surface. You could already hear your brain overworking itself as it replayed the scene over and over again, disregarding your displeasure. You could feel your stomach starting to churn with each thought, and the urge to puke was becoming more violent.

You knew there was no way in hell you were ever using it now; the feeling of embarrassment was glued to it now, and to be frank, you’d rather drown in a puddle of your own puke than think about today ever, EVER again.

Before you could spiral any further and trap yourself in an overthinking season, a faint knock came from the door, and your head snapped upwards as another knock followed. Not wanting to be rude, you hesitantly got up from your position on the couch, dragging your feet to the door and cautiously opening it, only to be greeted by the last person you wanted to see right now. “May I help you?”

“Hi, umm, I just wanted to apologise for earlier. I didn’t mean to embarrass you; I thought you were an intruder stealing my mail.”

“Technically, it’s my mail I was stealing, and the breaking in... yeah, I don’t have an excuse for that one.”

“Okay, well again, sorry for, well, everything that went down” The room fell uncomfortably silent; neither of you really knew how to shift the conversation; thankfully, you didn’t have to be the one that broke the silence. “guess I’ll get going then I just wanted to clear the air “sporting a slight smile he turns, retreating to his apartment but before he could reach his door you call out.

“Actually! Can you wait up? I have some of your mail” The chaos from today completely scrambled your brain; you had initially planned to take his mail with you as you technically broke into his apartment, but of course, the panic of him finding your package fucked with your ability to think. Stopping in his tracks, your neighbour gave you a rightly so confused look as he moved back into the apartment to hear you out. “You know you really need to talk to the mailman. I swear if I have to see another crime scene or a creepy middle-aged man’s mug shot, I might lose it. “The slightly crooked smile he responded with had you choking on air; before you make more of a fool of yourself, you turn quickly to sort through the pile of mail on the table, hoping to come across this morning’s additions. “I know, I know “, he sighed deeply as he moved closer, joining you in the search. “I just can never find the chance; I barely get any free time to relax as is” Before you can stop yourself, you regretfully let your filter slip. “Ah, does killing people take up all your time? I suggest retirement” Truly, you were shocked with yourself today; what kind of witch did you piss off to be cursed with suck shitty luck. Just as you had the apology on the way, you were interrupted with a chuckle. “Bold of you to say to someone you think to be a killer,” he smirked down at you, his brow slightly raised, questioning your judgement. “Well shit” As subtly as you could manage, you shuffled around the table, trying to put some distance between the two of you, glancing at him as you go.

The panic started to hit you as your mind began doing summersaults, quickly jumping to conclusions.

“I’m guessing I’m on the list now, huh?” A heavy chuckle filled the room, leaving you dumbfounded. Is he that crazy? He must have caught onto your discomfort and calmed down quickly to shut down your irrational thinking. “Sorry, sorry, no. I actually arrest killers for a living” As if you needed more proof, he pulls out a badge from his wallet and places it on the table. “I can kind of see how those magazines made you think otherwise” thank god you had never felt so relieved in your life, not today, death, not today. Looking down at the badge, your smile slightly fades. FBI… he’s with the FBI… YOU BROKE INTO THE HOUSE OF AN FBI AGENT. “Did I apologise for breaking in? Cuz I’m very, very sorry. “

“Don't stress, I’m not going to arrest you or anything; I get it, just maybe next time, knock?” you giggle as you walk over to him with his mail in hand “, “passing him the mail, your fingers graze against his sending a slight shiver down your spine.

“Thanks,” he says, you nod.

“Thanks for not murdering me” he smiles down at you before backing away towards the door, but just as he goes to leave, he turns back. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, neighbour “he waves goodbye as he shuts your door; once you can no longer hear footsteps, you finally let yourself breathe again.

“Well … least he’s hot,” you shrug off the events of today, turn, and make eye contact with the package in the corner of the room that started it all. “… I did spend money on it, and I’m not one to waste money” There was a long, silent pause as you debated it. “Nah, I shouldn’t. “Shaking your head, you grabbed the remote off the table and walked over to the couch, trying to make yourself comfortable whilst switching on your detective show. Honestly, you really were going to forget all about the toy. Still, once a curly, brown-haired character appeared on the screen that you refused to admit looked way too much like your (hot) neighbour, the urge took over, and before you knew it, you were grabbing the box and shutting your door, hoping you could keep it your little, shameful secret. I mean, doesn’t everyone think about their neighbour whilst they get off

[fus-mar-hoz]

It will be recalled that the International Socialist Congress in Stuttgart discussed the question of militarism and in connection with it the question of anti-militarist propaganda. The resolution adopted on the point says, in part, that the Congress regards it as a duty of the working classes to “help to have working class youth brought up in a spirit of international brotherhood and socialism and imbued with class consciousness”. The Congress regards this as aft earnest of the army ceasing to be a blind instrument in the hands of the ruling classes, which they use as they see fit and which they can direct against the people at any time.

It is very hard, sometimes almost impossible, to conduct propaganda among soldiers on active service. Life in the barracks, strict supervision and rare leave make contact with the outer world extremely difficult; military discipline and the absurd spit arid polish cow the soldier. Army commanders do everything they can to knock the “nonsense” out of the “brutes”, to purge them of every unconventional thought and every human emotion and to instil in them a sense of blind obedience and an unthinking wild hatred for “internal” and “external” enemies.... It is much harder to make an approach to the lone, ignorant and cowed soldier who is isolated from his fellow-men and whose head has been stuffed with the wildest views on every possible subject, than to draft-age young men living with their families and friends and closely bound up with them by common interest. Everywhere anti-militarist propaganda among young workers has yielded excellent results. That is of tremendous importance. The worker who goes into the army a class-conscious Social-Democrat is a poor support for the powers that be.

There are young socialist workers’ leagues in all European countries. In some, for instance, Belgium, Austria and Sweden, these leagues are large-scale organisations carrying on responsible party work. Of course, the main aim of the youth leagues is self-education and the working out of a distinct and integrated socialist outlook. But the youth leagues also carry on practical work. They struggle for an improvement in the condition of apprentices and try to protect them from unlimited exploitation by their employers. The young socialist workers’ leagues devote even more time and attention to anti-militarist propaganda.

For that purpose, they try to establish close ties with young soldiers. This is done in the following way. Before the young worker has joined the army, he is a member of a league and pays membership dues. When he becomes a soldier, the league continues to maintain constant contacts with him, regularly sending him small cash aids (“soldier’s sous” as they call them in France), which, however small, are of substantial importance to the soldier. For his part, he undertakes to provide the league with regular information about everything that goes On in his barracks and to write about his impressions. Thus, even after he joins the army, the soldier dots not break off his ties with the organisation of which he was a member.

An effort is always made to drive the soldier as far away from home as possible for his service. This is done with the intention of preventing the soldier from being tied with the local population by any interest, and to make him feel alien to it. It is theft easier to make him carry out orders: to shoot at a crowd. Young workers’ leagues try to bridge this alienation between the soldier and the local population. Youth leagues are connected with each other. When he arrives in a new town, the soldiers a former member of a youth league at home, is met by the local league as a welcome visitor, and he is at once brought into the circle of local interests and helped in every possible way. He ceases to be a new-coiner and a stranger. He is also aware that if any misfortune befalls him he will receive help and support. This awareness adds to his courage, he gains assurance in his behaviour in the barracks, and is bolder in standing up for his rights and his human dignity.

Their close ties with young soldiers enable the youth leagues to carry on extensive anti-militarist propaganda among the soldiers. This is done mainly with the aid of anti-militarist literature, which the youth leagues publish and circulate in great quantities, especially in France, Belgium and also in Switzerland, Sweden, etc. This literature is highly diverse: postcards with anti-militarist pictures, anti-militarist army songs (many of these songs are very popular among the soldiers), “soldier’s catechism” (in France it was circulated in more than 100,000 copies), all sorts of pamphlets, leaflets, appeals; weekly, fortnightly and monthly newspapers and magazines for soldiers, some of them illustrated. Barracks, Recruit, Young Soldier, Pju pju (a pet name for the young recruit), and Forward are very widely circulated. For example, in Belgium the newspapers Recruit and Barracks have a printing of 60,000 copies each. Especially many magazines are published at the time of the draft. Special issues of soldiers’ newspapers are mailed to the homes of all recruits. Anti-militarist literature is delivered to soldiers in the barracks and handed out to them in the streets; soldiers find it in coffee-houses and pubs, and everywhere else they go.

Recruits receive special attention. They are given a ceremonial send-off. During the recruitment, processions are staged in the towns. In Austria, for instance, recruits walk through the town dressed in mourning and to the strains of funeral marches. In front of them rolls a decorated red carriage. All the walls are plastered with red posters which say in large letters: “You will not shoot at the people!” Evening parties with ardent anti-militarist speeches are held in honour of the recruits. In short, everything is done to awaken the recruit’s consciousness, to ensure him against the evil influence of the ideas and emotions which will be instilled into him in the barracks by fair means and foul.

The work of the socialist youth is not in vain. In Belgium, there are almost 15 soldiers’ unions in the army, which are mostly affiliated with the Social-Democratic Labour Party and are closely allied with each other. In some regiments, two-thirds of the soldiers are organised. In France, the anti-militarist mood has become massive. During the strikes at Dünkirchen, Creusot, Loguivi, Monso-le-Min the soldiers ordered against the strikers declared their solidarity with the workers....

As time goes on, there are more and more Social-Democrats in the army and the troops become increasingly less reliable. When the bourgeoisie has to confront the organised working class, whom will the army back? The young socialist workers are working with all the enthusiasm and energy of the young to have the army side with the people.

[filthygalli]

Apéritif

Oneshot: Hwang In-Ho

Main Masterlist

LBH Masterlist

Warnings: Mentions of death (Player456), In-Ho being an alcoholic, mystery character from an another series, Obsession, Hurt, Not proofread.

Word Count: 682

Author’s Notes: I hope you guys liked this one! I had to do it:((

“You liked him, didn’t you, Mr. Hwang?” The doctor with grayish hair spoke as he looked over Hwang In-Ho.

In-Ho didn’t speak, he just looked at the doctor in front of him, holding a pen and a book in his hand, writing down the things that he said. “If you’re not going to talk about him, then our session here is done.” The doctor mumble as he crossed something out from the paper, “it’s not like that,” In-Ho replied, voice soft and calm—but there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice before he spoke again, “He’s just..” before he continued, the doctor cuts him of, “You’ve been going here for months, Mr Hwang,” he mumbled, “You told me you’ve been drowning yourself with alcohol.” He said—going through the pages of In-Ho’s information ever since he went to him, “You said, you couldn’t sleep at night because..” he hesitated for a moment, looking at In-Ho, “Because you were haunted by the look in his eyes that would’ve love you for a lifetime,” He added, looking up to the former detective, In-Ho sat still, he didn’t move—he thought of Gi-Hun, the day Gi-Hun died and he didn’t do anything—except just look at his corpse, as the floor puddles with his crimson—he offered some help, he gave Gi-Hun a chance to survive, but Gi-Hun is just too stubborn to accept it. His eyes glistened, he took a deep breath, trying to hold his grief inside, not wanting to seem weak in front of the doctor, he’s fighting back his tears from sleeping away in his eyes, He should’ve saved Gi-Hun, build a life with him—possibly keep player 222’s baby to raise it as their own, live a simple life—away from the games, away from all the harm and trauma that he caused.

“Mr. Hwang?” The doctor blurted In-Ho from his thoughts, “I- i’m sorry, what was that?” In-Ho asked as he took a slow deep breath, “Are you obsessed with him?” The doctor questioned as he rested his back comfortably in the back rest of his chair, “Because from how i see you,” he hesitated for a moment, looking closely to In-Ho, “You had caused his death—but you didn’t do anything to stop it, even if you had the only power to prevent it from happening.” The doctor addressed, In-Ho took a deep breath, his heart racing a little, hearing Gi-Hun’s voice inside his head, “Am i right? Mr. Hwang?” The doctor asked, a smirk ghosted in his lips, “Y-yes.” In-Ho muttered, “You cared about him, Mr. Hwang, you just couldn’t believe that a person like you–“ the doctor stopped for a moment, leaning forward, “would care for someone like him.”

Those words hit him straight into his chest, stabbing him straight from the heart, it’s true, he looked at Gi-Hun as himself—a person who would willing to do anything to save the others, to save humanity, he had lost faith to humanity long time ago, yet when he saw Gi-Hun, there’s a part of him—hoping that he would do what’s right, not the killing, nor the money, but the humanity. Or whatever’s left of it.

“I think we should call this a day, Mr. Hwang.” The doctor suggested, “Would you like to have dinner before you go?” He added, waiting for In-Ho to respond, The doctor stood up, looking down at In-Ho who sat across him, “if that’s not too much for you, of course.” The doctor suggested, “Of course not, Doctor Lecter.” He said as he also stood up, fixing his suit, “No need to be formal, Mr. Hwang, just call me Hannibal.” Hannibal chuckled lightly as In-Ho smiled a little, “Perhaps a Campari would ease your mind over that man, no?” Hannibal suggested as In-Ho looked at him, “I think so.” In-Ho mumbled as he followed Hannibal, leaving Hannibal’s office.

Little did In-Ho know, Hannibal knew everything about him and Gi-Hun, about how Gi-Hun died, about the games, about In-Ho’s past. Hannibal was one of the V.I.P’s before, he knew how In-Ho grew his obsession to Gi-Hun, to Player 456.

[linxnnalyn]

hi! could you do zoe nightshade dating HCs?

Zoe Dating HCs

࣪𖤐.ᐟ note -> ZOE MY LOVEEE!!!! I love her so much she is one of my favorite f/o's <33 I miss my old account I had written so much Zoe X reader works :[

࣪𖤐.ᐟ warnings -> none.

࣪𖤐.ᐟ content includes -> fluff, AU where the hunters can date each other, hunter! reader, stargazing, age gap I suppose, protective, attentive, affection.

۫ ꣑ৎ Even before the two of you got together it was very obvious to the other hunters—especially to Artemis—that Zoe is in love with you. Artemis has known Zoe for thousands of lifetimes, and she knows Zoe better than Zoe knows herself. Unlike the other hunters Artemis wouldn’t push it, but the two would eventually talk about Zoe's feelings for you.

۫ ꣑ৎ The lieutenant was very well contempt with just loving you from afar, but the other hunters (with Artemis’s permission) did everything in their power to set the two of you up together and make it known that Zoe likes you since you’re oblivious. While Artemis wouldn’t intervene, it is obvious that she wants her closest friend to be happy.

۫ ꣑ৎ Zoe was already protective of you even before the two of you got together, but when the two of you do start dating Zoe gets a bit more protective of you, especially during the hunts. Zoe has seen many of her friends and sisters come and go, and she doesn’t want to lose you anytime soon and will do anything to prevent losing you.

۫ ꣑ৎ She is a very attentive partner. You don’t know how she does it, but Zoe knows exactly what you’re feeling, if you’re upset or angry, and she somehow always knows what to do and how to make the situation better. Zoe is also very big on communication, so if you two ever have a problem she first gives you space if needed and then sat you down to talk about it.

۫ ꣑ৎ Zoe is sometimes a bit… uncomfortable about the age gap the two of you have. She loves and adores you very much, but there are many things that Zoe doesn’t understand one bit, which makes her feel a bit bad. She has been alive for thousands of years and yet she is unable to understand any of your references for slangs, but she is willing to lern.

۫ ꣑ৎ She doesn’t get jealous often. Zoe completely trusts Artemis and the rest of the hunters—after all she has them to thank for even getting the two of you together—but oh boy when Apollo comes around? She makes sure he is 10 feet away from you at all times. It isn’t even just because she is jealous of him flirting with you but also annoyance.

۫ ꣑ৎ Zoe enjoys spending time with you under the open sky, simply holding your hand as the two of you gaze at the stars together. It doesn’t matter if the two of you are sitting in comfortable silence or are talking about anything and everything, what matters to Zoe is that she is simply spending time with you.

۫ ꣑ৎ She is not used to physical affection. So when you reach for her hand or lean your head on her shoulder, there’s always a moment of stillness. Over time, she starts initiating it more. It's subtle, almost imperceptible to others that do not know her as well as the other hunters, but to you, it's proof that Zoe is letting herself be vulnerable—just for you.

۫ ꣑ৎ Whenever you get injured Zoe becomes visibly tense. She isn’t angry at you, but at herself, at the world, at whatever dared to harm you. Zoe would tend to your wounds with silent focus, refusing help, her touch gentle even when her expression is tight with worry. She would linger by your side afterward, never straying too far until she’s certain you’re completely fine.

۫ ꣑ৎ There are moments where Zoe catches herself staring at you like you hung the stars in the sky she reveres so deeply. It's in the quiet times, usually after a long hunt or during a rare break when everything is still. She'll look at you—really look—and something aches inside her chest. A longing that has been buried for centuries, one she never allowed herself to feel until you.

[canisalbus]

I love how Vasco looks like he is always living his best life while Machete looks like he never had a moment of rest, ever, in his life. Like a mirror reflecting two opposites

.

[timoluke]

the filename for this video is "kess plz.mov" because PLEASE DOT MOVE

[tvckington]

chucker, tuckington, and mainewash fans are all gonna have one hell of a time with this season

[vroomvroomvroommf]

ya know what would be the funniest thing ever

Lando and Charles 1-2 WDC

Mclaren and Ferrari 1-2 WCC

honestly wouldn’t even care who is in what position they both deserve a title

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

caitlyn ross from deepwoods is what the fandom thinks ford is

[sitcomghost]

I'm following the story because it's evident that those in power are doing everything they can to prevent him from getting a fair trial. There were headlines yesterday about his "outburst outside of court" where he was "struggling". It makes it sound like he's unruly and crazy. I watched the video for myself.

He gets out of the car, sees the press, and attempts to communicate "It's completely unjust and an insult to the intelligence of the American people and their lived experience". One police officer has a hand around his neck. Another slams him into a wall. They push and force him through the door. They wanted a perp walk of him in the orange jumpsuit but you can't have that without the possibility of him speaking.

Is he hot? Yes. And he's lucky he's an attractive white man. No matter if he is guilty or not, they have their suspect and they're sticking to him. They're going to make his life hell and try and smear and brutalize him as much as they can. This story isn't just one of a dead CEO and a suspect. It's how the justice system exists to protect capital.

Do not let any culture war facades trick you. Stay on this story, keep the pressure up. If we can do this for Luigi, we can do this for the thousands of Black and Brown political prisoners that have been ignored by the media. The fact that we as a nation did not erupt in mass revolt after COINTELPRO was confirmed is an indictment on us.

The fancams, the thirst tweets, they are honestly good for media exposure. They communicate to those in power that we stand with this man as he goes before the court and it becomes a gateway for people to learn about his case.

He's not a meme, he's a real person who, whether he fired those shots or not, is going to shape class consciousness in this country in the digital age.

[paarksunghoon]

resignation | sunghoon

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: desperately need to rant about my life and I’m doing it by way of enhypen 😩 this is a small little chapter and I have no idea if I’m gonna make this a whole thing, but we’ll see. enjoy for now and let me know your thoughts! xx

WARNINGS: none :)

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

Like a bird stuck in a metal cage, you feel trapped in an enclosure that’s meant to prevent you from flying away. That’s what it feels like to work at Park Inc., an international venture capitalist firm that serves Asia and the greater North American and European landscape. Your job is boring and meaningless, and today is the day you decided to do something about it. 

Your alarm rings every morning at 5 A.M. on the dot and today is no exception. Since becoming Park Sunghoon’s assistant six years ago, you’ve learned the masterful art of never hitting snooze after hearing an earful from Sunghoon himself when he requested your presence the following hour (you failed to arrive in time and learned to never go back to sleep unless it was your day off). 

This life seemed like a dream at the ripe age of twenty-one. Freshly graduated from college with no real career goal in mind, one of your academic mentors suggested entering the workforce as a personal assistant to gain social capital and learn about different areas of industry that could potentially lead you towards a career. Your measly business degree left you feeling unfulfilled and your parents’ aloof demeanor towards the lack of job offers lining up after graduating wasn’t the kind of news you were ecstatic about. You jumped at the chance to work as a personal assistant with the assumption that it would be the kind of job that you could pursue in the meantime until something else came along.

This position at Park Inc. fell into your lap like some kind of dumb luck. The role wasn’t posted on any job site. Rather, your name had been submitted on behalf of your academic advisor, which got you your first interview. You suppose that must be some kind of nepotism. After six separate interviews over the course of three months, the job was yours.

You’d saved up enough money, working the night shift at a local restaurant to afford a rundown apartment and a new office-appropriate wardrobe from the local second hand stores in your neighborhood. Pencil skirts, fashionable blouses, heels that promised to last a long time, and blazers that looked professional enough lined your closets for future use. It was an exciting prospect and starting your new life after graduating university felt like a different ball park than when you were still pursuing your degree. 

Despite all of that, you feel listless.

Your days begin before the sun rises and ends just after sunset. Anticipating Sunghoon’s needs is seamless for you, to the point where you’re able to think on his behalf without second guessing yourself. He agrees on most days and doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to business matters because you’ve been by his side for over half a decade. You’ve picked him up from many late night rendezvous with women who definitely wanted more than he was willing to give, and you’ve accompanied him to events where he couldn’t bother asking somebody to be his date. You’re his assistant, and therefore you’re always available. 

But you’re just the help. You don’t have any real stake in Park Inc., nor does anybody take you seriously unless Sunghoon agrees with your opinion. You know this company inside and out, and you know exactly how Sunghoon envisions this company to succeed. You act like you’re a managing partner without the title because you’re by his side nearly every hour of the day, and it’s gotten to a point where people me either whisper about a silent affair, or look at you with sympathy because Sunghoon can’t seem to function without you. 

It was fun, at first. Learning how to stand on your own two feet while leaving everything you knew behind felt exhilarating. Abandoning your hometown to explore the big city was a dream come true, and you envisioned all of the late night food runs you’d go on in an attempt to explore each neighborhood within Seoul. The beginning was tolerable at best—if you count crying in your small apartment after thinking you’d never get the hang of this job—and Sunghoon knew to delegate tasks to you based on experience level. He had you fetch coffee and take care of his dry cleaning in the first few months, on top of organizing multiple reports until you were ready for more. He was kind like that, and you’re sure his willingness to help you in your career was why you stayed for as long as you have. 

Six years ago, receiving the amount of responsibility you carry felt like you’d reached the top of the tallest mountain after dreaming of the day Sunghoon could trust you enough to let you do your job without much supervision. You could complete a task for him before he delegated it to you, because you understood his workflow and what needed to be prioritized. The both of you worked well like that, and after six years of getting to know each other, many would say you’re both joined at the hip professionally. 

It comes to a point where you learn that the Sunghoon you see is far different than the Sunghoon everybody else sees. He’s naturally funny and a bit clumsy. He’s professional and stoic when he needs to be, but behind closed doors, Sunghoon laughs your ear off about old men who think they can walk all over his business tactics and people who are too rich to see that they’re the problem. Sunghoon is the best boss you’ve ever had, bar none. 

He’s unlike any of the wealthy, stuck up assholes you deal with on a daily basis. Sunghoon hides his witty, flirty personality behind a professional face in the eyes of higher ups and investors who he does business with. He keeps his personal and work life separate, as far as he can, with the exception of occasionally letting women he meets accompany him to select events that almost always end up in having to kick them out of his penthouse apartment the morning after if they haven’t left already. His lifestyle is one you’ll never get used to. Even after six years working beside Sunghoon, you go back to your humble one bedroom apartment, the same one you moved into once you were able to afford living without any roommates. 

It seems as though life moves for Sunghoon. He doesn’t have to do or say much to get people to fall to their knees or grant his every wish. He’s good looking (that’s something you’ll never deny because he’s objectively handsome), he manages to say all the right things, and he’s really good at his job. Sunghoon comes from a powerful and wealthy family that’s existed in Seoul for as long as anyone can remember, and there aren’t many bad things people say about him behind his back. He’s risky but strategic, gambling on chances that would typically slip through the cracks if not for his watchful eye and modern approach to business. 

You’ve learned a lot from him, too. Sunghoon grew into the man he is today. He’s no longer the overly arrogant and cocky person he was when you first met him, and he’s gained a deeper understanding of the company he’s about to inherit once his father transitions his title unto him. There’s much to be said about powerful men who choose to view everybody he works with as an equal, and while you might legally be his personal assistant, Sunghoon has allowed you to partake in the business too. You’ve been his right hand man ever since he realized you knew the company as well as he did. Yet, you can’t help but feel utterly stuck in this endless cycle of work, work, and more work.

There must be something out there for you that doesn’t consist of answering emails and letting your inbox pile up until the stress eats you alive. Being able to travel alongside Sunghoon for business opportunities has granted you a pathway to see the world, but it’s not enough to accompany somebody else. You want to explore the world by yourself and create agendas for your taste and likeliness, not Sunghoon or potential business partners while you sit in the back and take notes during every conversation. You want to live your life without being chained to a desk and learn what it feels like to try something new. 

For the past six years, your life has been dedicated to Sunghoon and only Sunghoon. 

“Sir?” You say tentatively, knocking on his door while pushing the heavy wooden door open. 

“Come in.” 

You know well enough he’s got nothing on his schedule that would impose a distraction. You slip into the room and close the door behind you with your fingers gripping a beige Manila folder behind your back. Sunghoon wears a suit that’s tailored to his likeness and his hair is slicked back like he’s trying to resemble Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of an unscheduled interruption?” Sunghoon asks with humor in his tone. He knows you typically keep to your inbox unless something is imminently urgent.

He turns around from looking outside of his window and watches as you hesitantly walk towards his desk. The office space is huge, bigger than your entire living room, and the sudden realization that you’re about to make the biggest change of your life is weighing on your shoulders. Your feet feel heavy beneath you when Sunghoon glances between your face and the folder in your hands. 

“What’s this?”

You don’t hesitate to open it and put it on his desk facing up.

“My resignation letter.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Sunghoon stares at the letter you’ve typed out and notices the large, black signature at the bottom of the page. His eyes flicker back at you as if to detect any lie in your face before he scoffs with a short laugh.

“Right. April Fool’s Day has already passed. No need to keep me on my toes like you usually do, though I appreciate a good joke.” 

You shake your head. “I’m being serious, Sir. I’m quitting.” 

The seriousness of your voice seems to catch him. He takes a seat on his leather chair and pulls himself closer to the desk to fully examine the letter.

“Dear Mr. Park, I am writing to inform you that I will be resigning from my position as your personal assistant at Park Incorporated. My final day will be two months from the day I hand you this resignation letter. I am committed to ensuring a smooth transition, and will facilitate seeking a replacement while I complete projects and tasks on my docket.” 

He looks up at you.

“You’re breaking up with me.” 

“No, I’m quitting this job.”

“Which is the same as breaking up with me. You’re my business partner, for God’s sake. You come with me to every meeting and important event that requires my presence.”

“I’m your assistant. There are many people who would die to be able to do that for you.”

He looks at you like you’ve set his office on fire. “I will not let you quit.” 

You tilt your head. “That’s not how it works, you know. Soobin from HR will process my resignation, even if you beg him not to. I’m giving you a two months' notice because that is how much I value my time here.” Sunghoon clasps his hands as if trying to make sense of the matter.

“But why? Why now? You’re impeccable at your job. Is the pay not suitable enough for you? I can give you a generous bonus and pay raise, if that will convince you to stay. Do you want a bigger office or reduced working hours?” 

“I don’t need any of that. I’ve made up my mind, Sir.”

“Why?” 

With a sigh, you sit down in front of him. “I’ve spent nearly every day for the last six years catering to the needs of you and this company. I’ve loved my time here, and I credit my ability to navigate this industry to you and this job. You’ve given me incredible opportunities that I probably wouldn’t have gotten elsewhere, and it’s been fun learning the ins and outs of this business.

“But I don't have a personal life at all. My days are spent catering to your needs. I don’t have many friends aside from the people I see in this building. I don’t travel and I’ve had to miss important family milestones because of work obligations.”

“Is more time off what you need?” Sunghoon interrupts. “You’ve earned your fair share of requested time offs, even if it’s a personal day for no reason. You’re responsible enough for me to know you can handle your workload when you get back.” 

You shake your head. “It’s not just that. I…I don’t meet new people anymore. I don’t make new friends and I don’t date because this job eats up my life. I feel like I’ve been wrapped up in this company and doing whatever it takes to help it succeed while neglecting my own needs. I’ve had six incredible years, but it’s time for me to move on.”

“…Date?”

With a sigh, you respond. “Yes, Sir. Just because you can find women at the snap of your fingers doesn't mean that everybody else can too.” 

“You don’t date at all?”

You scratch the inside of your wrist at his question. “I can’t date. I don’t have the time to.”

“So you’re quitting because you want to date.”

“No. I’m quitting because I want to experience life without being on call for when you need my help.” 

Sunghoon purses his lips and you can’t read his expression. In the years you’ve worked with him, learning his every mood has been critical to maintaining cordial balance between the two of you, and with other people who Sunghoon isn’t particularly fond of. You’ve extinguished emotional fires just by glancing at him, but the way he looks at you is something you can’t seem to figure out. 

While you wouldn’t say you’re exceptionally close with Sunghoon, you’d argue your relationship to him is far closer than other assistants in the firm. He might be hard headed and stubborn, but he’s compassionate and understanding. He doesn’t expect you to stay in the office until he leaves unless explicitly stated (which consists of half the week, but you can’t complain when some of your colleagues are constantly working longer days than you). 

He compensates you well from time to time, buying you new wardrobe for events he’s requested you to be at. You have a drawer full of exquisite jewelry. You’ve had the privilege of accompanying him on international business trips. From the outside, your life looks like one glamour shot that’s been afforded to you through diligent work, which is partially true, but seldom do people see the dark circles underneath your eyes or how many meals you skip because you need to cater to Sunghoon’s needs. 

For as lucky as your career has been thus far, it’s all on company time, and nothing is ever because you want to. You get the perks, but it’s a transaction. There’s nothing you want more than the freedom to choose what time you wake up and what time you go to bed.

“I can’t say I’m too happy with this news,” Sunghoon says as he leans back on his chair. “You and I work together really well. I don’t think I’ve ever had an assistant as diligent and as smart as you.” 

“You had three assistants before I came into the picture.” 

“They were terrible. Why did you think you went through six interviews?” 

“I can train my predecessor to be as excellent as I can be. I can do it in two months because that’s the time it took me to get used to you and your habits.” 

Sunghoon remains silent for a moment. 

“They’ve got big shoes to fill.” 

Part of you thinks he’s accepted your resignation. He doesn’t immediately grab the Manila folder with the papers in it. Rather, he closes it and keeps it shut on his desk with his hands clasped like he’s afraid it’s going to materialize and escort you out of his office.  

“You’re still needed for events and other internal-facing meetings until your time comes to an end.” 

“Of course, Sir.”

The corner of his mouth tugs upwards. “There’s one tonight. I wasn’t going to have you come to this one initially, but given the circumstances, I think it’s fair that we squeeze in as many as possible before you’re off the hook, no?”

You can’t say you’re incredibly excited by the idea, but knowing Sunghoon, he’s either forgotten he needs someone to act as arm candy or one of his many flings bailed on him at the last minute. 

“I’ll have my car pick you up from your apartment at 8 P.M. Don’t worry about checking in early tomorrow, either. Come in at nine instead, and get some sleep tonight.” 

Nine is still early, especially if you’re going to accompany Sunghoon to an event this evening, but it’s better than getting four hours of shut eye before you’re needed the next day. 

***

A section of your wardrobe is dedicated to items Sunghoon has gifted you throughout the years you’ve been with him. They’re far more expensive and of higher quality than the garments you buy for yourself, and the jewelry is far too precious for you to mix in with your everyday wear. They sit in their own designated section, away from your business attire and weekend wear.

Back when you started this position, Sunghoon found it amusing that you refused the luxurious gifts he’d offer for large tasks such as acting as a liaison at black tie events or helping him with projects that required you to look more presentable than remaining in an office. He bought you enough dresses, shoes, and jewelry until you were able to rotate a few pieces so that you’d never have to wear the same thing twice in a row. To assuage your mind about the prices of each item, Sunghoon would tell you to wear it out on a date with a special someone or to important events that required you to dress up a bit.  

When you pull out a sleek baby blue powder dress that hugs your body in all the right places and jewelry to match, the memory makes you laugh. There hasn’t been any time for engaging in those types of things and your life does not reflect that of Sunghoon’s. They gather dust in your closet until you’re needed to make an appearance as his well-trained, capable assistant. His colleagues know to defer to you unless Sunghoon’s word needs to be confirmed, and that’s how the dynamic has been for the entirety of your working relationship with him. 

You don’t put much effort into your appearance tonight. After touching up your makeup and slipping on a pair of black sling backs that match a black Italian clutch purse he had gifted you on your first international trip, you wait for the car to arrive at your doorstep. 

Surprisingly, Sunghoon steps out from the backseat and holds the door open for you.

“…Sir?” 

“Right on time. You look stunning.” 

His compliment flies over your head as you try to make sense of what you’re seeing. You’re used to meeting Sunghoon at the fairgrounds and not holding the door open for you in his personal mode of transportation. The only time the two of you arrive together is when you depart from the office. Sunghoon is a busy man who makes work his priority. He doesn’t escort you from place to place. That’s your job.

“What are you doing here?” 

He beckons you inside of the car. The partition is raised to give the two of you some privacy. Sunghoon slides into the backseat and puts a respectable distance between the two of you when the driver begins to drive away.

“It dawned on me that I rely you on you for so many things, and yet, I can’t seem to take an hour of my day to ride with you to events I’ve asked you to be at.” 

“It’s my job.”

“No, your job is to make sure I don’t lose my head.”

“If letting you work while I drive alone makes your head stay on your shoulders, I think that’s a job well done.” 

He purses his lips. “Still, I don’t think ending my workday early to pick you up will kill me.” You raise your eyebrow at him.

“This isn’t changing my mind, Sir. I still plan to leave the company.”

Sunghoon shrugs. “Worth a try. But I meant what I said about accompanying you. We’re a team, even if your position is just my assistant.”

“Sir—”

“Sunghoon,” he interrupts. “Call me Sunghoon.”

“...Sunghoon.” He smiles.

“That’s more like it.” 

***

will there be a part 2? who knows

[em1i2a3]

Only Human

Pairing: Soft!Void!/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Mutant!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been staying with Bob every night since the incident with The Void in hopes to prevent anything like that from happening again. Much to your surprise though, he slips out of Bob to see you one night. (Sequel to ‘The Dark Side’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Fluff, Smut, and like Hurt/Comfort kind of?, Mentions of Injuries that occurred in the first part, Just as a Reminder Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, There is some references to supernatural things (we are dealing with The Void here, so it does need a bit of a warning I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️), Reader and Bob are not in a relationship (not at the moment), but they do have feelings for one another.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please lol), Sensual Touching, The Void is Touch Starved (what can I say?), Fingering, Squirting, Mutual Masturbation, Biting, Praise/Dirty Talk (kind of?), Little Bit of Supernatural Elements to the sex, Hopefully I didn’t miss anything.

Author’s Note: People really liked my portrayal of Soft-ish Void in ‘The Dark Side’ and truly I wanted to kind of expand on that and take the story just a bit further too. Writing Soft!Void was so fun and odd, but it was so nice to be able to do it. Hopefully y’all enjoy! Thank you for readin <3 (P.S. Yes I said Soft Void. Don’t worry, normal Void shenanigans will be back soon.)

Word Count: 9,702

“You really don’t ha–have to keep doing this…” Bob’s voice broke softly through the silence like a crack in still glass. It wasn’t really a protest, it was more like a quiet plea laced with guilt. He lingered just inside the doorway, his tall frame half-silhouetted by the dim hallway light that glowed behind him. His tone trembled, stretched thin by exhaustion, “I’m…I’m sure you want to get more sleep than ju-just an hour or two.”

You were already under the covers of his bed, leaning against the headboard with your legs drawn up beneath the thick comforter, shoulder relaxed but eyes wide open. Sleep hadn’t been coming easily lately for you–not with everything still so raw with worry and concern–but being here, in his room with him, had become a kind of comforting ritual for you. A place where you stood guard, and soothed.

The chaos that once wreaked havoc over his bedroom–the splintered furniture, shattered glass, dented drywall–was gone now. Cleaned. Patched. Rebuilt from the ground up basically. The entire team had taken on the task to make everything right again, to erase the brutal traces of The Void’s presence. Even the scuffed floors had been sanded and polished, though some of the deeper gouges remained, hidden beneath the new rug Ava insisted on buying.

You had spent nearly every spare hour of the past week in his room–sorting through broken remnants, salvaging what you could. Bob’s framed photos of the team had been the first thing you tackled: cracked glass removed, splinters of wood from the frames glued back together, and new little pieces of plastic placed against the photos to replace the glass. You sat cross-legged on his floor, each picture spread out before you like fragments, before putting everything back together. You had also tried to salvage some of his mugs, but only two had been saved–Bob was grateful that you even tried to do it anyway.

Then came the dresser. A new one that you ordered from IKEA, that was delivered in a box that was too heavy for you to haul into Bob’s room on your own. You got Alexei and Walker to help you with that, but you stayed behind after they left, kneeling on the carpet beside Bob, helping him screw everything into place and go through the instructions. He had insisted on doing everything himself, even though his knuckles that you had patched up had begun to bleed through the gauze.

When things settled, everything looked very close to normalcy–eerily so. There was familiar furniture positioned back into place, books reshelved in the same order, and picture frames perched in the same areas. But it felt different. Lived in again…Touched by healing hands.

And Bob noticed.

He thanked you feverishly every time you finished a picture frame or replaced something–even when you handed him a cup of tea. He thanked Walker for lifting the headboard, Ava for the rug, Yelena for restocking his little trinkets. He must’ve said those words a hundred times within the week. You could tell he didn’t think it was enough. That it gnawed at him–how much everyone gave, and how little he felt he could return.

Now, he stepped into the room slowly, closing the door behind him with that same soft care he had throughout the entire week, his shoulder rising and falling with a tired breath as he crossed the room toward his dresser. You watch him from your place under the covers, silent, observant.

His movements were slower than usual. Careful. Painfully so. You saw it in the way he unzipped his hoodie with trembling fingers, the bandages frayed slightly at the edges, stained faintly with ointment from earlier. Your eyes followed every shift of his hand–the one you’d held steady days ago as you pulled a splinter from beneath the nail, listening to him suck in a breath and tell you, “It’s okay, I don’t even feel it anymore,” even though he clearly did.

“Trust me, Bob,” You said softly, your voice breaking the stillness in the room, “I’m okay. I don’t need as much sleep as you think…And regardless of that…I’m the only person that can control him if he comes out again. I need to be here.” He paused, halfway through shrugging off the hoodie. His jaw clenched for a second, then he slipped the rest of the fabric off, folding it slowly and neatly, hands still trembling slightly, before placing it on the dresser. You saw it in his face–there was something haunting him again. A question. A thought he hadn’t dared speak aloud until now. He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“…You never told me how you go-got me to come back,” He mumbled, voice quiet, strained, like it was raw just thinking about it. He stared down at the hoodie for a beat longer, rubbing the soft fabric, before wordlessly reaching for the hem of his shirt, turning on his heel to face you. He peeled the shirt off, the gauze clinging slightly to the inside of it. The amber glow of the bedside lamp casted long, soft shadows over his body, bathing him in warm light that didn’t hide a single thing.

The bruises and bandage were in plain sight again.

You had noticed them when you were patching up his hands after you calmed him down that day, but under this light they looked worse. Deeper. Like violet clouds blooming beneath the surface of his skin. The bruising stretched across his ribs, wrapping over his sides and spilling faintly along the edges of his abdomen, as though he’d been caught in a collapse and had barely crawled out from under it. There were a few patches of gauze as well, from where splinters of furniture had scraped and cut him.

He had told you, through clenched teeth, that The Void had made him hurt himself. That in the haze of it all–in the fog of darkness and sadness–he had taken the pain out on himself instead of the furniture around his room. He punched himself, or at least Bob said he did.

It hurt to hear, and it was even more painful to see, yet you still patched him up with such gentleness that Bob felt like he was going to pass out.

Seeing them again made your throat tighten.

He didn’t seem to notice your expression. He was too focused on the motion–folding his shirt with such neatness before throwing it into the hamper. Like it was the only thing he could really control.

”If I told you…” You began softly, your voice low, hesitant, “You wouldn't believe me, Bob.” He paused. Looked over at you, brows drawn in quiet confusion. His concern was already building, you could feel it.

“Tr-Try me,” He said after a beat. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze dropping to your hands where they rested on top of the blanket. Your thumbs brushed against the constellation of beauty marks scattered along your skin—small, quiet things you’d never thought much of before. But now…

Now, they burned.

Not in pain, but in memory.

You thought of what The Void had said. What he knew.

How Bob looked at them when he thought you weren’t watching. How he had memorized them–every last one. How they marked where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you. That stupid piece of folklore you’d only ever half believed–until you saw what your kisses did to him.

The way the freckles had bled through the Void’s form like stars. Tiny galaxies lighting up the dark. One at a time. The shoulder. The spine. The base of his neck. His jaw. The more you kissed him, the more the darkness split open and Bob began to return–like you’d traced a map across his skin and led him home.

How were you supposed to say that out loud?

How were you supposed to tell him the most impossible thing you’d ever done felt like instinct? That somehow, without understanding how or why, your body knew the way back to him even when his mind didn’t?

So instead…You looked back up at him.

His eyes were on you, soft and waiting, concern already building in the faint knit of his brows.

“It’s really…” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, “…confusing, Bob.” That crease in his forehead deepened just slightly as he took a cautious step forward.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head, once, immediately.

“No,” You said gently. “He didn’t. He can’t. He’s weak when he’s around me.”

You watched him exhale, the motion shaking slightly through his chest. His shoulders dropped, but his eyes stayed shadowed with something heavier–dread, maybe. Guilt. You reached over and flipped the blanket open without a word, and with your free hand, flicked off the bedside lamp.

Darkness swept across the room like a curtain. Not suffocating. Not cold. Just soft. Gentle shadows broken only by the pale blue glow from the window, where moonlight cut through the glass in long, quiet angles and kissed the walls.

Bob stood there for a moment–hesitating. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, his gaze cast low like he didn’t quite feel worthy of crawling into the space beside you. You saw it in the way he lingered. The way his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The fear wasn’t just about him. It was about you–what might happen if he let himself close enough to need this. To need you.

“I’m just…” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, “I’m wo–worried one day he’s going to come out…And he’s go-going to hurt you.” You saw it in his face then–clearer than ever. The helplessness. The guilt. The ache of someone who had come back from a nightmare and didn’t know how to live in the aftermath.

So you didn’t argue. You didn’t offer platitudes.

You just opened your arms.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And that was enough.

He sighed, almost like it hurt to exhale, and crawled into the bed beside you. His movements were slow, careful, like he was trying not to make a ripple in the space around you. Like he thought too much weight in the wrong place might send you drifting away.

You slipped down further against the pillows, welcoming him in without hesitation, your arms curling around his body as he eased closer–until his head found its usual place.

Right over your heart.

He settled there gently, cheek pressing to your clothed chest like he’d done every night for the past few days. His arm came up slowly, resting across your stomach, the other curling underneath you, tentative fingers lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And you held him.

Without fear. Without judgment.

Your palm found the back of his head and slid into his soft light brown hair, your fingers already stroking the strands in a rhythm you’d learned by heart–slow, grounding, gentle.

He exhaled. You felt the breath fan across the fabric on your ribs, warming them slightly.

“He would never hurt me, Bob…” You murmured, your voice warm in the dark, your breath stirring his hair. “Because you would never hurt me.”

A silence fell then–full of trust.

He didn’t say anything, but his body responded. You felt the way he leaned in closer, his grip tightening around your waist, his weight shifting until he was almost curled into your side completely. Like he wanted to disappear into you. Like you were the only solid thing he trusted to anchor him back to himself.

“You don’t have to worry about me…” You added softly, pressing your lips gently to the crown of his head. He let out a small, shuddering sigh at the kiss. It was quiet–barely more than breath–but it echoed in the hush between you. His fingers twitched slightly where they clung to the fabric of your shirt, and then he nodded once, slow and reluctant.

“…Okay,” He whispered, the word brittle and small. Like he wanted to believe it. Like he didn’t, but was choosing to anyway.

Then came the silence.

Thick and warm and filled only by the slow cadence of your breath and his. The soft weight of his body curled around yours. The bed creaked faintly as you both shifted, but nothing broke the stillness of the room. Just the hush of safety. The quiet rhythm of presence.

You knew the exact moment he drifted off.

The soft whistle of air from his nose told you. That tiny snore that only came when he was crushed into you like this–cheek against your chest, limbs tangled beneath the comforter. You smiled faintly and kept your hand moving through his hair, threading your fingers through in a slow rhythm. A grounding gesture, more for him than for you…But now, maybe it was both.

You lost track of time like that.

Until something changed.

At first, it was subtle. A coolness in the air under the blanket–not cold exactly, but different. A shift in pressure, like something holding its breath.

Your fingers stilled.

And then you felt it. The texture. The change in the strands beneath your touch. They slipped too easily between your fingers now–too smooth, too silent. They didn’t catch the way hair should. Instead, they moved like silk underwater. Alive. Shifting.

You looked down.

The crown of his head had gone black. Not just shadowed. Not just dimmed. Black. Lightless, hollow, impossible. The kind of darkness that felt sentient. The kind that could swallow stars.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t pull away. Just stared as the darkness spread, slow and sinuous–crawling down the back of his neck, across his shoulders, seeping into his skin like ink in water. The soft light from the window did nothing to touch it. It just disappeared into him.

And then, he moved.

Arms curling tighter around your waist, the way someone clings to the edge of a dream they’re afraid to wake from.

“No…” The voice came low and quiet. “…No, please. Do not stop suddenly because of me.” The Void’s tone was different from the last time you interacted with him. No malice. No venom. No harsh edge of control. It wasn’t a hiss–it was something closer to a plea. Gentle. Almost unsure. You froze. Heart pounding.

He didn’t move beyond that. Just stayed pressed against you, dark and heavy and cool, his face buried in your chest like nothing had changed at all.

“You…” He began, breath catching faintly, “You have absolutely ruined me.” Your hand hovered inches above where you’d been stroking his hair just moments ago, watching as tendrils of vantablack shadows exuded from his skin and crawled up your arms. Usually they recoiled when you were around, but not this time. It felt like a breeze. Cool and featherlight. Not invasive. Not consuming. Just…Explorative. Your breath hitched as they danced across your skin.

“…I didn’t do anything to you, Void.” You whispered, Your voice trembled, not from fear–but from the weight of the moment. From the ache in your chest that this darkness–the same darkness that once tried to devour the man you loved–was now wrapped around you like something desperate to stay.

He didn’t reply.

So you looked down.

And you saw all of him.

His entire form was draped in lightless shadow, vantablack and consuming, the folds of it shifting like living ink where he breathed against you. But within that sea of black, the constellations built from your kisses remained. Brighter now.

Over his shoulder, at his neck, on the dip of his spine. Every place where you had laid your lips to bring Bob back to you was shimmering. You had branded him, and it was evident by the way he was speaking.

”Where’s Bob?” You asked cautiously. The tendrils continued to slip up your skin, going beneath the sleeve of your t-shirt.

”He’s asleep…” The Void replied, the words soft, almost careful, “I promise…I’m not hurting him.” The tendrils continued to move beneath your shirt, curling gently along your ribs like they were memorizing you–your shape, your warmth. Not with hunger. Not with domination. But with need, and you allowed it…Because they hadn’t done anything to hurt you yet.

“Then…” You started, feeling your heart begin to pick up in pace, “Why are you here?” A silence stretched so long you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, with the faintest voice:

“…Because I needed to feel you again.”

Your breath caught.

You knew he felt it–your pulse thudding wildly beneath his ear. His head shifted slightly, like he was adjusting to the new rhythm. Listening to it. Drinking it in. You felt his face press even closer to your chest, like he was trying to lose himself in it. The tendrils climbed higher now, curling up your spine, slipping out from beneath the collar of your shirt like silk, wrapping around your shoulders, your throat–soft and slow, like they were bracing him for the words he hadn’t let himself say before.

“You…” He began, voice cracking slightly, “…Have taken me and ripped me apart–and you have no idea that you’ve done it. You closed your eyes tightly, chest tightening beneath the weight of that confession.

“Void, I–“ But he didn’t let you speak.

“I have never had my skin kissed…”

His voice was low and hoarse, but not from anger. It cracked with something deeper. Wreckage and worship all tangled together.

“I have never been treated with such gentleness in my entire existence,” He continued, lifting his head from your chest.

The weight of him shifted slightly, and you felt the cold brush of ink-light against your throat as he rose just enough to look up at you. His face was still veiled in darkness–no edges, no shape, just a silhouette of pure, living shadow–but those eyes…Those pale white pupils glowed like moons in an eclipse. Twin lights in the endless black.

His gaze bore into yours, not with fire, but with something aching. Broken. Like looking directly into grief that had finally grown too tired to be cruel.

“You marked me,” he breathed, and though his voice was still low, there was something fraying at the edges–tightness, tension, a tremble you didn’t often hear from him. “You’ve claimed what’s rightfully yours.”

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly as his eyes bore into you—those eerie, hollow white pupils that somehow shimmered with heat despite their cold hue.

“You have burned yourself into me,” he continued, and his voice cracked on the word burned, the sound splintering like the edges of a dam giving way. “Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, he moved.

His hand–shaped from shadow but solid, braced itself on the mattress beside your ribs, and he slowly climbed higher, crawling up your body with a grace that was too fluid, too precise to be human. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he shifted, his form inching up until you were face to face–your back sinking deeper into the pillows while he loomed above, haloed in ink and moonlight.

The breath in your lungs hitched sharply.

He was so close now that you could feel the coolness radiating from him, his form drawing heat from the air around you. His breath–if it even was breath–fanned over your mouth in chilled waves. And yet somehow, it didn’t make you recoil. It made your skin spark. Tighten. Ache.

“I…” You whispered, but it came out barely audible.

His hand came up to your cheek then–tenderly. Not the shadow-tendrils this time. A hand. Cold. Unnatural. But steady. His thumb grazed the apple of your cheek, stroking slowly.

“…I woke something in you,” You continued, your own voice so fragile it nearly fell apart between syllables.

His touch faltered for half a second, but then he pressed his palm more firmly to your skin, as if grounding himself in it. Like he needed to feel you to keep himself from dissolving.

“I am cursed with the memory of your warmth, Y/N…” He admitted.

The way he said your name–it sounded like reverence and devastation folded into one.

“It has been plaguing me since you did this…”

His free hand reached across his body, brushing at the shimmering mark glowing faintly on his shoulder–right where you had kissed him first.

“Because I…” His voice dropped even lower, raspier, more ragged, “…I belong to you. And all I can have are these moments to admit it. These stolen minutes in the dark. And I can’t–I can’t take it anymore.”

You felt the mattress tremble faintly beneath his weight as another tendril slowly crept beneath the hem of your shirt. It slid along your skin with that same impossible gentleness, settling cold against the softness of your stomach. You inhaled sharply, your ribs stuttering under the touch. He noticed

“Void…” You murmured, a tremor slipping through your tone. “You can’t just come here and admit this stuff to me.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, slower now, and you saw his jaw tighten.

“…Why?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. But your eyes searched his, desperate for something to anchor to in the swirling dark. And then, quietly, you said the only name that ever broke him:

“Bob.”

He froze.

Swallowed hard. You watched the muscles in his neck twitch.

And then he spoke, each word like glass.

“Do you think Bob isn’t the main cause of all of this?” His voice trembled–not with anger, but something closer to despair. “Do you think my feelings are just… conjured up out of thin air?”

You didn’t breathe.

“We are connected,” He went on, more broken now, desperate. “His thoughts plague my mind just like my voice plagues his. His dreams. His love. I feel it. Every second. Every heartbeat he wastes on you, I feel it like a wound that never closes.”

The tendrils at your throat–already wrapped softly there–curled tighter. Still gentle. Still featherlight. Like hands cradling something delicate. Like the hands of someone scared to lose you.

“I can’t ignore the truth anymore,” He whispered. “Not when he dreams of you the way he does. Not when I dream of you now too. Do you understand me?”

You nodded, even though your breath still shook.

Even though your heart still pounded in your ears and your body felt caught between dread and something far more dangerous–want.

His hand cupped your jaw, the coolness seeping into your skin like mist through cloth, and he lowered his face even closer–so close your noses nearly brushed.

“Say it,” He whispered.

You swallowed.

“What?”

“Say you know,” He breathed, voice shaking now. “Say you know what you’ve done to me.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then quietly–so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a prayer–you whispered:

“…I know.” He didn’t move at first.

It was like the words had knocked the air from his lungs, like they’d rendered something inside him too stunned to function. You watched his mouth part slightly–lips trembling, breath shallow–and his pupils, those glowing pale moons, flicked down to your mouth.

And then…He leaned in.

So slowly. So hesitantly. As if he were expecting the moment to vanish before it touched him. His lips hovered a whisper above yours–cold, barely-there, and waiting for permission he didn’t know how to ask for.

So you gave it.

You tilted your chin, parted your lips just a breath–and then flicked your tongue out and lightly licked the soft curve of his bottom lip.

A sharp, guttural sound escaped him.

It wasn’t a moan. It wasn’t a gasp. It was something more primitive–like something inside him cracked wide open. Like the memory of your warmth came rushing back all at once and hit him like a storm. His whole form shivered beneath your touch, like even that much gentleness was too much to bear.

And then you kissed him.

Soft. Delicate. A press of lips that felt less like hunger and more like offering. A sacred thing. Like you were silently giving yourself to him–trusting him.

The tendril against your stomach quivered, then spread upward, curling slowly up your sternum. The coldness traced the line between your ribs with aching slowness, pulling goosebumps to your skin like the aftershock of a spell. Another tendril wrapped firmer around your back, pulling you upward, into him, and your hands moved before you could think.

You cupped his face.

Both palms against his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheekbones as though trying to soothe the trembling that had begun shaking through his body. And he melted into it–like his form wasn’t solid anymore. Like the sheer weight of being held like this was more than he could survive.

He kissed you back–slowly at first, uncertain.

And then again. And again.

The whimper that escaped him was so raw it sounded like it hurt. Not from pain, but from feeling. From the overwhelming pressure of being kissed like this–like someone wanted him, all of him, even the parts he thought were unsalvageable.

You felt him shift.

The mattress dipped again as he leaned in heavier, his body pressing down into yours, his chest brushing yours. His weight was cold and foreign, but grounding. Not crushing. Not claiming. Just seeking. Wanting to be closer than was allowed.

Your legs parted instinctively beneath the blanket, and you wrapped them around his waist–lightly at first, tentative, as though testing if this was still okay. But when your calves settled around him, he let out another sound–a shaky, broken breath against your mouth that might have been the closest he could come to a thank you.

He deepened the kiss.

Not rough. Not fast. Just more. His mouth moved with such aching slowness against yours, lips cold but desperate to memorize you. He whimpered softly into your mouth, again and again, like the sound was being pulled out of him against his will.

Your hands kept moving. One stayed on his cheek, thumb stroking in soothing circles, but the other slipped down–over his neck, his shoulder, down along his ribs.

You felt him tremble.

Not from fear. But from need. That wild, hollow ache of something that had been starved of affection for so long, it didn’t know what to do with it now that it had finally been touched.

The shadows around you shifted, curling tighter around your form, but they didn’t hurt. They held. They cradled. They tethered. As though The Void himself couldn’t bear the thought of losing contact. Of being separated by even a breath of air.

And still, his mouth stayed on yours.

Whimpering. Trembling. Kissing you like your lips were the only thing keeping him tethered to the body he’d borrowed.

He pulled back slowly–too slowly, like leaving your mouth was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

When you opened your eyes, his were still closed.

His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged and shallow as if even the act of kissing had drained him. He was trembling–barely–but enough that you felt it through every place your bodies touched. You opened your mouth to speak, but then you saw it.

His lips.

Flecked with tiny white pinpricks of light. The same ones your other kisses had left in its wake. You reached up with slow fingers, reverent fingers, and gently traced the outline of his lips. His breath hitched violently, and his head dipped toward your palm like he couldn’t help it–like he was starved for it. Your thumb grazed the soft swell of his bottom lip.

He whimpered.

The sound was raw. Desperate. Almost painful.

You stilled immediately. “Void…?”

His eyes blinked open slowly–dim moons, fogged and trembling. His voice cracked as he whispered, “It…It hurts.”

Your heart clenched. “Hurts?”

He nodded faintly, almost ashamed. “I don’t…I don’t know how to process this. Being touched like that. Being kissed like that. It’s too much–” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, then exhaled shakily, as if trying to hold himself together.

“I can stop,” You offered softly, your hand still cupping his cheek, your thumb now brushing beneath his eye instead. “Just tell me and I’ll–”

“No.” His hand caught yours–shadowed, trembling, cold. “Don’t.” Another breath. “Please. Don’t stop. I just…I need to feel it all.”

You nodded once, slowly.

Then, he shifted.

He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your leg still wrapped loosely around his waist. You followed easily, pressing your chest to his again, the blanket cocooning you both in warmth while his shadows curled tightly around you like a second skin. Your face was just inches from his, your breath mingling with his cool exhale.

Your hand slid down his jaw again, trailing lower this time–down his throat, over the defined line of his collarbone. Your palm remained splayed across his chest, cool beneath your fingers, rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths. His shadows still curled around you—gentle, clinging, trembling with a hunger that didn’t come from destruction, but from longing. From need. From the aching vulnerability of a god on his knees, cradled in human hands.

You tilted your head just slightly, forehead still grazing his, voice low and warm as you whispered:

“Tell me how it feels…”

Your thumb traced a soft arc over the center of his chest. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

A breath hitched. A sound caught in his throat—like he was about to speak, but it took him a second to find the strength.

“…Please…” His voice cracked—barely above a whisper, “Please just…keep touching me.”

That was all he could say. All he could manage.

So you did.

You moved slowly like you were tracing stardust across him, like every motion was meant to tell him I see you. Your hand slipped from his chest and down along his side, curling around his waist to hold him closer. The other stayed between you, lifting just slightly to stroke your fingertips along the line of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then into his hair again–inky and cool and shifting beneath your hand like it responded to your touch.

He sighed, trembling, and his own hand came forward to find your thigh beneath the blanket. Slowly. Carefully. He rested his palm there, large and cool against the bare skin just above your knee, like he was memorizing the shape of you. He inhaled sharply at the contact, the breath catching at the top of his chest before shaking loose in a low exhale through barely-parted lips.

His thumb stroked once. Then again. Small, grounding circles against the inside of your thigh, before his fingers curled slightly and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You swallowed.

Then you leaned forward, lips brushing the curve of his collarbone.

A kiss.

Then another.

Slower.

Lower.

You felt the exact moment he gasped–the motion rattling through his chest and into your mouth as you pressed another kiss just beneath the hollow of his throat. Light bloomed beneath your lips–those same soft pinpricks of white, growing like starlight across his dark skin.

“Oh god…” He breathed, his head tipping back slightly, exposing more of his neck to you. Inviting more of you.

It was a prayer and a confession and a surrender all at once.

You kissed higher, toward the edge of his shoulder, lips dragging softly along the cool skin, your nose brushing his throat as you whispered gently:

“You can have this…” Another kiss. “As long as you want.”

A low, broken sound escaped him���something between a moan and a whimper. His hand on your thigh tightened again, not roughly–just anchoring. Needing. Worshipping.

You moved back just enough to look at him again.

His glowing white eyes were glassy now, lids heavy, lips parted slightly. He looked completely undone. Not from lust. But from being seen. From being held.

Your hand came up to his face again, fingers tracing the hollow of his cheek.

“You’re not too much,” You murmured, answering the question he hadn’t dared ask aloud. “You’re not too cold. You’re not too broken. You’re not a mistake.”

His breath stuttered again. He blinked. You saw something fracture across his expression–something soft. Something grateful. Like you’d just rewritten a truth he thought he had to live with forever.

“Touch me again,” He whispered, voice breaking. “Please…”

You shifted closer until your chest pressed to his again, and your mouth returned to his neck. Kissing. Marking. Soft worship. Your hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers splaying wide, grounding him again. He whimpered, and you felt the sound vibrate against your lips.

The shadows around you pulled tighter–still not hurting, still not threatening. Just holding. Like they were trying to remember this moment. To keep it somehow. Etch it into the fabric of reality before it could slip away.

His hand remained anchored on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles into the warmth of your skin like he was committing it to memory. You felt him shift slightly–closer, heavier. His mouth brushed against your cheek.

And then came the question.

“Can I touch you?”

It was soft. Wrecked. Almost reverent.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face–those pale, glowing eyes dim and unsure, shadowed by something fragile.

“Where?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Instead, his hand slid higher.

Cool fingers brushing up along your thigh, along the hem of your sleep shorts, until his knuckles just barely grazed the waistband. He paused there, eyes searching yours—studying. Not demanding. Just waiting.

And you saw it again–the way his breath caught. The tremble in his touch. The restraint of a creature that could ruin you in a heartbeat…but didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

You nodded.

And he moved.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband.

You gasped sharply.

The cold was immediate–like shadow-dipped silk gliding against your heat. Not harsh. Not jarring. Just the opposite. The contrast made your body tense, then melt. He felt it—how wet you already were for him–and his breath stuttered, just once.

“Oh…” You gasped.

His other hand rose slowly, almost uncertainly, and came to cradle the side of your neck–his palm cool and steady as his thumb stroked under your jaw, grounding you again. The feel of his fingers below was almost unbearable now.

“You’re so warm, Y/N…” He whispered, and it wasn’t just awe in his voice–it was longing. Worship. “So…So warm…”

His fingers moved gently between your folds, slowly, like he was learning you by touch alone. His middle finger dipped lower, parting your slick with a trembling kind of care, until he found the delicate ache at your entrance.

Your breath hitched.

He stroked along it once–soft and teasing–and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you. Your hips twitched forward, chasing the sensation, and he groaned low in his throat like the sound of your pleasure was more than he could bear.

“I want…” You breathed, voice trembling. “Guide me to you. I want to touch you too.”

There was no hesitation.

One of the tendrils–slow and patient–slid down your arm like ribbon, curling around your wrist. It coaxed your hand forward, easing beneath the blanket, through shadow and warmth and the press of his form, sliding beneath his waistband until–

You felt him.

Hard.

Straining.

Solid heat beneath impossibly cool skin.

You couldn’t see it. But you knew. The thickness. The weight. The need that pulsed there.

Your fingers curled instinctively around him, and he jolted–his whole body twitching with the contact, breath torn from his lungs in a raw, shuddering gasp.

“Oh god…” He whispered, barely coherent.

You palmed him gently, dragging your hand along the length of him, feeling a wet spot already forming at the tip. His hips flexed forward into your touch. The tendrils around your wrist tightened–just slightly–like they couldn’t bear to let go.

And still, his fingers moved.

He slipped one inside you–slow, so slow–and you cried out, arching into him.

“Void…” You moaned, your voice breaking. “Your fingers feel so good…”

His mouth dropped open at the sound, and he groaned into your neck–low and trembling and desperate. His finger curled inside you, and then another joined–his thumb pressing up, slow and steady against your clit in small, precise circles.

His fingers thrust into you with more confidence now, the earlier hesitation melting away as he felt your heat clench greedily around him. He groaned raggedly against your skin, the sound low and fractured as he buried his face in your neck. Your wrist flexed in rhythm, stroking the length of him with slow, coaxing pulls, and his hips twitched forward again, seeking more.

“Fuck–” He breathed softly into your throat, reverence and disbelief tangled in the single word.

The slick sounds between your thighs were unmistakable now–vivid, shameless, echoing beneath the blanket like they were announcing just how wet you were for him. Every time his fingers curled just right, your hips rolled down into them, grinding against his palm, chasing that pressure. You could feel yourself dripping–your sleep shorts were clinging now, damp and sticky, soaked through as he thrust deeper.

Then he did it–he nipped at your neck. Gentle, testing, like he wasn’t sure how much you could take. His lips grazed your pulse point, breath cooling the heated skin, and then–he latched on.

You gasped sharply, your whole body arching into him.

“V–Void–” You moaned, a tremble shaking through your voice as your hand jerked on his cock, stroking him with firmer, wetter pulls. “That…Fuck, that felt–”

You didn’t even finish.

He groaned at your reaction, grinding his palm up against your clit harder now, his fingers pumping faster, deeper, slicker. The cold contrast of him inside you made the heat coil impossibly tight in your core, and your thighs began to tremble.

You moved your hand faster, too. Dragging your fist up the thick, throbbing length of him, curling your fingers tighter at the base, and then slipping upward, smearing the precum across the tip with your thumb. You could feel him twitching in your palm, feel how much it wrecked him to be touched like this–reverently, intimately, possessively.

“Please–” He rasped, breath hot against your neck. “I can’t–if you keep touching me like that–”

You clenched around his fingers hard, your hips grinding down with desperate rhythm.

“I know…I know…But please don’t stop,” You whispered.

And he didn’t.

He fucked his fingers into you harder–faster–his wrist snapping with a precision that felt unfair. You sobbed his name into his shoulder, your hand jerking reflexively on his cock as your thighs spread wider, desperate to keep feeling him.

Then–his thumb pressed up again, harder, tighter, and you shattered.

It wasn’t a soft climax.

It hit like thunder.

You gasped–a sharp, breathless sound–and your thighs clamped down around his wrist as your hand spasmed and gripped his cock tightly. Your whole body bucked as your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wet, your walls clenching wildly around his fingers as a gush of slick spilled into your shorts and soaked his hand.

“Oh, fuck–” He groaned, nearly collapsing into you, his voice broken with awe. “You–god, you just–”

Your hand slipped off him, limp with aftershock, and he kept his fingers inside you as you shook.

You were still gasping when he pulled back–just slightly–and looked down at you.

The mark on your neck pulsed dark in the moonlight.

He stared at it.

Then he leaned down again and bit you.

Not gently this time.

He sunk his teeth–sharp, deliberate–right over the place he’d already kissed, right over your pulsing artery. You gasped again, your fingers tightening in his hair as your hips jerked.

When he pulled back, you were panting–and the look on his face…

Pure, holy vengeance.

The bruise he left bloomed immediately. Deep, dark, and possessive. A perfect mirror to the stars you had carved into his skin with your kisses.

He gazed down at it with a look of worship and darkness all at once.

“That,” He murmured, his voice low and ruined, “Is going to be very hard to explain tomorrow.”

And the smirk that curved his mouth was slow, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.

You leaned in first. Pressed a soft, breathless kiss to his parted lips, catching the last remnants of that smirk and stealing it right from his mouth. Your lips brushed, warm against his cold, a slow drag of reverence and claim. Then you whispered against him:

“It’s alright. I’ll figure it out.”

He barely had time to respond before you kissed him again–deeper this time, with heat that made his hands twitch on your thigh. His shadows curled tighter around your hips, bracing for something neither of you could take back.

When you finally pulled away, breath caught in the space between you, your voice dropped to a sultry whisper:

“Lay on your back.”

His pale eyes squinted, caught between suspicion and arousal. “Why?” He rasped.

You leaned close to his ear, let your lips ghost over the shell of it, and whispered:

“’Cause I want you inside me.”

You felt him shudder.

Hard.

The kind of involuntary, whole-body tremor that pulled a sound from his throat–quiet, ragged, and guttural.

Without another word, he obeyed.

The mattress shifted beneath you as he slowly laid back, shadows slithering and curling beneath his spine like smoke. His eyes never left you–not once. Even as your thigh slipped from around his waist, even as you reached down, dragging your soaked sleep shorts down your trembling legs.

You peeled them off inch by inch, slow and deliberate, the cool air grazing your slick thighs as you bared yourself to him. Then your shirt followed. Pulled over your head, discarded to the side.

You were completely bare now–bathed in moonlight, glowing like the stars that had once kissed his skin.

The Void’s body shifted beneath you, shadows writhing like living breath across the sheets. You heard fabric rustle faintly, and then felt it–the brush of his length against your thigh, already slick with precum, already straining.

You climbed over him slowly.

His gaze followed every motion, those glowing white pupils wide and ravenous. His chest barely moved with breath, but his body was tense beneath you–cold and waiting.

The second your knees straddled his waist, his eyes dropped to your chest.

And he sighed.

The sound was deep. Hollowed out. Full of awe.

“Dear god…” He whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

His hands rose almost reverently and cupped your breasts. He gave one a gentle squeeze, like he was testing its realness, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, cool and soft, sending a rush of heat straight through your core.

Around you, the tendrils stirred again.

They slipped along your sides, brushing over your ribs, your stomach, your thighs. Cascading up your back and down your arms in slow, possessive strokes. Not gripping. Just…Holding. Just reminding you that he was everywhere.

You shifted above him, and he let out a low, ragged sigh at the feel of your soaked core dragging over the length of his erection. The contrast of temperature was almost unbearable–your heat against his endless cold.

His hands dropped to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

You rose up slightly, just enough to reach between you, guiding his cock with careful fingers. You lined him up with your entrance, already so wet and aching it made you whimper.

Then you began to sink down.

The stretch made your mouth fall open immediately–a burning, slow ache as your walls parted for him inch by inch. He was cold inside you. Not harsh. Not unnatural. Just…different. Like your warmth was the only thing tethering him to this plane.

He whimpered the moment your heat began to envelope him.

And god, it was a sound you’d never forget–wrecked and vulnerable, a gasp that trembled with disbelief.

You sank down slower, hands braced on his chest, shadows curling tighter around your back. The pressure built. The stretch deepened. The burn crawled higher. Your jaw went slack, eyes fluttering shut.

“F-fuck,” You choked softly, your voice breaking. “You’re…bigger than I thought.”

The Void whimpered again, trying not to move, hands gripping your hips like restraint was the only thing keeping him intact.

“You’re so warm,” He whispered hoarsely. “So tight. I–god, you feel like fire.”

You moaned at the way he filled you–deep and cold and aching. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him as you finally settled, fully seated on him, the stretch bringing on a delicious pulse between pleasure and burn.

He was still.

Too still.

Like if he moved too fast, this would all disappear.

So you leaned forward again, your palms sliding up his chest, your lips brushing his temple. He let out a low, airy sigh as you leaned forward again, your lips pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to the ridge of his cheekbone. Another to the tip of his nose. You felt him shiver beneath you, his pale eyes fluttering shut like he couldn’t bear the sensation of it–like he didn’t know how to accept being touched so gently, so freely. But still, he held perfectly still. Breathing shallow, jaw slack, letting you do it.

And each kiss left behind a soft gleam of white light.

Tiny constellations bloomed where your mouth had landed–stars flaring into life against the shadowed surface of his face. They shimmered softly in the moonlight, and when you pulled back to admire him, the image took your breath away.

He looked…Ruined. Worshipped. Unmade by your love.

“I’m not going to be able to strike fear into anyone,” He murmured, voice hoarse and trembling, “If you keep kissing my face and marking me like this.”

You laughed–a soft, breathy thing that shook lightly through your chest. “Say it’s a birthmark.” His hands clenched at your hips in that moment–fingers digging in with involuntary need–and his hips shifted, just slightly, a subtle thrust upward from beneath you.

It was enough.

Your laugh caught in your throat and turned into a sharp gasp as he nudged deeper inside, your body seizing around him in a sudden ripple of tightness.

“Shit,” You breathed, eyes flying open, “you can’t do that.”

His eyes widened slightly–moons gone soft with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped, voice thin and stunned, hands relaxing on your hips like he thought he might’ve hurt you.

You shook your head immediately, one hand bracing against his chest, the other sliding up his jaw.

“No, no–it’s alright,” You murmured gently. “Just caught me off guard.”

Then you leaned in slowly, mouth brushing along the edge of his jaw, your breath warming the cool skin as you whispered, “But…Does this mean I can start moving now?”

His response was instant.

A nod. Wild and desperate. Then another–faster, almost frantic. His eyes locked on yours, pupils wide and glowing as he whispered, “Yes. Please. I need you to.”

You smiled softly.

And then you moved.

The first roll of your hips was slow. Measured. A gentle pull upward, and then a careful drop back down. The stretch flared again, sweet and biting, your breath catching as you sank onto him fully, the thick weight of his cock dragging deliciously along your walls.

Beneath you, he groaned–low and guttural and barely restrained.

His hands clenched again at your waist, not guiding you, just holding. Just grounding himself. Like the pleasure was too much and he needed your body beneath his palms to remember he was still here.

You rocked again.

A slow, rhythmic grind of your hips that pressed him impossibly deep, the angle shifting just enough that the drag of his cock against your walls made you moan. The pressure mounted with every roll–an intoxicating, needy heat spreading through your core as he filled you, stretched you, worshiped you without even moving.

And he just lay there–utterly undone–letting you take him apart.

“Fuck,” You breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “You feel…So good, Void.”

He whimpered.

That same raw, involuntary sound he made every time your body clenched around him. His breath trembled. His hands flexed.

And then the tendrils began to move.

They curled along your back first–sliding up your spine, cool and slow, trailing over your skin like ribbons of silk. Then two more snaked down your thighs, wrapping around them just beneath your hips. Not restraining. Just holding. Guiding. Supporting you where his hands couldn’t reach.

They moved with you.

Rising as you lifted yourself. Lowering as you dropped down again.

Like they were learning your rhythm.

Your pace quickened slightly, each drop down onto his cock making your thighs tremble, each upward lift a delicious drag of heat and friction. Your hands pressed harder against his chest now, fingers splayed, nails curling slightly into the shadows that made up his skin.

And he was gone.

Eyes wide open now, lips parted in breathless awe, head tipped back into the pillow as he took everything you gave him. Every roll of your hips, every breathless moan. His eyes flicked down to your chest, to the way it bounced with every motion, and he groaned aloud–his hips twitching up into you for the first time in response.

You gasped.

“Void–” You choked.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped again, but there was no restraint this time. His voice was wrecked with need. “I need to–I need to feel you more–”

You leaned down and took his face in your hands again, kissing him hard, your mouth sliding against his with heat and hunger as your hips began to move faster. The sound of your slick echoing now–wet and open and filthy–as he fucked up into you with trembling precision.

The tendrils climbed again.

They ghosted over your breasts, curling gently around them, cool and reverent as they cupped your weight. One traced the curve of your throat. Another danced down the arch of your back, grounding you through every bounce, every roll, every stutter of your breath.

You moaned into his mouth.

He caught the sound and swallowed it–his tongue slipping into your mouth with the most delicate desperation, kissing you like he was starved, like he’d never get to do it again.

You broke the kiss only long enough to pant against him, your forehead pressed to his as you gasped, “Push me down onto you.”

His breath caught.

And he obeyed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he braced you, holding you still against him–just for a moment–before he thrust up hard.

You cried out, the sharp pleasure of it shocking through your nerves like lightning. The tendrils cinched tighter, wrapping you in a cocoon of darkness as his pace began to build beneath you–slow but deep, precise, controlled only by the fragility of your body above him.

Your voice broke on another moan. “Don’t stop, please, I’m–I’m gonna–”

And then you shattered again.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, clenching tight around him, soaking him in wet heat as your nails dug into his shoulders and your head fell forward with a cry.

He gasped.

And then he came.

With a broken moan and a hoarse curse, his body convulsed beneath you, his hands yanking your hips down hard–burying you to the hilt–holding you there as he spilled inside you, cold and heavy and endless.

The tendrils trembled around you, tightening like a final embrace, like they were anchoring him to you while his body seized with pleasure. His mouth parted, breath ragged, eyes squeezed shut as his hips stuttered up one more time–and then he collapsed back into the bed, shaking.

You slumped over him, forehead resting on his shoulder.

Breathless. Glowing. Slick and ruined and full.

His arms came around you slowly, delicately–like he wasn’t sure you’d allow it. But you did. You melted against him, chest pressed to his cool skin, the soft weight of your body settling atop his as you began to breathe in sync.

Your exhales mingled. Your heartbeats echoed, uneven but slowly evening out.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, quivering waves beneath your cheek, and beneath the chill of his skin, you could feel his pulse–faint, strange, but steady. You rested your palm just over it, grounding yourself there, listening to the rhythm until it felt like your own.

The tendrils around you loosened only slightly–enough to ease the tension from your limbs without breaking contact. They kept stroking softly along your back, trailing up and down your spine with gentle pressure, like they were comforting you…Or comforting him through you.

After a moment, you finally lifted your head.

And you stilled.

Your gaze caught the faint white gleam scattered across his face. Dozens of tiny marks, scattered like freckles–no, constellations. Traced by your lips. Etched like a map across the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks, across his temple, haloing his brow. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, breathless laugh.

“Jesus,” You whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, “I really did a number on you.”

He blinked slowly, still catching his breath, then smirked faintly. “Can’t pass it off as a birthmark anymore, hmm?”

You shook your head, amused, gaze tracing every speck of light you’d left behind.

“No… definitely not.” Your fingertips danced over them again, tender, reverent. “But they’re really pretty.”

His mouth quirked upward into something close to a grin–more tooth than smirk this time. You saw the faint flash of his teeth, sharp but clean, like fangs made for something more elegant than violence.

“Lucky it doesn’t pass off to Bob,” He said, voice still low, hoarse. “He’d have even more to explain than you.”

You snorted softly and shifted a little against him, letting your forehead rest beside his. “He’d never live it down. Walker would never stop asking questions.”

“Or Ava,” Void added. “She’d try to scrub them off with a washcloth.”

You both chuckled quietly, the sound soft in the quiet hush of the room. The tendrils still moved slowly across your skin–trailing along your lower back, curling gently around your ribs, one brushing softly against the back of your knee where it hooked loosely over his hip.

“I think…” He murmured after a beat, “he’ll definitely be happy tomorrow morning though.”

You looked at him, blinking slowly.

“But you will have to talk to him about this.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Then, after a beat of hesitation, you admitted, “The soulmate thing may confuse him though.”

The Void hummed softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest beneath you. “Leave that out,” He murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I think it technically applies to only you and I anyway.”

That made your heart thump–once, hard.

You swallowed, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

A shimmer of light bloomed beneath your lips.

His whole body tensed.

Every tendril tightened slightly around you–not harshly, but as if the entire mass of shadows needed to hold you in place, needed to feel every second of that kiss, needed to memorize it.

You pulled back slightly and whispered, “Void…”

His head turned slowly toward you, that expression unreadable but open, mouth slightly parted.

“Yeah?”

You brought your hand up to his face again, palm cradling his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, breath hitching.

“I was really wrong about you.”

His jaw tensed beneath your palm. You felt it–just for a moment–before he whispered, “It’s okay… I made multiple bad impressions and you had a right to dislike me.” He takes a moment, and presses his cheek into your touch. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You leaned in slowly.

And kissed him again.

Right in the center of his lips.

Another star flickered into life.

His breath hitched audibly this time, chest quaking beneath you, eyes still shut like he couldn’t bring himself to look at you in that moment. Couldn’t believe he was being forgiven.

You rested your forehead against his.

And whispered, “And I’m glad you weaken me…”

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes brushing your cheeks from how close you were.

“…Because you make me feel a little more human.”

He didn’t answer.

Not aloud.

Instead, the tendrils coiled tightly around your back, around your thighs, around your shoulders–pulling you closer, tighter, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

And for the first time, The Void didn’t feel like a monster at all.

He just felt like a man who finally knew what it was like to be loved.

[socialistexan]

If anyone needs reasons to do anything to keep Republicans out of office, look at Texas.

Right now, our Attorney General, Ken Paxton, is compiling lists on trans people in the state for unknown purposes and have official erased trans people legally in the state. He and his cronies have raided Democratic offices and left-leaning election and community organizers as an intimidation tactic. He's attempted to shut down religious organization that provide shelter and care for migrants and the unhoused.

Texas was on track to be purple if not lean-blue state as recently as 2018, but the conservative Republican legislature and executive teamed up to limit the voting power in deeply blue places Harris, Travis, and Bexar counties. In some places in Houston (the 4th largest city in the US) there is only one voting location. The majority of those polling places also aren't ADA compliant.

There's been a push to import conservative (and whiter) Californians, New Yorkers, and Coloradians to combat what was an increasingly younger, less white, and more progressive population. It's worked so far. If you look at exit polls come election time, people who were born in Texas tend to lean left, while people who moved from a different state lean heavily to the right.

This is a state Democrats came within just 2 points of winning this decade. We've had Democratic governors in my lifetime (RIP, Ann Richards). The second Republicans took over our state they started restricting our rights and putting their boot on our necks and haven't let up for a second.

It is much harder to do anything vaguely left of center in Texas now, from voting to mutual aid. You have to do everything in your power to prevent that from happening.

[fairsweetlonging]

svsss au where shen qingqiu can't go through with the endless abyss quest, and is just staring at binghe's tear-streaked face, listening to him rambling through excuses and apologies, not saying anything himself. he can't make himself do it, and prepares himself to die, but since the quest must be completed, the world bends to fulfill it, accidentally throwing both luo binghe and shen qingqiu into the abyss.

the stress of it causes shen qingqiu to have a qi deviation, and together with the sheer absolute force of demonic qi slamming into him from the abyss, he's out before he even hits the ground.

since the evil speech didn't take place and shen qingqiu never did anything except stare at luo binghe with an inexplicable look of resignation on his face, luo binghe is hopeful that it's not too late, and he does everything he can to drag his shizun to a "safe" place once they're in the abyss. now, luo binghe doesn't just have himself to save, but his shizun as well, and the force of his determination activates his full protagonist aura (aka binghe is planning to x2 speedrun this thing).

when shen qingqiu wakes up again and finds that he's completed the abyss quest, he doesn't waste a second before comforting his little demon lamb and assuring him this changes nothing, and binghe isn't evil for being a demon.

shizun's words give binghe the additional motivation boost he needs to start tearing through the abyss to find a way out, and though the abyss is horrible and all-consuming, it isn't as bad now that shizun is here to treat his wounds and comfort him and give him loads of information that, by all means, shizun shouldn't have known about, but he does, somehow, and it makes binghe's travels infinitely easier (and also avoids loads of wife plots shen yuan never liked).

they aren't going as fast as shen qingqiu would have liked, he isn't going as fast, he can barely breathe down here and his qi is like a beacon to abyssal creatures, only barely hidden because of without-a-cure, and he's trying to tell binghe everything he knows as soon as possible, to give him everything he needs to get out of the abyss by himself, because shen qingqiu knows he won't make it that far.

the abyss isn't made for him, both narratively and literally, he can't survive here, it's a miracle he even survived the initial drop. he can't bear to tell binghe, but he knows, and meng mo seems to know too, when he visits shen qingqiu in a dream to ask him how he's going to break it to the boy. shen qingqiu has no answer. the plot has been thrown completely off, and for the first time shen qingqiu is at a complete loss. he was never supposed to be here, and luo binghe was supposed to kill him after getting out, what will happen to the plot now?

of course binghe notices, eventually, that shen qingqiu is slowly getting poisoned by the abyss, and that shizun's surplus of doting isn't just to show acceptance, it's to say goodbye.

and shen qingqiu does die in the abyss, after little more than a year. it isn't even a beast or a plant or the acid lava boiling ground that kills him, nothing binghe could have fought or prevented. one day, after resting in a hidden shelter, shen qingqiu simply doesn't get up. his qi has been entirely corrupted, his meridians torn beyond repair, and he's gasping for breath between every bit of information that he tries to make a sobbing luo binghe remember. shen qingqiu has never seen binghe as devastated and lost as he does now, and it's horrible, but he can't do anything about it. the mushroom body isn't ready yet, he holds out no hope for that.

since luo binghe is the protagonist, shen qingqiu is determined to make sure binghe grows stronger from this all and continues his path to becoming powerful and heroic, basically making it his dying wish.

shen qingqiu dies, and his soul is transported to the mushroom body, but it takes years for it to fully develop, and binghe is convinced shen qingqiu is dead.

like in svsss he gets into a war with cang qiong about shen qingqiu's body, because binghe still tries to bring shen qingqiu back.

seven years later, shen qingqiu digs his way out of a grave and, because there is no bad blood between him and binghe this time, immediately goes to cang qiong sect, covered in dirt, and asks what he missed.

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men If You Turn Evil

AN: istg I keep getting all these ideas while working out 💗

Pairing: Lads boys x gn reader

Genre: DRAMA

Summary: after eons of nurturing the world with fragments of your heart, you learn the truth. Every death, every rebirth, burns in your heart. And now you want to burn the world.

(I do not own these characters)

Rafayel:

He looks at the destruction around him, the fragments of a broken city, the wrath in your eyes.

You pace the room, your steps unyielding to the passage of time.

He has been awake with you for countless nights, his ears filled with the cries of his kin, burning, drowning in the boiling seas.

He tugs at your arm, pulling you into his embrace, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Why can I not be at peace?" you whisper, cupping his cheek. "All our enemies have fallen, but why is there no relief? Who else must I seek to bring us justice?"

"It is my fault... I should have prevented this," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I should have never allowed it to come to be."

To watch you fall was his fall. To witness beauty drain from you was his failure. He has you back, but at what cost?

"But I will make things right," he whispers, pulling you closer.

"No more pain."

A gasp tears from your lips as his dagger pierces your back.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt, your blood soaking into his hand. "How dare you…" you seethe, your rage flickering even as your strength wanes. "I should have—"

Blood gurgles in your throat as he pulls your head against his chest, his shoulders trembling.

He would rather bear your hatred than lose your soul.

The cries of the world fade as a new one begins to take shape.

But all he can hear now are his own ragged sobs as he holds your cooling body.

Xavier:

"You have lost your mind!" Xavier’s voice is sharp, his fury barely masking the horror in his eyes.

He looks down from the castle walls, your castle now. Below, corpses rot on pikes, writhing with maggots.

Philos will never come to be. The world has already shifted on its axis.

You pin him to the wall, leaning him over the edge. "You will not talk to me like that, Xavier." Your voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is absolute. "This is my world. I may do as I please. It would do you good to listen, to stay as my consort, not the crown prince of Philos."

His breath hitches as he stares at you, searching for something, hesitation, remorse, restraint.

But you are resolute.

Your eyes soften at his distraught expression. Gently, you pull him back from the edge and release your grip. "Do not let this drive a wedge between us. I do not wish to lose you...I’ve only just remembered you." You press a kiss to his lips, warm, fleeting, achingly tender.

"This is merely a necessary cleansing," you murmur, as if explaining the weather. "A precaution, so the world understands the new order. So all who bled me for ages finally know what it means to bleed."

And so, bound by love, Xavier became a puppet to your wishes.

He waited for the new world you promised, sought desperately for the salve to soothe the wounds your changing forms left in him.

With time, he learned to ignore the mangled bodies outside the capital. The sunken faces beyond the castle walls.

He learned to be happy.

Zayne:

He never stands idle.

Not even at the first signs of your fall. Not even when the shadows lengthen, and the world begins to crumble at your feet.

He does everything he can to undo the damage.

He is a doctor, ridding people of pain is his purpose.

He funds revolutions, smuggles food and medicine, seeks to turn your heart away from vengeance.

But he does not leave you.

Not when you’re hurting. Not when the weight of the world fractures your soul. He stays, doing all he can to hold the world together before it collapses entirely.

For the first time in years, he prays to Astra.

He begs his god to aid the world.

Until you find his secrets. Until you strip him of the power you once gave him.

You lock him away in a tower, bound to you. And then...then, true helplessness sets in.

He watches his betrayal fuel your madness. Watches as your fury, once directed at tyrants, turns upon the innocent.

In the frozen chamber, you loom over him, his knees pinned to the ground by the weight of your power.

"Do you wish to leave me, Zayne?" Your fingers tilt his chin upward, forcing him to meet your crazed gaze. "Tell me, do you wish to escape?"

He does not flinch. His neck is littered with the climbing scars of his evol, of his futile resistance. It is all a proof of the turmoil within you, that settles upon his skin. He knows it better than any.

"No." His voice is steady. Resolute. "I wish to stay next to you."

He means it. Earnestly.

Even if your presence comes at this cost, he is willing to pay.

He has never wished to abandon you.

Not even at the cost of himself.

Sylus:

You are his moral compass.

So when you fall, he falls with you.

There is nothing to stop you both.

His days are spent treasuring the reality of having you back, of having your love.

And if the cost is the world, then let it burn.

The core in his eye revels in the doom. It rejoices in the love that blooms within you, in the hunger that consumes you both.

It is fulfilled.

He is fulfilled.

He does not make you ruler of just the Earth, he crowns you sovereign of the universe.

After all, he has always been willing to kill and die for you.

Devoured by your bloodlust, he kneels.

Your consort. Your ruin.

He is content in this fall.

Caleb:

He is your sword.

The day you pledge destruction, he is the hand that pulls the trigger. No questions asked.

He is content, more than content, being the only one to receive your love.

The world had it coming. To condemn you to such pain was their undoing.

He bleeds millions to warm the world that once sought to devour you. He has no mercy for those who cower beneath your gaze.

He has your love.

But why, then, does his heart fall at the sound of your hollow laughter?

Why can he not bring himself to burn the memories of the past?

Why has he kept your hunter’s gear, carefully stored away in his rooms?

He so dearly wishes to keep you pleased. But he knows, this destruction is not born of greed. It is the consequence of centuries of pain.

And no matter how much blood he spills, it will never ease that pain.

No matter how many bodies pile beneath your feet, he cannot bring back your joy.

That was stolen, broken, snatched by those who now rot in unmarked graves.

[invoncible]

have you ever thought of writing for one of Marks variants? If so you should definitely do Mohawk Mark his cocky attitude is so ugh …. i love your work by the way!

— thank you nonnie hope you like this ! I LOVE MOHAWK MARK OMG

"you know, i feel like i've seen you before." mohawk mark had you by your wrists, preventing your escape as he pinned you to the ground. he studied your face like you were a toy in his hands.

fuck. your boss had sent you to your death yet again. when you signed with your news station, you didn't realize you'd be signing your life away chasing these heroes and their problems.

you thought this was invincible—everyone did until a few minutes ago. they had similar getups and abilities. it was a logical conclusion, right?

wrong. within minutes of pulling up to the penitentiary, the news van was tossed onto its side, a invincible sized hole cut clean through the back. the variant grabbed you and your cameraman by the clothes and dragged you onto the ground... and here you were.

"oh, yeah!" mark snapped his finger, a wicked grin spreading on his face. "you're that news reporter! i remember you... didn't kill you back home cuz you always got my good side." he leaned in, taking your chin in his fingers and guiding you to look up at him. "s'that what you're doing here? you like the view in this dimension too?"

his eyes flicker dangerously to your cameraman, who was shaking behind the heavy lens on his shoulder. he huffed a small laugh at the sight, like the fear he smelled off your partner really got him going.

"yes!" you quickly exclaim, forcing his attention back to you.

his eyes snapped back to you. blood rushed to your head, pulse thundering in your ears. you try your best to not flinch at the way his rough fingers dug into your skin.

"what can i say," you laughed weakly. "you're the hot topic right now, had to get a piece for... myself?"

he paused, his expression like stone as he peered between you and your cameraman, weighing the options in his head: do i kill them for fun, or let them entertain me for a little bit?

after a long pase, mark rose effortlessly to his feet, dragging you up with him by your wrists. he slung his arm around your shoulders like you were old friends in some twisted version of reality. he twirled you around in the ruins, the destruction stretching out in front of you like some sick display of power.

“you like what i’ve done with the place?” he asked, voice dripping with mock innocence as he took in the scattered bodies, the blood-slicked ground.

"oh..." your eyes trailed over the wreckage, the broken limbs and bodies sprinkled over the ground like confetti, and all the blood was the icing on the top. "impressive."

you weren't lying, exactly. it was an impressive show of power, as sick as it was. unease twisted in your gut.

"i knew i liked you." he chuckled. "hey, let's get rid of this." he grabbed the mic from your hand and crushed it, the circuitry sparking one last time before dying completely.

"i mean, sure, i could kill you. it'd be a waste of a pretty face, so i’m not gonna. we've got history, you and i."

your pulse quickened. your eyes darted to your cameraman, who had already taken off, running toward another van and driving off. you grit your teeth. fucking coward.

you felt the weight of mark’s gaze burning into your back as he clicked his tongue in disappointment.

"i'm not the same as your y/n." you reminded him quietly.

"yeah? come home with me 'nd find out."

"no." your eyebrows furrowed.

he smiled, your resistance rolling off his back like it meant nothing. "you're gonna. two y/ns are better than one, and besides you're gonna love my place—it's a palace. i'll get you a nice room and everything. all you'd have to do is stay by my side."

"mm..." you glared at him, trailing off but communicating your answer loud and clear. not that you thought he'd listen to you anyways. his grip on you was almost possessive. this guy was superpowered, for fuck's sake. you were dead for the second he decided he was done playing around with you.

"ohohoho," he chuckled, raising an amused eyebrow. "you're lucky you're cute. but you're coming with me." he shot up into the sky, already set on taking you to wherever he intended to stash you until he had a way back to his dimension.

you shrieked as you were vaulted into the air, anchored only by his arm around your waist.

"shhh," he grinned wildly, his hair fluttering in the wind. "you were the one that wanted a piece for yourself. you gonna refuse me when i'm accommodating you so nicely?"

against your better judgement, you clung to him and hoped that his nice mood lasted a long, long time.

© invoncible