#defy your authority

[kylorengarbagedump]

hi!! i literally just created an account on here to send you a message 😭 lmao

I hope this message finds you well/hope you're doing good!<3

anyways i just had to let you know that your stories have always been a safe space for me & no matter how long i would need to wait, i'd LOVE to read more of DYA someday. Do you know if you'd ever continue the story or would you rather just let it be? Because there are still so so many people out there who love your stories as well. Your fics are literally the only ones i can't stop thinking about. No matter what i read, it just doesn't compare. Your writing style is unique and thats why i hope that someday you find the motivation to pick up DYA again because you ARE ICONIC. And please never ever delete your fics (i noticed FYA is gone from wattpad somehow) because i honestly don't know what i'd do without them. No writer gets Kylo like you do. Honestly. I may sound cheesy or pathetic or whatever but i'm just being honest. Others portray Kylo as this mildly "grumpy" guy who just needs to fall in love in order to be "fluffy" and then he suddenly turns into a completely different person. But only you manage to actually capture his anger, his rage, his turmoil. Your style is unmatched and you have no idea how much i miss reading new things by you! Also the fact that he can read the reader's mind in FYA/DYA.. ahhhh i could go on and on. just love your style and your ideas so much. Hopefully some day i can read a new chapter and until then i will re-read all of the existing chapters for a 10000th time 😭

sending lots of love!! <3

HIIII - really quickly - I actually had no idea FYA had been removed from Wattpad because I haven't logged on to that website in probably 2 years at this point. I assume it was deleted due to mass-reporting. I refuse to delete anything from the internet, pretty much, so anything that's gone now was removed against my will, haha. But, that's why I feel safe on AO3! All of my work is there and I plan to keep it there.

Now onto the rest - you're sincerely SO kind and thoughtful to send me this. I really really appreciate it, and I truly don't ever take any compliment I receive on my writing for granted, and I really do appreciate your encouragement and generosity. I love knowing people resonate with my interpretation of Kylo, because he's very near and dear to my heart and writing him feels very intimate to me.

That being said, regarding DYA... I'm not sure if I will continue it, tbh. I truly HATE to leave a project unfinished, it's very unlike me, but I've encountered something of a 'stuck' spell in my writing in general. It's very hard for me to produce anything nowadays - nothing seems good enough, interesting enough, I feel like I've run out of ideas. With DYA specifically, I feel like I've written myself into a corner and I've already ruined the story I might've told. Not saying ANY of that is true or for sympathy - it's just how I feel. That's not to say it's impossible, but I wouldn't hang your hopes on it. To be very honest, I feel quite down in the dumps and hopeless about my writing these days and I hope that will change in the future. I have considered taking it down or something just because I hate giving people false hope, but like I said, I'm loathe to delete anything from the internet so I haven't and I won't.

Regardless, comments and interactions like these always brighten my day and do make me feel a little bit hopeful, so I'm very grateful you sent it. Thank you so much <3

[the-epitome-of-sin]

Oop my life lost its spark, guess it’s time to reread my holy grail for the 100th time, (and patiently wait for the day we’re blessed with another chapter)

[your-royal-momoness]

Toph: this field trip is boooring

Katara: this is not a field trip, we’re grocery shopping

Toph: then why did you invite me?

Katara: I didn’t. I told you not to come with me and you said “fuck you I do what I want” and followed me here

[thelearnedsoldiertoo]

@steponthegras

@thelearnedsoldier is my actual primary account. I made this one originally as a side blog, thinking I'd barely use tumblr so most of my activity would be on my history and reenacting interest blog. By the time I realised how wrong I was, it was too late, and the only way to change it would be to make a new account, so it stuck lol.

in the tags

say what you think prev's url means

[thateclecticbitch]

Insane how asking questions and getting clarification gets you a cute little note on your file that says "initially refused treatment." No the fuck I did not! Fuck you!

[wilwheaton]

Musk hasn’t been confirmed by Congress. His “department” was never authorized by Congress. No one other than Trump has given Musk any authority. No one knows exactly who Musk’s goons are; they have not been vetted yet are handling some of the most sensitive personal information in the government. Not even Trump has the authority to stop your Social Security payments, let alone your Medicare or Medicaid or unemployment insurance or your food stamp benefits. Yet Musk and his goon squad assert they’re able to do so if they believe those payments are illegal. Musk boasted on his social media site X that he was “rapidly shutting down . . . illegal payments.” But who is Musk to decide that a payment is illegal?

Why the world's richest man is messing with your religion, your Social Security and everything else

I realize Democrats are out of power and can’t do much with legislation to stop this. 

I also realize this all happened in 3 days and appears to have caught them flatfooted (though I struggle to accept that nobody knew this was going to happen -- DC leaks like wet cheesecloth).

Okay. So what can they do?

Off the top of my head:

1. Members of Congress get the the bus and go to one of these agencies where Musk and his unvetted goons are installing rootkits, stealing our private information, and breaking the law. Tell the press they’re going to be there, and make a whole lot of noise. Force media to pay attention to this.

2. Stop everything in Congress. No unanimous consent, no approval of nominees, absolutely no help. Republicans uniformly opposed President Obama’s popular agenda, it shouldn’t be this difficult for Democrats to uniformly oppose Trump’s unpopular agenda.

3. File lawsuit after lawsuit after lawsuit. Force them into court to defend and justify their plainly illegal actions. Force them to defy judges. Force them to take this all the way to the corrupt SCOTUS.

4. Trump and Musk are weak little boys with fragile egos and this unholy alliance will eventually fracture. Speed that up by talking a whole lot about President Musk.

5. Tell Chuck Schumer to shut the fuck up forever for a minute because his communications team is maybe the worst I have ever seen in my adult life.

I don‘t know that any of these things will actually stop this attack on America from these fascist scumbags, but I am pretty confident it will force the national conversation to be about the coup that was accelerated this weekend, instead of the fucking Grammys.

[bluebunnysart]

I never knew the journey would go from Hoshitele <--> Convenient Semi-Friend (authors seem to be friends and Umiyu have already promoted the latter series as part of the Kirara ads) -> seeing what else Minori Chigusa is working on -> finding something that appeals to me so MUCH that I still can't get over it bc I almost NEVER find something that appeals to me directly this much ohh my gosshh

[astrologydray]

Your Ascendant through the degrees 🧍🏾

The degree of the Ascendant (ASC) in the natal chart adds extra nuance to how a person expresses their outward identity, first impressions, and approach to life. Since the Ascendant represents the mask we wear to the world, its degree can show additional personality traits, strengths, challenges, and even fated themes.

0° – A raw and unfiltered expression of the sign. This person embodies their rising sign in the most direct way, often making a striking first impression. Can be a “pioneer” in how they present themselves.

1° – Strong individuality and presence. This person may have a unique or unconventional appearance, standing out naturally in a crowd.

2° – A balance between confidence and self-awareness. Can have a calm but magnetic presence.

3° – Communicative and expressive. This degree often gives a natural charm or an ability to engage with others easily.

4° – A solid and grounded presence. This person might appear more serious, reliable, or mature beyond their years.

5° – Creative, playful, and attention-grabbing. Can have an artistic or theatrical way of presenting themselves.

6° – Often highly intuitive and empathetic. This degree may indicate a strong emotional depth behind the initial impression.

7° – Mysterious, enigmatic, or hard to read. People may find them intriguing but difficult to truly understand.

8° – Powerful and magnetic. This person exudes confidence and may naturally draw attention without trying.

9° – A visionary or idealist. They come across as deeply philosophical or strongly tied to their beliefs.

10° – Disciplined and composed. May have a mature, professional, or responsible demeanor.

11° – Makes them a natural leader or innovator. People look to them for inspiration.

12° – Highly adaptable and open-minded. May have an easygoing, yet unpredictable, presence.

13° – A deeply transformative energy. This degree can make a person mysterious or constantly evolving in how they present themselves.

14° – Often charming and persuasive. Has a social or diplomatic way of interacting with others.

15° – A balanced and harmonious energy. People may see them as approachable, well-rounded, or naturally attractive.

16° – Can appear rebellious or unconventional. Often challenges societal norms in their personal style or behavior.

17° – Magnetic and influential. This person may be naturally authoritative or respected in social settings.

18° – A deeply intuitive and possibly spiritual energy. People might feel like they have an “old soul” presence.

19° – A mix of independence and charisma. They can come across as both friendly and distant.

20° – Often has a strong presence, commanding attention without trying. May have an air of authority.

21° – A social butterfly. This degree often makes a person naturally popular or well-liked.

22° – A degree giving them a sense of purpose and ambition that others notice immediately.

23° – Unpredictable and unconventional. Can be a trendsetter or someone who defies expectations.

24° – A mix of warmth and intensity. May appear inviting but also have an air of mystery.

25° – A natural performer or storyteller. This person may have a theatrical or larger-than-life presence.

26° – Highly independent and strong-willed. Others see them as fearless or determined.

27° – A deep thinker. People may feel they are constantly analyzing or observing their surroundings.

28° – A unique mix of wisdom and eccentricity. This degree often carries a “genius” energy in how they express themselves.

29° – The Ascendant at 29° makes someone intensely embody their rising sign while also feeling a sense of urgency about their identity. They may undergo major changes in self-expression throughout life and feel fated to fulfill a specific personal mission.

[hencheri]

— bad girl

▸ 18+ mdni.

heeseung never backs down from punishing you for your disobedience and jake always joins in to the fun.

| pairing. bf!heeseung x fem!reader x bf!jake

| warnings. heavy dom/sub dynamics, dubcon, impact play, mean mean heeseung!!, manipulation, unprotected sex, aftercare.

| wc. 1.8k

⤷ part of my 1k event.

“he was so mean!” you cry out, cradled in jake’s lap, tears endlessly falling from your reddened eyes. 

“was he?” jake asks in a calm tone, rubbing your back in soothing circles. 

you nod your head repeatedly, loudly sobbing and sniffling. you wipe the tears off your face with your fingers, but it’s useless as more roll down your cheeks just after. 

your butt is burning, still feeling heeseung’s handprint on you. jake’s hand slowly goes down your back, reaching your ass, gently groping your flesh. he feels it, too, how hot your skin still is from your boyfriend’s violent spanking. he likes it, almost growling as he palms your ass, careful to not hurt you more.

“yes, he- he didn’t want to stop,” you explain, chest heaving irregularly as you continue crying, “he was really mad.”

jake bites down into his bottom lip, watching your tears cascading your face, dripping down the side of your neck. he looks at your trembling lips all coated in drool, noticing the imprint of your teeth on them. 

his fingers wander under your soft, fuzzy shorts, your brows knitting together as you feel the pad of his fingers grazing the bump of your pussy. is he not listening to you?

“jake…”

he stares at you with his pupils blown out, licking his lips. “my poor baby,” he coos, “what did you do to make hee’ so mad at you?” 

you’re confused when jake tells you this, his voice sounding rather mocking than concerned. 

he slowly rubs your clothed pussy, pressing down on your clit, faintly smiling when you squirm in his lap at the contact. 

“i just…” you huff out, a little embarrassed. “i touched myself when he told me not to,” you pout. 

“aw, dirty little girl…” jake groans, sliding his fingers over your puffy lips. “shouldn’t have disobeyed him, baby. you know the consequences.”

you sigh. “i know, but… it’s not fair!” 

jake’s hand suddenly leaves your shorts, coming to sharply slap your cheek. your head moves to the side from the impact, your stomach turning into knots. you weakly whimper, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth to hold back a cry.

“bad girl,” jake scolds, “you don't defy our authority. you know the rules.”

“sorry, jake…” you mumble, looking down shamefully. 

you tentatively look up at him, seeing his eyes already on you. you know jake is not as severe as heeseung—far from it—but he still doesn’t hesitate to remind you who decides here. thank god he isn’t like your other boyfriend because you really wouldn’t get a break from getting your ass beat up. 

jake hums in response, wrapping an arm around your waist, putting down his other hand on your thigh. “you should apologize to heeseung, not me, baby.”

you exhale through your nose, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. you briefly play with the hem of his shirt before agreeing with him. you disobeyed the rules, after all. but you’re still shaken from the previous events, remembering heeseung sharp voice, delivering each spank with more force than the precedent. 

when you reach heeseung’s room, you quickly knock on his door, nervously pushing down the handle after you hear him telling you to enter. 

he doesn’t look at you when you get inside his room, folding the clean laundry on his bed. you stand by the entrance, not wanting to risk doing anything that could anger him a second time. 

“heeseungie… i’m sorry…” you eventually say, crossing your arms behind your back. 

he folds a pair of jeans and throws it over the other folded clothes, turning his head at you. he studies your face for a few seconds, his eyes slowly lingering down your body. a sense of pride goes through him as he sees the bruises he left on you earlier. 

“is that so?” he rasps out, arching a brow, seeming unbothered, quite disinterested. 

you shyly nod, glancing down at your feet. blood creeps up to your face, feeling small under heeseung’s scrutinizing gaze. 

after a moment of silence, he tells you to come to him. when you do so, he lays his palm on the back of your head, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. he gently pats your hair after, staring down at you, expressionless. 

the silence is heavy and tense and you gulp down, sensing that perhaps heeseung hasn’t completely forgiven you. 

“sorry, huh?” he repeats and you nod, frowning your brows. nothing happens for a moment until heeseung roughly pulls you to the bed, pushing you down. you gasp out when your body hits the mattress, bouncing back, some of the clothes falling down to the floor. “lying little brat. you think i don’t know you?” he spits out, gripping your hair and pinning your head down. 

you start shaking, tears prinkling your eyes. a spark of hope lights up in you as jake passes by, checking on what’s happening inside heeseung’s bedroom. 

“jake!” you cry out, face stuck to the mattress by your boyfriend’s strong hold. 

you naively think he’s going to ease down heeseung’s anger, but the smile on his face tells you that he won’t—he’ll help heeseung, not you. 

“what do you have in mind?” jake asks him, eyes glinting mischievously. 

heeseung keeps a stern face, gaze never leaving you. “she needs to fucking learn her lesson,” he says, “we gotta make it clear that a simple sorry isn’t enough to make it up to the disobedience she showed.” 

“but i learnt my lesson!” 

you whine in pain when heeseung gives your ass a spank, daring you to say something else. “i’m not talking to you.” 

you silently cry, muffling your noises into heeseung’s bed sheets, and jake lets out a laugh at how easily you cave in under heeseung’s palm. 

“i don’t want her to be able to sit for a week.”

your heart skips a beat at his words and you look up at heeseung then shift your gaze to jake. “please,” you whine, bottom lip trembling, “it’s not fair,” you say again because it’s truly not fair. you already got your punishment. 

heeseung pulls your head up by your hair, making you wince from the pain. “because you think you deserve fairness? you’re below us, princess. fairness is not something you’ll ever get,” he cruelly tells you, and you feel a wave of heat travel down to your core. 

he lets go of you and looks at jake who’s still smiling, enjoying your misery way too much. 

“take her mouth, i don’t want to hear any more of her whining,” he orders jake and he doesn’t need to be told twice. 

heeseung gets you on all fours, jake taking place in front of you, smirking when your tearful eyes lock with his. “my baby…” he cups your cheek, running his thumb over it. 

you’re distracted by jake for a moment, gasping when your shorts get tugged down along with your panties, exposing your pussy to your boyfriend. jake can’t help but take a look, too, amazed to see so many bruises littering your skin. 

without warning, heeseung plunges two fingers inside of you, immediately smacking your ass when you let out a moan. 

“i told you to shut her up, didn’t i?” he glares at jake and his smile falters for a second. 

“calm your nerves,” jake hisses. “because you’re older, don’t mean you get to boss me around like i’m your bitch.”

you try your best to muffle any moan, but heeseung hits your ass at the faintest sound, inevitably making you cry out, delivering another, sharper slap. 

soon enough, jake’s hard cock springs free. he wraps a hand around your throat, tilting your head up, slipping himself past your lips. he pushes in inch by inch, moaning as he watches your lips stretch around him. 

behind you, heeseung thrusts his fingers in and out of you roughly, not even having your pleasure in mind, only your pain. his palm smacks against your pussy everytime he bottoms out, the other one gripping the flesh of your ass, sinking his short nails into your skin. 

you really feel like you’re being punished this time. usually pleasure is involved—always is when there’s the two of them—but right now feels straight up mean. just cruel. 

you jolt forward when heeseung’s palm meets your butt again, whining around jake’s dick. he groans as it sends vibrations through his body, passing his fingers between your hair and taking a handful of it. he guides your mouth over him, soft praises reaching your ears, a vast contrast to how your other boyfriend treats you. 

you look up at jake, giving him your saddest puppy eyes, hoping to gain some pity from him, but he only smiles, patting your head. “such a wet little mouth, drooling all over me like a dog,” he grins, squeezing your throat a little, wanting to feel it tighten around him. 

your limbs are weak, shaking so much that you doubt you’ll be able to stand on them for longer. especially with heeseung’s hand meeting your ass every now and then and the heel of his palm hitting your pussy as he roughly fucks his fingers inside of you.

your arms finally fail you when jake pulls out of you, using the opportunity to take in deep breaths, coughing a little. you’re surprised when heeseung also stops and you’re relieved, thinking they’ve decided to spare you. 

but your hope is short-lived when heeseung’s fingers are replaced by his cock, pushing into you in one swift movement, his pelvis flushed to the curve of your ass. it burns as his hips meet your bruised skin, a scream leaving your lips. 

jake slaps your cheek, taking your chin in his hand right after, pointing a finger at you. “bad girl. be quiet.”

the corners of your mouth tug downward, keeping your lips sealed shut. he pats your cheek when you stay quiet, entering two fingers inside of your mouth and pulling it open, letting out a satisfied groan when he inserts his cock in once again. 

you choke around jake over and over, nose pressing down onto his pubis as heeseung’s hip thrusts send you forward. 

you don’t know how much time has passed when they’re done with you, but you know it was enough time for them to spend every last bit of their cum on you. 

you feel a damp cloth passing between you legs, making you flinch when it accidentally comes in contact with your bruised skin. a hand soothingly strokes your hair as if to apologize and you lean into the touch, chasing the comfort it gives you.

[kylorengarbagedump]

too shy to get off anon but I just read FYA and DYA over the past week and its sooo fantastic, im in love with this story, Ill be rereading several times for sure, thank you for sharing and letting us partake in your kylo fantasy with your beautiful writing 🖤🖤🖤

This was sent a few months ago, but thank you so so much for the kindness, I really appreciate it. <3

[writerfromthestars]

DPXDC PROMPT : ALFRED IS IMMORTAL

Alright. Don't get me wrong, I love au's where John Constantine is like "soul tax evader supreme", but hear me out.

Alfred.

Alfred, Alfred Pennyworth. Who just doesn't die. The guy's immortal. The reason for this is that Alfred is awesome, so anytime he dies, whether it be from old age or a bullet or a world-wide catastrophe, he looks Death straight in the eyes and tells them that he will die when the day comes that no one needs him anymore, and not a second before, and then he just kinda pops back to life. Because let's face it, the batfam would fall to pieces without him.

So, Alfred Pennyworth has basically just been cheating death for centuries, by this point.

Needless to say, Death is none too pleased. Finally, Death goes to Phantom, the new king, who is much more reasonable than Pariah Dark was and who agrees to actually help.

Clockwork helps Danny set up a portal and he zaps into existence in the middle of a Wayne movie night. The bats are all prepared to fight this mysterious weirdo, but Danny ignores them and turns to Alfred, who he then begins lecturing about ghostly tax evasion and how defying death isn't a good thing, so he needs to file paperwork through the proper channels to stay as an immortal almost-God.

Alfred is chill, he plays cards with Clockwork once when he dies, so he knew this was coming, but the batfamily thinks that this mysterious entity is going to kill Alfred, so they're all panicking, trying to think of ways to avoid this horrible future. Alfred calmly listens to Danny, then he interjects.

"Sir, are you aware of the fact that there is a revenant on earth? One who is most certainly under threat of more paperwork than I, seeing as he has been using the Lazarus Pits to revive himself for millennia. I, however, have only been alive for a few hundred years, so I should think that he is a bigger priority. "

Danny glances over at Jason, doubtful. "He doesn't look several millennia old, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Certainly not, seeing as Master Jason is not. Besides, his Undeath License was filed. I have a copy of it if you need to see it, your Majesty?" Alfred answers, demure as always.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, sir."

Alfred leaves and returns, moments later with a light green glowing piece of paper. he hands it over to Danny, who examines it.

"Seems legitimate. I assume you filed it during one of your many encounters with Death?"

"Indeed. I have it on good authority, however, that the other revenant, a man by the name of Ra's Al Ghul, has not renewed his License in at least the last half millennia, most likely longer."

Danny sighs. "Where can I find him."

"Nanda Parbat. The signature is impossible to miss."

"Alright, Mr. Pennyworth. I will return once he is dealt with, be it by filing his paperwork or returning him to the Infinite Realms."

"Very well. I will be ready." Alfred answers.

Danny opens a portal to the area around Nanda Parbat and then another, which plops him down right in front of the Demon's Head himself, in a strategy meeting with his daughter and several commanders.

They all raise their weapons, but he just basically grabs Ra's by the ear and tugs him through a Lazarus Green portal, lecturing him about tax evasion and paperwork and bureaucracy the whole time. The League is thrown into uproar, and Ra's is set down in a room with all his overdue paperwork from the past few thousand years. He feels a little bit like crying; if he had known immortality meant this much paperwork, he would've just died, honestly.

Meanwhile, in Wayne Manor, everyone is crying, because they think Alfred is going to die, Jason is confused about the whole revenant Undeath Certificate thing, Bruce is trying to make contingency plans, Tim is contacting the Justice League, and Alfred is planning out his defense and going through every ghostly law loophole he can think of because if he leaves these emotionally constipated crime-fighting vigilantes, he knows that the house that Martha so loved will go up in flames within a month.

Eventually, Danny comes to get Alfred for his ghostly court trial/hearing or whatever, and Alfred says goodbye to Bruce and everyone, goes to the Infinite Realms. Clockwork is on his side, and Alfred ends up winning the court case, on the condition that now that the has an Undeath License, he actually renew it every twenty years, like he's supposed to.

A week later, Alfred returns, crashes his own funeral, and explains that no, he will not be dying anytime soon.

Two weeks after Alfred's return, Constantine shows up at the manor basically begging to learn how the hell he managed to avoid death, and not only that, win a damn court case against them.

[stargrltara]

𝙍𝙀𝙈𝙀𝙈𝘽𝙀𝙍

·.✧ ✦ ✧.·

MDNI 18+

You loved pissing Jason off, you found it amusing watching him cross his arms at you and intimidate you with his figure. His body looms over you like a shadow, he’s massive compared to you. You love when he grits his teeth at your bratty attitude and when you defy him, he puts you in your place. He always puts you in your place.

Earlier, you were talking back to him, drinking all of his expensive alcohol and giving him immense attitude; he threatened to fuck some manners into you, you just scoffed, crossing your arms and glaring up at him although to you it seemed like you were physically bigger than him, like you had more authority. “You couldn’t even make me finish.” you smirked smugly, raising the bottle of whiskey to your lips, almost challenging him and knowing that was his last straw, knowing that your plan was gonna work.

·.✦.·

That’s why he had his thick digits plunged inside of your cunt, your ass rubbing against his hips as he firmly gripped your waist, keeping you glued onto his combat-clad lower abdomen. You tried to hold in your lewd whimpers, but it was impossible since he was shoving his fingers inside of you at a rapid pace, your back flat against his chest and head thrown into the side of his neck.

Your mouth fell into an ‘O’ shape, though you kept back your helpless noises, his piercing, emerald eyes narrowing in irritant at you trying to hide your sounds. He quickly pulled his two fingers out, earning a breathy gasp from you as you felt so empty before he brang them up to your lips, his thumb pushing through your swollen lips from all the light whimpers, and he forced his two digits into your mouth. Your mouth opened wider at the sudden action, a pathetic moan escaping your lips as your tongue darted out and sucked on his skin.

“—see how wet you get from pissin’ me off?” he groaned lowly, his voice echoing through the bedroom and overwriting the trickling of the rain slapping against the glass windows. “fuck..” his voice a whisper, eyes widened when he watched your head bob up and down on his fingers, in disbelief at your eagerness and desire for more of him.

The hand gripping your waist snaked down your ribcage, fingertips sending electric jolts through your skin and leaving fire to ignite at its wake. A slap landed on your clit and you jolted, a groan leabing your lips and you shifting against his body, grinding on his abdomen shamelessly. “yeahhh, you love this shit, don’t you?” his voice extended, almost smug and teasing, but also cruel.

You didn’t respond, only repeated sucking on his fingers to get some sort of release but when he pulled them out and slapped your face lightly, you snapped back to reality and nodded. “mm..” was all you could murmur, but that wasn’t good enough for him.

Another slap, and you whimpered softly, “fuck you..” you managed to let out a short scoff, breath hitching and chest heaving. A dry, dangerous chuckle erupted from his chest, and you could tell he was pissed. Not only at your attitude, but at the way you were acting like you didn’t enjoy it, he saw straight through you, he knew exactly where to touch, where to lick and where to kiss.

“Don’t worry,” he assured, low and rough. “I’m gonna make sure you remember who the fuck you’re talking to.” he groaned, sucking in a rugged breath before lifting his hips quickly and shoving you off him, making you fall flat onto the matress infront of you, your face now shoved into the blankets as you could hear the clanking of his belt falling to the ground with a heavy thud.

Your bare ass on full display for him, and a harsh smack landed on your skin, reddening by the second. He leaned over you, and you turned your head to glare at his naked frame behind you but it resulted in him interlocking his fingers in your hair and shoving your head back into the matress before he pulled down his boxers, his cock springing up.

“..gonna make sure you remember who I am, baby.” he whispered harshly, a merciless edge to his tone before he thrusted inside you without warning. A moan arose from your throat as you felt his full fat cock inside of you, “that’s it..” he groaned quietly, yet so rugged. His tip nestling itself so familiarly inside of you before he pulled out and started ramming into your right cunt at a harsh pace; deep thrusts hitting your cervix.

“Jay—“ your muffled moans seeped into the fuzzy blanket beneath you, your tears and saliva drooling onto the material. His fingertips dug into your waist, pulling you up slightly so you were in a face down as up position, one hand snaked up the small of your back, gliding up your neck and grabbing a firm ponytail of locks as he pulled you backwards, your back landing on his sweaty chest, your bodies glueing to each other.

“f—fuck..!” your voice was strained, almost worn out and your tits bounced rhythmically as his cock thrusted into you at a delicious new angle, his cock hitting your insides deeper and deeper, each thrust more forceful than the next. Your walls squeezed his cock so tightly, short gasps escaping your lips. His grunts grew stronger, and louder as so did your moans. Your hands flew to grip his thighs, manicured nails digging into his skin bound to draw blood.

He released your hair, instead wrapping his large bicep around your throat; his massive muscles hitching your breathing, lungs feeling empty as he knocks the wind out of them with each thrust. His grunts turned into groans, his hips slapping against your ass, the room filled with slick, unethical noises. “Next time you think about misbehaving..” he grunted between thrusts, “You’re gonna remember how i’m abusing your pathetic cunt.”

You let out a loud moan at his words, so mean yet so arousing, “..bet you cant make me finish—“ you muttered, using the last of your remaining breathe; the repeated words from earlier sent a wave of fire to crawl beneath his skin, but a warm pool to form in your stomach, your arousal dripping onto his length.

His silence spoke louder than words, but his pace spoke even louder when he began to impale into your guts, pushing your body back onto the mattress face down ass up as he gripped your ass, his fingertips left bruising marks. “mmghh..” your moans were nothing compared to the slapping of your skins, and his primal grunts, almost animalistic. “oh ! fuck—!! fu—“ your voice forming melodic, breathy gasps. Sweat beaded at his forehead as he deliberately drove into you without mercy, hitting your sweet spot repeatedly.

You were growing wetter and wetter, and he knew you were close. His hand snaked down to rub your clit, a lewd gasp rumbling from your throat while his digits flicking over your sensitive bud. “cmon’ baby, give it to me.” You felt his shaft twitch inside of you, the feeling striking electricity to your cunt when your moans grew louder and louder. “shit— I feel ya’ squeezing me, doll.”

“Jay—! Jason !” Your lips spoke his name so deliciously, so lustfully. Your orgasm hit you hard, your moan almost pornographic. Jason pulled you up by your hair to be able to hear the beauty that arose from your lips. He brought you into a deep, sloppy kiss, sparks of electric waved in your loins; mixed drool falling down your lips onto your chin, as he came inside of you. His groans muffled between your lips as you felt his seed shoot into you and paint your walls white, tying your souls together.

He pulled off of the kiss, breathing heavily and giving you last a few gentle thrusts to ride out the aftershocks. Your body fell limp against the mattress, stomach hitting the surface, and he just scoffed, but it was a soft, warm chuckle.

His palm came in contact with your hair, and he massaged your scalp sweetly, before leaning down, his hair tickling your back as he planted small, open mouthed kisses to the spine of your back. His hand snaked up your waist gently, careful not to be too rough, contrasting with his tough demeanour.

“—better have taught you a lesson, hm?” he mutters lightly, head tilting slightly as you huffed tiredly into the mattress, eyes fluttering shut. “..or next time I won’t go so easy on you.”

·.✧ ✦ ✧.·

[ay0nha]

Don't Bite the Hand That Feeds | Lucius Verus Aurelius

SUMMARY: "Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind.  “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?"

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader (arranged marriage for political reasons)

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

WARNINGS: canon-typical things, not much, mentions of alcohol, old-timey language, Google-accurate Roman empire things, dancing, arranged marriage, talks of lineage, angsty-ish, quotes from various people like Nina Simone and Octavia Butler sprinkled into dialogue,  etc. 

A/N:  I quickly wrote this in a few days with the amazing help of @astrd00. This is just sort of an introduction to my fic idea so apologies if it's a little boring. Arranged marriage trope sort of colleagues to friends to lovers. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment it really helps me to keep going! More to come, enjoy!

The Latin translates to: a water drop hollows a stone, not by force but by frequent falling.

Everyone clung to the fog of death in the air with stiff fingers, unwilling to let their proof of newly promised freedom go. They celebrated in the streets, disregarding the savagery that occurred only months ago. The public enjoyed the amnesia, looking to Lucius not solely for responsibility but as a new object to place culpability. 

Yet, the heaviness permeated Lucius’ marrow. He hid it well behind the mask of authority. Even a sharp eye would miss the way it restrained him, intentionally ignorant of a flaw in their new leader.

It might have even been seen as a strategic move, a way to humanize the gladiator who seemed to defy the Gods. Strategy outside the arena was new, different from the portrayed brute that dusted his hands with sand. What lay in his palms now was similar to that of a child’s heart, beating rapidly with a not-yet-known burden of life. It was heavy and warm, begging for unwavering loyalty from its possessor. 

Lucius remained delicate with his hold, but the heart wanted more from him. Strength and honor would soon no longer suffice. It needed sustenance worthy of devotion and destruction. His eyes were steady on this phantom heart until those around him required his attention. 

“Emperor—” A magistrate repeated, voice raising enough to tease an echo. The new title sat heavily on Lucius’ shoulders, contorting his body into a position that mimicked Atlas.   “Our suggestion should not be taken lightly, it is for the prosperity of your Rome.”

Scrutiny wasn’t found in his tone or bitterness behind the remark but rather in genuine regard. However, there was an intention behind the ownership of Rome, a hint at the generational promise.  

“The public can wonder, speculate, but they do not see beyond the issue.” He continued, watching the twitch on Lucius’ face. “You may not like the mere thought, but gutta cavat lapidem, non vi sed saepe cadendo.” The magistrate paused, his words lingering. “How much longer until Rome is hollow once again?”

“This order is a fallacy.” Lucius finally made contact, eyes surveying those around him. “There is a need for trust, yes. And yet, you ask for deception?” 

“You misunderstand us, Emperor.” Another member of the senate spoke, hoping to alleviate tension. “There would be no deception in this union, only fortification of the reigning; an image for the people to find themselves in.”

 “Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind.  “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?”

—

You smiled through the wine-fueled chattering of the ceremony, appeasing those who had just witnessed your union, but your focus moved beyond the conversation and revelry.  Above you was a darkened sky that mimicked night. Rain poured down, tempting you to fall prey to its numbing hold. 

The Gods are favoring your union, you were told when the sky opened. Divine intervention.  

But you knew the Gods were fickle, always testing your will against temptation. It was a test sent for you, one that an elaborate wedding and an emperor declaring your shared existence hid well. 

So you ignored the call of the humidity, being dutiful to your new role as empress. People bowed to you and nearly cried at how beautifully you paired with your new counterpart. Even as you sat on the marble throne beside Lucius you couldn’t deny their exactness. 

“Don’t worry, they’ll soon pass out from the wine.” You spoke softly, eyes ahead at your guests as you spoke to your husband. His grip on your hand fidgeted exposing his anxiety.  

Lucius paused, determining if honesty was worthwhile. His self-awareness was enough to remind him how unfamiliar he was with the environment that consumed his senses. 

“It is for them.” You nodded ahead to the crowd. The room was hot from the amount of bodies swirling around.   “Remind yourself of this when their faith falters.”

Lucius looked at you, attention trained on your profile. Even with a soft veil over your features, you were so absolute. 

“I know my purpose here. You are still learning yours.” You continued. “All I ask of you is that when they falter you place your trust in our bond.”

“I will place it where it is due.” There was your gladiator. The defiance comforted you. 

“Those around you are untroubled by that; all they crave is to spit on the fallen. It doesn’t matter if you are one of them, they are quick to turn.” You sharpened. “Be careful; join the sinful and you will be remembered with spite and desperation.”

You spoke of hidden things, of politics that lingered like venom in the bloodstream of the empire. Lucius knew not to mistake your words for ulterior motives. You were direct in your vows to further his image of a new Rome, it was why you were chosen to be by his side. Your mind was clear. You read the room perfectly, unraveling every detail of what was inherited. 

“My legacy does not motivate me,” Lucius stated. His ears attuned to you and you only, enraptured in how deeply you spoke as if it was a common thought. “I will not look to them for fame.” 

“You will, conscious or not. And once you do, you will not be able to look away.” You smiled pitifully as though you knew something he didn’t. “Just as they watched you fight, you misunderstand the impact of what is before you.”

“You believe that little of me?” There was a swirl of censure in his chest despite the small smile pulling at his lips.  

“There is opportunity to win, but that is a fool’s goal—

“To win?” Lucius scoffed. “Even you have been mislead, then. Thinking that there is a conquest waiting to happen.”

“I do not wish to insult you.” Your thumb adjusted against his fingers. It was in your nature to be candid, but at times you placed your frustrations unfairly. You softened. “Your promise of growth will help amend this.”

Lucius wished to pull away from you. He needed to think, to be separated from the feigned festivities adjoined to love. This was love; love created not between two people, but shared by you and him for Rome. 

That was not to say you were birds of a feather. 

Your strengths were found in your experience. Although young, you were no novice to how to hold your chin high while delivering truths to the senate. You learned from your uncle, an official who raised you on the true meaning of government. You were clever. The public viewed you as such. You were of noble status and fit to stand before them. 

What you lacked was a specific connection that Lucius brought to the people. He was one of them, raised humbly, hands worn from the earth’s harvest and war forced upon him. Lucius spoke well to them, building comradery with every way of life. 

“I would never ask you to compromise your beliefs. I know better than to think you’d behave.” You teased at his rebellion, hoping the guard that was up would calm. “Besides, a well-mannered lover is an offense.”

 “We are not lovers.” It was sterile in tone but revealed emotions long since buried.

“And we are not enemies.” You were quick, reading between his words to find the insult. 

“My lord!” A raspy voice begged for attention. “My lady!” 

You stood, bowing politely to the affluent man before you. He took advantage of the night; jewels adorned every finger that pulled at the elaborate fabric of his outfit. 

“It is time.” The rasp withered when he lowered to speak to you directly. His arms went wide as if inviting a hug, but he spun skillfully to face the audience. 

“Time?” Lucius looked to you. 

The man boomed over the forgotten rain. ““It is time!” 

Standing, you didn’t release Lucius’ hand. There was resistance on his end, wanting to remain sedentary and silent to wait out the rest of the night. 

“Our dance.” You answered to his wide eyes. Your guests cheered, clearing space. “It is customary to rise together and move as one. It will complete the ceremony.”

He rose at your words, not much of a choice otherwise than to follow. 

The fabric of your dress swam behind you, kissing the floor with each step toward the middle of the marble floor. The dress looked like water cascading down your body, hiding each bend and swell of your body. Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space. 

“May the rain create a river to fertility.” The man held a contagious grin that spread around the room. 

Prosperity and posterity.  This is what they wanted. Lucius alone was not enough. The bloodline was more important than a single figure. It hadn’t needed to be discussed as it was the obvious forethought for your unification. 

The officials of the republic were more concerned about your fecundity and frame than the knowledge you held. It was a typical belief, one that you expected. Your fingers itched to bring your willingness to support the new decree to play and if this was your path to it, so be it.  

You remained clinical at the thought. It was a means to an end rather than something to be meditated on. The way Lucius hardened at the man’s words told a story from another perspective where the political became personal. You did not miss the ring on his pinky that rubbed against a new gold one. 

“Does the great gladiator know how to dance?” Your voice flowed to Lucius only knowing the opportunity rarely presented itself. 

The music shifted from something fast-paced to something more melodic that would encourage you both to move swiftly but attractively. You knew your words would hit a nerve, but it was strategic to motivate Lucius’ hesitant hands. 

“It is a back and forth. A push and pull.” You guided your hand to press against his palm, meeting together as if you were to pray. “Just like the arena, no?”

Lucius’ eyebrows pinched together. Not out of curiosity or frustration. He was genuine in his response. 

“Rarely is a touch this…subdued.” Soft.  

“Shall I spin you in circles, then?” Your painted lips were easier to see now that Lucius was close. He saw as they rose through your veil with the quip. “Disorientate you to the point of submission?”

Your arms weaved behind your back still connected to Lucius’. The dance was simple, one practiced as children. There were very few steps and wistful gestures that even the familiar still enjoyed. 

“Those are my only options? Coercion or blind fealty.” 

It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise. You vetted his blank gaze for proper determination of his upset. 

It was odd to see Lucius so close, your memory had failed to cast such a strong light on him. Once overgrown hair had been trimmed to only curl at the nape of his neck. Dirt was cleared from every line of his face.  He was still rugged, but you saw through the exterior to find a boy.  

A boy who had been stripped of child-like wonderment and care. Instead, he held his broad shoulders high and an expression that lingered from his exile. Lucius’ skin perked every time your dress acted as a barrier between the two of you, a warning that whatever you offered had to be earned.  

“I do not ask much of you, Emperor...” You put it simply, knowing your worth and wisdom. You needed to be promised his word that against anything you would be beside each other.  “...so I will not ask again.”

“You are not satisfied with the trust of the marriage alone,” Lucius stated his question like an observation. “You wish I promise myself to you in ways which I may not be able to provide.” 

“Able or willing?” 

Your faces were close, noses mirroring each other as you turned on beat.  You could feel the warmth of your frustration start in your chest, only to spread across your skin as goosebumps.  

“The past and the future press so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.” You spoke again before he could answer.  “You must decide where you belong.” 

The music returned to Lucius’ ears. Its melody weighed down your words, letting them settle deeply in his mind. His head spun with thoughts busy on reasoning.  Perhaps he was too guarded for his own good, but he’d gotten himself this far relying only on himself. He had held in a great deal. Often he felt he couldn't speak until the waters overflowed their banks and broke through the dam. 

Those around him garnered support, but this was different. You understood what freedom was; it meant no fear. Fear rolled right off of you. Fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of.

The music slowed coming to an end. Lucius removed his hands from your body but didn’t venture far. His calloused fingertips followed the seam of your soft veil to meet the laced end. Once there, he gently revealed your true manner. 

Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze, it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions. What Lucius found was someone gifted. It was a marvel he hadn’t heard of you until you presented yourself as the wise option for him to marry. 

Although you ran in many circles, your name wasn’t whispered among the council. They didn’t believe beauty and wit could fit within the reach of a woman. Yet, here you stood. A new challenge to be accepted. Lucius resisted the urge to swallow quick breaths as if he were going to endure a blow from Viggo. His body agitated in preparation, but looking at you so wholly all he could muster was concession.

 “You have my word.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[angeliicheartt]

Can you do what the bnha boys would do if they were jealous?🤭 (text or headcanon, whatever works for you) (Shoto, Katsuki, Midoryia, and Shinso are my favs btw!) I love your writing idk why it’s just too good

ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴏʏ!

includes: katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, izuku midoriya, and hitoshi shinso

fem!reader

a/n: headcanons & smau, first time writing izuku tell me how it is, send an ask if you want other characters 🤗

ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏ

⟁ probably the most jealous (maybe tied with shinso)

⟁ as we know, not above threatening (and more)

⟁ will likely be kind of grumpy till you get him alone and then he's a clingy bitch (with love)

ꜱʜᴏᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴅᴏʀᴏᴋɪ

❆ won't say anything, but his hand's on your waist and if a look could kill, the guy talking to you would be dead.

❆ if the guy ain't stopping he will walk up with his "defying authority" tone and rip into him

❆ honestly very patient most of the time with the whole situation (he’s sassier in the smau)

ɪᴢᴜᴋᴜ ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪʏᴀ

ϟ doesn’t really care about the guy talking to you, he trusts you completely, until he realizes you look uncomfortable

ϟ pulls up his hero pants and gets the guy away from you

ϟ sososo understanding

ʜɪᴛᴏꜱʜɪ ꜱʜɪɴꜱᴏ

〄 HIS HANDS ARE ALL OVERRR YOU

〄 very very threatening presence, guard dog asf

〄 prob the most intimidating

[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER

HEADCANNONS: before Leiths backstabbing

When Pierre Leith first introduced you both when you were working in the project "bigger bodies" he though it would be good to have Sawyer a little bit more controlled. Your personality and insistence on defying authority made you a good match.

Little did he knew that eventually you would actually start getting along with the doctor, which meant that he had two insubordinate pricks to worry about.

Reader does have compassion and some kind of affection towards Doey, but they ignore it in favour of their own ambitions and the project.

Thats the reason they try not to use cold as much with Doey, only when it's really necessary.

Before your friendship/companionship started to develope, the doctor usually appeared more to respond to Pierre's demands or to talk to the executives but since he doesn't really like doing it and does it out of obligation, he often ask you to talk on behalf of both of you.

That's how the scientific team, the specialist, Pierre, Ludwig and other coworkers started getting used to you being basically the voice of Sawyer outside the lab.

You had enough trust on each other to be able to talk in behalf of the other. (Mostly you since Harley doesn't seem to eager to socialise).

At first, when Doey was recently woken up and he still was getting used to their new body. You and Sawyer would go together to the interviews to record the development of the experiment. Some day out of the blue, Doey started to react aggressively to the doctor, only to him so he started to avoid going to the interviews with the mass and stayed in the observation room.

The doctor sometimes gets actually happy about some improvement his experiments may have but he expressed it with a poker face, a raised brow and the slightest change in his voice.

*Yarnaby actually starts listening for once*

Sawyer: ah, that's so interesting-actually glad for once-

(Y/N):are you actually happy or you're just being awfully sarcastic??

You never actually talked about what you guys like in terms of food or drinks so since sometimes you went to the cafeteria in the upper levels to get some food, your started to bring him random stuff for him to try and watch his reaction in order to find out what he liked. Basically using him as a guinea pig with trial and error.

Harley suspects that that's the reason you've been bringing random stuff with you and offering it to him.

I think he has certain favouritism for Yarnaby so sometimes he makes you test him more than usual even though he knows that he won't get a different response from the yarn lion other than animal like reactions. With time it just turned into an excuse to spend time with you. Your company is actually enjoyable after all.

You both are difficult people to deal with in a work environment. You both like control over things and you are both willing to go to any lengths to reach your ends.

This also comes with certain differences that sometimes makes both your works a little bit unbearable. On one hand we have you, you tend to joke and slip sarcastic comments here and there without any filter, you're cunning, more than he initially assumed. Harley is not used to this so it makes him get really irritated when you don't seem to take something seriously, even though he respects your lack of filter in everything you say.

On the other hand, there's him, he's controlling and he gets easily angry. He's used to be in control so he tends to lash out whenever he's not the one in charge, a very self centered man. It never fails to annoy you how sometimes he just forgets that you're working there two. This was more noticeable during your early ages working together.

With time you have learned to adapt to each other in order to obtain better productivity. But still sometimes you get on each others nerves.

When it comes to physical contact, you guys are basically the definition of touch starved. Some more voluntarily than others...

But just there are moments when Sawyer can feel your hands brush against his when your passing him the paperwork about the experiments, or how your knees graze slightly when you're seated next to each other in the observation room.

You can feel sometimes his breath against your neck since the doctor doesn't know the meaning of personal space. You are inspecting the experiments from a footbridge and the doctor just stands right there, behind you, observing in silence.

And his voice, you have catched yourselves zooning out hearing at his smooth silky voice. When he spoke to Yarnaby like a pet or when he named the a list of experiments that he was expected to operate that day. The tone of his voice was like a kiss to your ears.

Once he fell asleep in his chair after days of exhausting procedures and since the air conditioner was to high and you couldn't really afford to keep up with the business rate without the doctor, you decided to put your own jacket on his shoulders and retired his glasses to the side of his desk.

When he woke up, he silently put your jacket back in your shoulders, his touch lingering way to long

Headcannons about the reader and the doctors relationship pre transformation. Part two of the fanfic I made is in progress...

I also redesigned the doctors human form: tell me what do you think??