#god it itches the inside of my brain just right

[grassbreads]

listen to this song boy

[f0ofishies]

FL*SHING THEM AFTER AN ARGUEMENT

tsukishima kei, ushijima wakatoshi, oikawa tōru

Tsukishima Kei, your beloved fiance. You loved the man to death, you swear.. it's just that he's always been like this. All of the damn time. There was one time when you argued over dinner because someone didn't want to eat Italian. Seriously? How'd you even date this guy and later on accept a ring from him.

Just kidding, he has his cute moments. The man had prioritized you a lot during his college days. He must've fallen hard for you, huh? When he did get on one knee, you thought it was a prank. Nonetheless, you said yes— already being engaged for 4 months, too!

Back on topic, he's always been a cranky mother fucker and even more when he lose that volleyball match. You looked at him— in astonishment. This man had the audacity to even be too confident in a little fun of chess?

You couldn't even believe the audacity of him. He'd been laughing at your move on your black horse.. "Gee, just get one with it, babe..!" Another ridiculing sentence from him could've sparked a fire inside you. "Hah? Seriously, why'd you even do this rematch— when you clearly don't know chess."

Your eye must've twitched at that, you love him, and you swear to that on your life. But, seriously, he's getting on your last nerve. As he quickly moved his queen, grabbing your knight in the process. You moved another piece as he smiled. "Thank god, we don't do rematches in volleyball."

Your joke immediately made his smirk turn sour. As you chuckled to your own statement, your eyes glanced up to his. He immediately gave a disgusted face at you. "What, Tsuki?—" You tease, almost pinching his face as he has moved away from your hand.

"What is your problem..?" Now that made you raise an eyebrow. "My problem—?" He can't be serious right now. And that's how he ended up giving you the silent treatment, ending the chess match when it just started. You were utterly confused... even bewildered by his actions

Knowing your fiance won't crumble to a piece of you, you just quickly called out. "Kei?" He didn't even look at you.. oh, so that's how he was going to play. "Tsuki?" No budge, huh? The man had some nerves for ignoring his future wife. "Tsukishima Kei." Last call, he finally whipped his head to you.

Rolling your shirt up— his golden brown eyes dilated at the sight of your perky, wait, wait, this was cheating. "That's right, doofus.. I know you can't ignore them." You could totally hear the clogs in his brain working. Even bouncing them a bit— He quickly pulled your shirt down. "Hey—! what was that for??"

"You're in one hell of a ride, do that shit again. I dare you, baby."

How much aura did you gain after marrying the Ushijima Wakatoshi? You, the lovely wife, as ever.. had always been the cheeky one in the marriage. During one of his games, you'd literally chant his name out so loud. Maybe the whole stadium could hear you.

He'd be there happily, holding the ring chained around his neck. Giving you a small smile— You couldn't help but beam as you show off your ring finger too! Now that was months ago, your husband came home in a sour face after meeting his parents.

"Baby, how were your parents?" You asked him, quickly smiling as you cooked your signature curry. "Fine like usual." His deep voice caught you off guard as you felt a hand crept behind you. "Oh, so what did they—" "Can we not." You tilted your head.. "Sure.. okay." You compiled because who were you to say anything about that?

You looked at him as he ate, he felt your stare. "Yes, love?" The way your hand had been tapping on to counter.. like crazy. Lost in thought, you look up at him. "Toshi.. you know you can tell me anything?" Of course he knew that so he raised an eyebrow. "I know."

You were itching to know why he's so persistent on not telling you why.. he would usually just tell you at this point. But he seriously didn't want to talk about it, so he dismissed your concerns once again. "But babe.." You whined.. something in him just snapped.

"No, can you stop trying?" You huffed at his tone of language.. it was kind of your fault for being this nosy. So now here you were having a full blow argument. Were you petty? Definitely, a hundred percent. So when your husband had genuinely left you in the kitchen. You huffed—

Clearly, he needed a lot of space, huh? Shutting the bedroom door very tight— you wanted to go sleep there, but how? He had locked it from the inside. "Toshi..?" You called out. No answer. "Ushijima Wakatoshi!" You yelled out and finally the familiar 'click!' You finally let out a sigh and practically go in fast.

He's still on the bed, clearly trying to sleep. "Toshi..~" Your sweet velvety voice intoxicating him then sliding onto the bed— even straddling onto him. Still, the man laid bare, not even checking you out. You intentionally grind, trying to find the best friction. His hands finally with all of its glory wrapped around your hips.

"Look up." Your command might've sent a shudder on your poor husband. The blood pumping down to his familiar friend down there— oh how a vixen you were.. Seriously, he saw the way you held your shirt up. Those breasts out in the air just for him. "Mmm? Want it bad?"

"I swear, wife— you're always all talk and no action.."

That Argentinan volleyball player was taken by you! Who knew he had the hots for you. Tōru Oikawa, he had recently left Japan for Argentina.. then he met you. Somehow, you two clicked. Clearly, you only thought he was just getting into your pants but nope!

The infamous girlfriend of the volleyball player never really visited his games. Probably because your work always consumed your time. Tōru was beyond okay with that— of course he was. But after such a long tiring game, all he wanted to do was a date night with you. Sadly, you were still out at work.. in overtime. How could you not remember it at all? When you came home, his first response was immediate silence. Seriously nothing!!

"Tōru?" You called out in the shared apartment, finally slipping off your shoes. Stretching your arms wide as no response. "...Babe?" You called out once more. Absolutely nothing— you panicked, of course. Already running around to find him.That's when you spotted your sulky boyfriend, buried deep into the bed among all the plushies you have.

"Shit, babe.. did something happen at practice?" You asked him as he finally noticed your presence. An immediate huffed was heard, thanks to him. "Babe..? Baby..!!" You whined the petname, trying to uncover the blankets.

There he was, your lovely boyfriend. Tōru glared at you, those dark brown hues of his. "What's made you so sour..?" You asked him once more, trying to coerce him out of his moodiness. "I wonder why." He interrupted you, that made you raise an eyebrow. "Babe..."

You were utterly clueless, even when he avoided your touches. It suddenly clicked to you, a promise to him on for a date. You internally groan at that, "Shit, Tōru you know I didn't mean to forget.." Your hand itching to grasp his— yet he pulled away once again. "You always forget about me.." He whined into your shared pillows. "No I don't.. baby.. I'll make it up to you!!" You try to reason with him.

That's what got him to lash out at you. You did kind of deserve it— so here you are on the bed trying to get a sulky Tōru out of your shared bedroom once more. An idea popped into your head! "Tōru.. I have something to show you.." You found the man finally walk out of the bedroom. His disheveled appearance still looked way too good for your own eyes.

Your fingers found their way to your blouse— giving him a sweet smile. Only halfway through, you were damn thankful for picking a good bra for today. "Baby, I'm really sorry.." You whispered. And finally— your breasts were in full view of his sight. Nothing could have prepared you for the feral Tōru ravishing you!

The man was full on groping your breasts, even fiddling with those buds.. was he really that turned on? You couldn't believe you've let him play with you like this. On the tips of your heels— you needed more friction down there, too. So you whined at him, how your cunt needed his fingers too! And that's what he did, dipped them into your soaked panties.

"Fffuck— that's not fair, babe.. yknow your boobs and pussy are my weakness..!"

[sinstear]

── you sunk your teeth into me, oh, bloodsucker.

my brain is itching at the thought of vi x vampire!reader like i just can’t stop. god. 18+ fingering, vi!receiving, dirty talk, blood (not much, i think), vampire!reader, dom!reader, kinda softdom! reader, sub!vi, needy!vi, squirting. two idiots in love with each other honestly.

the secluded bedroom of the castle was off limits to everyone. no one was allowed in or out without your say-so. what kind of queen would you be if you willingly let people into the room that you’re safest in? let them see beyond the darkness that you carry? the secrets you bury to stay hidden?

violet was the only exception. the only one allowed in your safe quarters without having to ask. the sweetest human you’ve ever met. one that hasn’t tried to kill you … yet. you’re sure she might any second. you aren’t sure, maybe she’ll release the strong grip she has on your shoulder and push you away, curse you out for your relentless teasing on her and her cunt. but she doesn’t, not yet, she just sinks more into the messy sheets below her, throws an arm over her face and whimpers into the cold air.

you don’t know where to look. remove her arm to look at her face? watch the way her teeth sink into her bottom swollen plump lip? take note of the way her chest heads with each breath as you curl your fingers inside her? lean up and take one of her hard nipples in your mouth, bit down on the soft bud until she cries out for more? there’s so many options, but your brain answers for you when you look back down to between her legs, walls clamping around your long fingers tightly, pulling you back in without restraint and vi chokes on a whine when you’re scoffing under your breath, muttering about how pretty her cunt is taking you so well. “poor baby needs to cum, hm?” you cooed, trailing your lips up her inner thigh, enjoying the twitch beneath.

violet’s arm flies away from her face, reaches down and grips the sheet in a tight fist, knuckles turning white and she grits her teeth. “stop teasin’ me, i beg of you, just—” there’s a silent pause, it’s heavy, her eyes meet yours and her pulse jumps when she catches you, feels you, slowly brushing the sharp fang across her skin. she should be scared, right? push you away and never let you do that again? but she doesn’t, her cunt clenches around your fingers even tighter, confirming she was okay, and her lips part with a soft breathless gasp.

and she curses at herself when your lips curl into a devilish yet knowing smirk. she likes it way too much.

nipping at her skin, you hum at her pleas and gasps, thumb reaching up and rubbing slow, rhythmical circles on her clit. there’s a glint in your eye, a sparkle even, vi notices without having to look hard enough and it causes her heart to thump in her chest. you hear it loudly— too loudly, you also hear the pumping of her blood beneath your lips, and for a second, she has to sink her teeth into her lip to stop the whimper that’s clawing at her throat when your eyes darken, shimmers of red taking their rightful place again.

“so dirty making those pretty sounds for me when you know how badly i wanna taste you, how badly i control myself around you, you love it don’t you? you love being my weakness,” you murmur in a soft growl, not taking your eyes off her.

“yes,” she answers too quickly, not sparing the consequences when you’re sliding your fingers out, and then back in before she can blink, fingertips brushing against her walls deliciously. “fuckk,” she cries, hips bucking into you, hand gripping the sheet tighter and involuntarily pushing her thigh closer to your mouth. “stop teasing me, please, please.”

your eyebrow quirks up, teeth nipping harder at her skin and your body bursts with warmth when her hands fly off and away from the sheet, and cups the back of your head. “patience, pretty, let me have my fun with you first, hm?” you grin, eyes flickering back to her cunt, slick dripping down her folds, coating your knuckles and the blood rushes to your head at the obscene squelching. “you’re so wet. so wet when you’re thinkin’ about letting me sink teeth into you, letting me taste you.” vi’s whimper makes your cunt clench around nothing and you smirk at the way her clit throbs beneath your thumb. “so impatient, so needy to cum, aren’t you, sweet?”

vi’s body blooms with a blush, she nods, waits to feel your teeth against her skin again and her eyes flutter closed when you’re sinking your fingers deeper, curling them against all the right spots inside her that has her toes curling and body trembling. her breath trembles, hands clamp up with sweat at the subtle sounds coming from between her legs mixed with your groans and growls, watching her take you so easily. “just… just like that, please,” she hums, licks her lips and slowly grinds her hips, meeting your thrusts effortlessly. “oh fuck, shit—” 

you shamelessly watch the way your fingers disappear and reappear, coming out wetter each time, the sight causing a growl to rumble in your chest. you’re hot headed, even vi isn’t sure how you’ve managed to control every single one of your desires, your need for her, but you have and the thought alone has her squeezing around your fingers, slick oozing and coating your fingers.

“fuck, that’s pretty,” you groaned, screwing your eyes shut and planting sloppy kisses right on the favoured spot of her inner thigh. listening to the thumping of blood. “you’re so— shit, you’re just so sweet all over, ain’t ya?”

it’s small, but vi let’s it happen, she nudges her thigh even more into your mouth, her clit throbs and her walls flutter around your fingers; her heart thumps faster, and she gasps when you growl against the blooming hickey, and you wish she could hear the way your cunt practically screams when she whimpers out a small please, and nudges her thigh dangerously close. the sharp fang grazing that spot you’ve had your eye on all night. “need it, need you to.”

your eyes find hers, and she inhales sharply; your eyes are asking the silent question. she’s known you long enough to figure you out. are you sure you know what you’re asking for? and when she nods, not trusting her voice, you slide your fingers in deeper, curling them, nudging the spot inside her that has her gasping, quicker and faster than she’s ever felt before. vi’s eyes flutter closer, her hand coming down to cup the back of your neck and her blunt nails dig into your skin.

the pinch is barely there at first, nothing too drastic, just a nip and a lick, but then she feels it. she feels the way your sharp fangs suddenly puncture her skin, her eyes snapping shut, her cunt practically clamping and spasming around your fingers, her back arches off the bed, hips bucking up into you and her body goes rigid when she cums over your fingers with a wailed cry. “oh my fuck—”

violet’s body trembles beneath your hold, weakly pushes herself up on her elbows and looks down at you. a thick sheet of sweat coats your forehead, your fingers moving at a relentless pace, still curling and fucking into her, but it’s your face. the way your eyebrows pinch forward in a tight frown, eyes flutter closed and she can’t hold back the whimper, which mixed with your guttural moan, that tears through her throat as you sink your fangs deeper into her thigh and suck harder. 

“baby, fuck, need you to—” the words die on her throat, her mind and body too focused on the feeling of her stomach fluttering again due to your fingers fucking into her cunt like it was made for you, her hips grinding back against yours fingers and you’re lost in her taste. you can’t focus, won’t focus, you’re not too bothered by the fact she’s gonna cum again, too busy letting your body ignite with the taste of her in your veins, all in your mouth, fuck even running down your throat. 

“gonna cum—” you don’t stop, keep your fingers moving, and her thigh jerks, taking you out of your sudden trance to look up and her looking down at you with flushed cheeks, plump lips and a trembling breath. it’s different for her, feels different, and vi’s scrambling to hold onto you again, tighter than humanly possible, a final curl of your fingers has her body thrashing, vision whitening and her eyes rolling into the back of her head. spurts of sticky spray coat your wrist, drenching your shirt and violet whines loudly when your mouth is on her. greedly, and messily licling and sucking at her clit, taking more and more from her. “s’too much,” she cries, still grinding against your mouth. “fuckkkk.”

you stay there for a few minutes, lazily sucking her clit and fucking her through her orgasm until she moans softly, thighs clenching around your head and her breath quivers when you sit up slowly, carefully removing your fingers from her. “you are—” you pause to catch your breath and stroke her hip. “insatiable.”

“shut up,” she murmurs and covers her face with her arms shyly. unaware of your gaze at her, then shifting to the bite mark on her thigh. her heart thumps again, cunt clenches around nothing when she feels your fingers brushing over it lightly, like a feather. “are you—”

“i didn’t hurt you, did i?” you asked, suddenly nervous.

violet shakes her head quickly, reaching out and grabbing your hand and interlocking her fingers with yours. “no, you didn’t hurt me, could never hurt me,” she admitted softly and stroked your knuckles. “promise.”

you study your interlocked hands, then you meet her eyes; they’re soft, gazing into yours like you’re the only person who exists in her world and you smile when she kisses your hand. “you’re so pretty,” you found yourself murmuring.

“i look like a mess.” 

reaching up and cupping her face with your free hand, you smiled and shook your head. “a pretty mess.” you admitted. 

violet looked at you for a few minutes, as did you, just staring and admiring. it was a comfortable silence. the sound of yours and her breathing could be heard, the sound of crows outside the window, and she found herself sitting up and shuffling closer to you. a look gleamed in her eye. “what are you thinking?” 

sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, which didn’t go unnoticed by you, vi shook her head and squeezed your hand. “s’nothing—”

“sure as hell looks like something,”

“i just— can you fuck me?” so shy and pliant. 

quirking your eyebrow, you couldn’t help but laugh at her question. “fuck you? did i not just make you cum and squirt?”

“no! i know, i just, with—”

“oh,” you paused and nodded your head. letting go of her cheek, you gripped her chin between your fingers and stroked her bottom lip. “you wanna be fucked with my cock don’t you?” 

her cheeks flush, voice wavers and eyes flutter closed, shyly nodding under your intense gaze. “yes, please.” violet whimpers.

“such pretty manners,” your lips find her neck, her pulse jumps and your clit throbs. your eyes flutter closed, inhaling deeply and brushing your fangs against the curve in her neck that meets her shoulder. “gonna take my cock like a good girl?”

violet nods pathetically, and then opens her mouth. “yes, whatever you want, but please, need you to fuck me, please.”

she doesn’t miss the way your smirk widens and your eyes darken the seconds the pleas are rushing out her mouth. nor does she miss the way you lick of the dried blood on your chin. the sight has her weak in the knees and clenching around nothing. pathetic. “m’gonna fuck you so good that you’ll be thinking of me whenever you touch yourself. gonna ruin you for anyone else, sweet.”

[pinkusmaximus]

So many “taking care of Logan after a long day” fics exist. Why not Wade?

Wade, who is canonically in constant chronic pain due to cancer ripping apart his cells and then being knitted back together by his healing factor. Who, in the comics, isn’t just scarred, but constantly has open wounds on every plane of his body. Whose brain is constantly being literally eaten by cancer and replaced and is tumultuous in his emotions at best (bipolar girly here, relatable). Who so desperately tries to be a good guy when he knows it matters the most. Who throws his all into protecting the people he holds dearest to him. Who is, in reality, doing one of the only jobs that accommodates his conditions, and is still doing it to take out people he believes are causing others harm.

Doesn’t he deserve to be greeted with a warm, reassuring hug and a soft kisses to his features? To be helped out of his suit as his body succumbs to the mounting exhaustion and relief at being at home, taken to a warm (but not hot) bath with a soothing soak blend you’d carefully researched to ease the discomfort of the ever-changing landscape of hills and valleys in his flesh? He knows you know that they don’t help him heal and certainly doesn’t prevent them from reappearing, but he likes to believe (or pretend) that it eases the itch and ache, if only for just a little while.

He likes it when you sit with him, asking gently probing questions about your day to get you talking and less concerned about him. And he likes hearing about your day, the mundane and even routine things that he lacks. He likes it when you offer to help wash the blood off of him, knowing that your careful hands will be gently massaging away at his aching muscles. It’s one of the few times he’s really quiet; letting your hands work off the red to leave behind Wade, just Wade.

When you help him out of the bath, leaving him to the bedroom with his favorite pajama pants and one of seemingly unending shirts with phrases like I GOT MY CLIT PIERCED AT CLAIRE’S or I MAY BE STUPID, you return to the kitchen to take dinner out of the oven. Some kind of one-sheet-pan recipe you’d looked up earlier in the day while you were at work. Whatever it is, it smells amazing from in the bedroom, and he quickly comes out to wrap his arms around your waist and lean over your shoulder to take a deeper whiff, calling you Martha Stewart and Guy Fieri’s bastard scandal child or asking if you were extracted straight out of Gordon Ramsey’s left nut.

You have a lovely dinner with Wade singing your praises the entire time, and god, it knocks him right out. Do not let that man go sit on the couch after a good, filling meal like that, because that is where he will pass out and you couldn’t move him with a forklift. Take him by both hands, lead him into the bedroom, get him on the bed (let him make his comments, they are unavoidable whether he’s horny or not), turn the lights off, and crawl under the covers with him. Press your body as close to his as possible; he’ll probably want to be skin to skin if he can stay awake long enough to get you both out of your clothes. And to perhaps everyone’s surprise except yours, it’s really not all that sexual in nature. He finds the smoothness of your skin soothing against his own, and he runs a little cold, so he finds refuge in the warmth you provide. He likes to pull the covers up to your noses and kiss you under the blankets like you’re hiding some big secret, making you giggle as he shushes you to keep quiet.

His favorite place to sleep on nights like this is with his ear against your chest; the sound of your heart still beating and your lungs still pulling in air is a great comfort to him. If it’s comfortable, he’ll want to fall asleep with your fingers lazily entwined, and pro tip— he finds it incredibly relaxing to have you run your fingertips along his palm, down his wrist and up in the inside of his forearm then all the way back down until he falls asleep. Congratulations, you’ve got yourself a content and quiet Wade all to yourself until morning. Enjoy it. Make sure you kiss his cheeks and nose and forehead while you’re at it; it makes him smile in his sleep.

[mercy-burning]

A Kindness You Can't Afford

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Summary: Something that started out as 'stress relief between co-workers' is now a little concerning to you, but for some reason you can't help but keep letting Spencer walk through your door... Rating: Mature (18+) Content: Strong language, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering, blink-and-you'll-miss-it choking, squirting (As always, let me know if I missed anything!) Word Count: 2.7k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: @imagining-in-the-margins sent me lyrics to Hozier's It Will Come Back to entice me to write something for her monthly challenge (which is themed Friends With Benefits), and then this happened. You can thank her for this. And also Emily Henry, because I read Happy Place and Beach Read back to back recently, and DAMN IT if I wasn't itching to do some romance-writing of my own. Sure, this one is less romance and more porn without plot, but I digress. The inspiration is there and that's all that matters. Plus I've started working on something else that probably won't see the light of day for a long while, but it's nice to feel the motivation. I'm starting to feel like myself again :) I don't know how long this creative sparkling cloud of dust is going to last, but I'm grateful to be living in it, if at least for a little while. It feels good to be there again <3

Enjoy!!

*******

There's a small pit in your gut that only deepens when you hear a knock at the door. A chill permeates your nervous system and sends you off on shaky limbs until you reach it, and as your palm comes in contact with the cool metal of the doorknob, you're disappointed to discover that the contrast does nothing to comfort the hot and clammy skin. Unless the person behind the door turns out not to be who you think, you will not know that comfort.

You open the door anyway, already used to this feeling of unease. It's a feeling you've come to tolerate, and sometimes even crave in desperate moments. Tonight has not seen one of those moments, but you suppose that doesn't really matter because you've already agreed to his terms, and unless you call it off, you're stuck. You've seriously considered doing it a few times, but something deep inside tells you he might not like it very much, and you're unsure of how he'll react.

It isn't a risk you're willing to take.

And so, you meet Spencer Reid with a bright smile, pretending not to know why he could possibly be outside your door past 9pm. He looks a little sleep deprived, but it's nothing new. Your work is exhausting. It was a major deciding factor and is the driving force behind your agreement in the first place. A way to relieve stress. Somewhere along the way, it seemed to have turned into something darker, though in retrospect that darkness has always been there. You often think back to the first time you initiated intimacy— how excited you were that he seemed willing to take you up on the offer... How your head swam through glittering mist and your heart beat quickly at his words.

"God, Y/N, I need you to be sure... Because once we go there, once you let me in... Even after I leave, I'm always going to be there... You're going to feel me everywhere you go, and that's a promise..."

In the moment it even sounded romantic, and in some twisted way, it might still be. But you don't want to let your brain misconstrue this whole situation. You've promptly decided to take it for what it is and accept the fact that he has some deep desires he needs to expel, and you're just a convenient companion for the journey.

"Spencer, you're here late..."

He exhales through his nose. "No later than usual."

"Right... Come on in." You widen the door and confidently step aside like you wouldn't know any different.

Rather than let you close the door, he'd taken your words as an invitation to make himself at home, pushing it shut with his foot and jolting you forward with it, subsequently pulling you towards him. His hands are quick to guide your face to his own, and without a second more in passing, the night has officially begun.

Electricity is immediate, sizzling through your core at Spencer's drive. It's true that when you're alone, it's difficult not to overthink the situation and rope the emotional and logical side of it to the forefront of your mind. But being with him like this dissipates the thinking entirely. All you know is that it feels so good, and it's absolutely worth all the turmoil you put your brain through.

It's worth it when his tongue possesses your own and coaxes the most sinful, desperate noises from the depths of your chest, and when your delicate fingers find purchase in his hair. It's worth it when your back is up against the door with his knee wedged between your thighs. It's worth it when his hand glides down your jaw until each finger curls around your neck, not choking you but simply resting there like a necklace would. He squeezes gently for a second each time you twitch your hips, desperate to feel friction, and you whimper.

You've come to learn that the more noises you make, the more he rewards you with... well, more. So it doesn't take very long for him to decide that enough is enough, and he pulls away from you to turn you around. You brace your arms on the door and lean your head to the left so he can work.

Warm lips attach to your neck as nimble fingers snake around your front and dip below the band of your lounge shorts and underwear. Your insides hum to life, and your legs naturally spread apart a little further, making Spencer laugh against your skin. You half expect him to tease you, but the surprise leaves your body in the form of a rather whorish Oh! when he spreads you apart and glides his fingers through your warm cunt. He explores you thoroughly, circling and spreading and plunging his fingers inside you, until eventually he continues a slow and steady pace running up and down your clit. You can feel it in his breath, in the way it stutters over your neck— He's about to give you your first orgasm of the night. If his skilled hands wouldn't do it (which you know they will), his words definitely would.

"Mmmm, I love how warm you are, Y/N," he slurs into your neck. Then he lightly nips at your shoulder and quickens the pace and pressure on your clit. "And how fucking messy you get for me..."

You know what he wants, but even if you hadn't, it still would have happened. The first time he made you squirt, he'd been determined to do it again. And again. In every different way possible. Over the course of your stress-relief-escapades you've come to learn that this particular way (with his hand down your loose-fitting shorts) is his favorite. He never strives to do it anymore unless you're wearing a pair. Perhaps it's the sounds, or the feeling of your damp clothes and the desperate need to peel them away in favor of something more solid, but it's become your favorite way, too.

Your nails scratch at the door as you pant and sigh your way through an intense building orgasm, and Spencer leans forward with you, using his free hand to assist in holding you up as he furiously works at your clit with the other. His chin rests on your shoulder as he huffs out, "Go on, baby, let it out..."

He knows you're close, and those final encouraging words seem to snap the coil tightening inside you. Your thighs tense for just a second before you feel every wave of pleasure crashing into every limb. And then, you're able to relax and ride it out, letting him hold you up and pull the orgasm out of you like magic. It's wet, it's warm, and it's fucking sensational...

You can practically see the wild look in Spencer's eyes even if you couldn't actually see him at all. His presence is always, as promised, so inherently there, that even now it's a vivid image. His pupils are an empty abyss, and if you look too closely you're sure to fall in. Hell, you're not even positive that you haven't already fallen in, because the thought of calling it all off when it feels this good seems, simply put, wrong. Why would you ever want to deprive yourself of this feeling? His possessive, damn-near monstrous way of loving you as concerning as it is, had taken you to the highest places you'd ever known. Even if it isn't 'love' on paper, you certainly love it anyway. And he must love it, too, otherwise he wouldn't keep coming back.

He only comes back because you let him in in the first place, the rational part of your brain tries to reason, though it can't quite break through the fog of lust. At this point, it's so thick that you aren't sure it's ever going to clear.

Not that, right now, you'd mind...

Once your breathing slows and your legs gather the strength to pivot, Spencer removes his hand from your shorts and gently guides you to turn around. His lips are on yours immediately, and he's tugging at your shorts and underwear to pull them down. They drop to the ground and without a second to spare, he tugs you along through your living room and over to the couch. It's practically a straight shot to the bedroom from here, but apparently time is not a luxury he can afford this evening, because you barely have time to anticipate what his next move might be before he makes it.

Mouths still attached, the two of you nearly fall on the couch, and Spencer's weight covers you like a blanket. His hips pin yours down and his arms have taken to pinning your own above your head. He nips at your bottom lip and pulls away for a moment, but you chase him, trying to lean up and keep kissing him and whimpering when you can't.

A low laugh exhales from his chest. "And I thought I was the needy one in this relationship..."

He shifts then, getting up and kneeling between your bare legs to start undoing his pants. Meanwhile you lift your shirt over your head, grateful you'd already ditched the bra earlier in the afternoon. Less time to waste.

Seeing you completely bare from head to toe and ready for him seems to amplify that animalistic quality in Spencer that's so unlike the aura of the boy you met years and years ago. Whether he had that quality before he'd met you is unknown, but it's hard to imagine. You like to think that you and you alone have single-handedly created this primal sexual being simply by expressing interest in what youcould offer him amongst the joint understanding of the daily hardships that leech onto a BAU agent. Regardless of the truth, the sheer sense of power it fills you with... In every deep stroke of his cock, in every mark left behind, and in every praise sung, there is this irreplaceable strength that you cling to long after he's gone.

No hard truth would ever take that feeling away, and so you can't help the grin that manifests at his urgency. You can tell he wants nothing more than to sink into you immediately; he visibly struggles for a moment before opting to fully slide his pants and underwear off together until they're tossed over somewhere into the abyss. You half-expect him to whip his shirt off to join them, but instead he lunges forward and covers you again, muffling your whimpers with his mouth as one hand guides himself into your slick cunt.

You can feel the rumble in his chest the moment he's all the way in and you clench around him. He rests his forehead to yours and kisses you deeply before asking, "You ready for me, Y/N?"

The low echoing tone in his voice seems to answer in the momentary silence that follows.

You better be... 

It sends a chill down to the marrow of your bones.

You barely whisper out, "Yes," and before the last letter leaves your mouth, Spencer has pulled back and snapped his hips forward, starting a slow and brutal pace inside you. Your legs spread wide naturally, giving him all the room in the world to position himself to handle you however he wants. He opts for holding your breasts in his palms, holding himself steady and pinning you down firmly to the couch cushions.

It doesn't take long for your eyes to start their descent to the back of your head, until they flutter shut and you're seeing stars behind closed lids. His pace quickens, still hard and determined, and yet you know he has more in him. Part of you itches to whine and beg for him to go farther, to push him to his limits and make him fuck you until you're nearly unconscious and delirious. And truthfully, that's still a high possibility, but you also wouldn't mind staying like this forever.

Then, one of his hands shifts and glides up to your neck again. You open your eyes and find Spencer staring down at your body with hair falling down in front of his face and sweat forming on his brow. His mouth hangs open and then grins when he catches you staring, the sight making you sigh out and grip the bottom hem of his shirt with your fingers for any kind of stability.

You're teetering on the edge of another orgasm, and by the way his face is slightly scrunching you can tell that he's not far behind you.

Just the flash-forward thought of him filling you up sends a jolt through your body, and before you know it, your legs are tensing again, and you're yelling out his name in broken syllables as a flood of warmth spreads through your body. For a split second you wonder if you've both come undone at the same time, but this feeling is different and more intense. Familiar.

The sounds filling the room only confirms your conclusion, and then Spencer's words as he pauses and feels you twitching around him.

"Twice in one night, huh?"

You force yourself to look at him, to see the unhinged pride pooling in his eyes as you finish and wait for him to follow suit. It both empowers and frightens you at the same time, an odd combination of feelings that you're sure to have a crisis about in the morning. But for now, you can't help but lean back and watch the ceiling as Spencer grips your hips and starts fucking you relentlessly into the couch.

Finally, he pauses at the hilt inside you and holds himself there, stuttering out expletives and coming. He pulls back and then forwards a couple times, gently rocking himself through it, and then his grip on your body loosens and you're able to pull him down to you.

You wrap your legs around him to keep him still, unwilling to let go of this feeling quite yet. It's there— that strength that he gives you, whether he knows it's there or not.

And in about an hour after you wash up and go to bed, he will be gone, and that strength will slowly fizzle out overnight, and like clockwork, you'll long to feel it again some time after the concern runs its course— After you replay the night in your head, over and over, analyzing every look and every touch and every reaction. After you frighten yourself into believing that he must be in tune with some level of evil to use you for rough sex and then leave you alone during the day and act like it never happened, even though it's literally what you agreed to.

The back and forth will only make living harder, and so you'll push it all away and focus on work. Until Spencer eventually brushes your arm with the back of his hand as he passes you, or hands you a cup of coffee with a kind smile, and then you'll come right back to wondering how such a gentle soul could hold such intensity. It will unnerve you until you tell yourself that it's just the complexities of the human condition and that every soul contains multitudes. You see it every day. It's not uncommon. It's completely normal.

The thought will calm you enough to get you through the rest of the afternoon, and when you get home, you'll settle in for the night without a second thought. You'll make dinner, watch a show, read a book, endlessly scroll online, or talk to Penelope about whatever show she's watching... You'll keep yourself busy.

And then the sun will set. Your house will grow quiet. You'll start to feel it: the small pit in your gut that only deepens when you hear a knock at the door. You'll meet Spencer Reid with a bright smile, pretending not to know why he could possibly be outside your door past 9pm.

So, yes. For now, you will hold onto him a little longer and bask in the afterglow of this exercise in 'stress relief'. Because even if it doesn't mean anything greater, and whether there's even anything within Spencer's motivations to decode in the first place... This moment in time, each time, is the most relieved you ever feel.

Your fingers flex gently over his shoulders, and through the soft, even exhaling of his breath across your cheek, you know for certain he feels the same.

*******

PERMANENT TAGLIST (tags not working are struck out): 

@starrylang @xoxospencerreid @lovejules888 @awesomebooklover17 @yourmisosoup @gubswh0re @venomsvl @this-is-doctor-and-its-calm @umbreonwolfy @hotchandspencearedilfs @spencerreidsmommy @abby2661 @youabitchhhh @reidsbabe @shemarmooresfedora @donald4spiderman @moonlight-2-6 @chaoticcatie @flipperpenguins @muffin-cup @centiaaa @foreveryoungxx3 @happymangospot @matthew-gray-gubler-lover

If you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist, feel free to message me or leave a comment and I’ll get on it right away!

[chuuniversal]

KISS ME THROUGH THE PHONE, BABY!

☆*:.｡ the pro hero red riot finds himself in a hard situation during a night away from you… how will you help him is the question

note from chuu: kiri has been picking at my brain since i saw the leaks and…i needed to scratch this itch. this is from an old fic i posted years ago but revamped <3 i hope you like!

cw: time-skip pro hero! kirishima, phone sex, mutual masturbation, sex toy, f! reader, pet names used (baby, pretty girl, baby boy, dollie), established relationship, slight praise, slight begging. MDNI!! BLANK/ AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED <3

distant overnight missions were always hard for pro hero red riot. he was forced to sleep in a cold, desolate hotel room that lacked the warmth you radiate, forced to sleep on a shitty queen mattress alone without your touch, and more importantly forced to handle his aching hard on. alone.

the clear, flesh light wrapped around kirishima’s cock can only do so much. it just doesn’t feel the same as you do. it can’t pull him in closer and leave deep red marks on his back and shoulders when he hits that sweet spot deep within you, definitely doesn’t whine and mewl his name the way you do. different fluctuations and pitches of his name that push him over the edge, but all he has right now is a poor excuse of “good pussy” and a limp dick.

he can’t help but call you, praying to whatever higher being that you respond and are willing to humor him.

“hello?”

“baby…n-need you…”

need you. it’s hiccuped and groaned, faint squelching in the background telling you the purpose of this call without anything being verbalized. he’s adorable when he gets like this, all clingy and in need of your voice to get off. you can’t help but giggle to yourself.

“hi baby boy, need me?” you greet him with the same softness he’s fallen in love with, a little sultry added to the tone of your voice as you wait for him to tell you his needs.

“i…want you to say my name, it’s r-really pretty when you say it…please” he’s embarrassed, the pro hero red riot is currently on the phone whining to his girlfriend and begging. he feels like a fucking loser but he can’t help himself, his hips bucking into the toy in anticipation.

eijirou leaves your lips multiple times, spaced out and delicate enough to make your boyfriend feel tingly inside. you can hear the slight hitch in his breath and the gentle schlick of the toy on his shaft over and over. you imagine it’s covered in a shiny glimmer of precum, his tip collecting a good amount of it inside the clear toy. god you wish you were there…to see his face flushed and in pure ecstasy, pathetically humping a cheap toy he found online.

“you close, eiji baby?” you ask with a slight impatience. not because you’re rushing him but because you’re getting worked up yourself, rubbing your thighs together and biting the plush of your bottom lip.

“c-can you just touch yourself? i know you want to.” you hum a soft okay, tugging at the pebbled bud imprinting your shirt. he can hear the restraint in your sighs of pleasure, your quietness making his need bubble up again. “angel, what’re you doing? why did you get quite on me.” kirishima groans as he continues to stroke himself off. he needs to hear you, needs to know what naughty things you’re doing while he’s not there. you’re coy at first, telling him you’re pinching and tugging at your nipples and massaging your tits through your old school shirt you sleep in from time to time. “wish it were you, eiji... they’re so s-sensitive, ngh.”

you’re getting whinier and whinier, fully groping your titties as you rub your thighs together for whatever friction that can sooth the growing ache. “i know baby, i bet that pussy is soaked from the way you’re moaning. ah f-fuuuck!” he couldn’t take it anymore, biting the inside of his cheek as he listened to you writhe on the other end, stroking his cock even faster. “keep playing with your tits, angel. you sound fucking gorgeous- shit! so fucking gorgeous!”

you whine in frustration as you tug harder, “e-eiji, wanna play with my pussy…don’t you wanna hear me?” the thought of your delicate mauve, pinkish center oozing juices of your desire put your boyfriend’s stomach in knots. fuck hearing it at this point, he wants to see it, switching the audio call to video as he scrambles to prop his phone up.

you answer and immediately hear the harsh squelching of the faux pussy gliding up and down kirishima’s length, crimson hair disheveled and matted to his sweat kissed forehead as his face twisted and contorted in frustration and pleasure. he was coming undone and at his breaking point, hips stuttering desperately while groans and whimpers escaped him. “play with it for me, dollie. wanna see you fuck yourself nice and pretty. the way i like it.” you put on a show for him, slowly pulling your panties down revealing your soaked cunt. your legs spread and your fingers delve in, your finger rubbing frantic tight circles into your aching clit while the other hand’s middle and ring prod at your hole. fuck you’re gorgeous, glistening folds and puffy lips in full view as you look into the phone camera. “l-like this?” you say sheepishly as your reflection causes waves of heat to radiate your cheeks. you feel embarrassed having yourself spread like this, the way you avoid looking at the camera makes kirishima’s cock twitch.

“there she is, just like that. such a pretty girl, my pretty girl – f-fuck.” he watches your fingers push in and out, the loud squelching of your pussy and your whines making him give in. “this thing ain’t any good, i- shit! n-need you, wanna bounce you on my fucking cock until i’m empty. u-until you’re dizzy, baby please.” bouncing on his cock would be ideal right about now, stuffing you full and being able to feel the desperate throb of his shaft.

a few fast pumps and twists of his wrist was all it took for spurts of hot sticky cum to coat the inside of the clear plush plastic, so much of it that it drips down to his balls. kirishima’s haggard breaths die down as he goes at it again, working himself up with lazy strokes.

“f-fuck, m’close…s-so close.” you hiccup as you squirm against your soft sheets, whining and rapidly rubbing your clit until it finally hits you, a rush of euphoria shooting up your calves. strings of curses and your lover’s name are ripped from you. “m’here angel, right here.”he talks you down with sweet praises, shushing your hiccupy pleas for him to come over and fill you up. “don’t worry your pretty little head, eijirou’s gonna take good care of you once im back from this mission. promise”

☆*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆thank you for reading! if you enjoyed feel free to like, reblog and or comment! send an ask if you want, i don’t bite :3!

[belovaballerina]

Bite the bullet and run

The Boys: Billy Butcher x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI) 

WC: 1.9 k 

Prompt: Held at Gunpoint for @sweetspicybingo (Hurt/Comfort Bingo Collection)

Warnings: spoilers for season 4, injury/blood, oral (f receiving), fingering, c*m eating, overstimulation, a bit of angst, alcohol consumption, anger, hallucinations 

Summary: Billy Butcher is living on borrowed time

Billy is staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, and he knows it. The trigger is cocked, bullet warm in the chamber, just itching to fire into his brain. Karmic retribution; he’s done his fair share of lousy shit under the guise of being a hero, and now it’s catching up to him. Took the V and paid the price. He’s living on borrowed time as the tumor destroys his brain, bringing him closer and closer to death. He knows it, but he can’t admit it. Even as the hallucinations of Rebecca and Kessler make it painfully honest.

He wonders how long he can keep spinning out of control, keep blacking out, and keep pushing reality down; god knows it’s already wreaked havoc on his mental state. It’s not like he can escape it; eventually, the cold, hard reality will come knocking on his front door. His mind flickers briefly to the thought of you and the citrus smell of your perfume, of leaving you behind to handle the mess. You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Bucher; just admit, it will do you good, Kessler sneers. But he’s not; Billy Butcher is flesh and blood, human, and he’s not ready to bite the bullet just yet.

He downs the shot, the whiskey burning his throat and dulling his senses. The liquor won’t change anything but allows him a moment's sweet respite from reality. He can hear Kessler’s sardonic laughter from the stool next to him, the outline of him in Billy’s peripheral vision. He’s not fucking real, the cunt ain’t there, Billy seethes in his head.

That’s where you’re wrong, Billy Boy. I’m a part of you now; better get used to it—the devil on his shoulder.

Billy orders another shot, nearly jumping out of his skin when your hand presses against his shoulder. He’s ready to throw an enraged punch to your face until he realizes it’s you.

“What has you so pissed off that you were ready to knock me through a wall?” you ask dryly as you slip into the stool beside him, Kessler’s form dissipating. You turn toward the bartender and order two shots: one for him and one for you.

“A bit of this, a bit of that, love. This Neuman business has got us all on edge, don’t it?” he grumbled, wrapping his blunt fingers around the shot glass. You want to slap him right across the face. You know it’s more than that.

You hmmm softly before downing your shot, then tap your fingers against the sticky bar counter.

“Sorry, but I’m not buying that bullshit. You’ve been off for weeks. You’re hiding something.” You don’t mean to sound so accusatory, but you’re tired of dancing around the issue. It pisses you off that he’s withholding, and you’re tired of letting him crawl between your legs so he can avoid reality.

“Ain’t none of your business, love,” he snorts, and you slam your hands against the bar.

“Fuck you, Billy! It is my fucking business! If I’m gonna wake up to you dead next to me in bed one morning, I deserve to fucking know,” you growl, making heads turn in your direction.

Tell her, Billy. You don’t have to be alone. I don’t want you to be alone. Sweet, sweet Rebecca, the angel on his other shoulder.

He glares up at you, anger dancing in his dark eyes, but you can see the pain pushing through. You’re ready for the explosion; you welcome it. Anything to prove that he still has a fight inside of him, that he isn’t giving in so willingly. Glass shatters as he slams it against the bar, tiny pieces embedding in his skin and blood oozing from the shallow cuts. You hold your hand out as the bartender storms over.

“We’re going,” you assure him, leaving enough cash to cover the shots and a generous tip to compensate for the disturbance and broken glass. You grab Billy’s upper arm and tug him towards the door.

The bartender was kind enough to lend you a clean rag to wrap around Billy’s injured hand, and you guide him toward your apartment, which is a couple blocks away. The silence is deafening as you both sit hunched over in your small bathroom (the light is better there) as you remove the glass from Billy’s cuts with tweezers. Once you’re assured you’ve gotten them all out, you wash and disinfect his hand before wrapping it in a clean bandage. How many nights have you spent cleaning blood and stitching up wounds, avoiding the hospital if able? How many nights have you spent with his mouth hot on your cunt as his tongue brings you to the edge of sweet oblivion? Intimate in so many ways, yet the art of communication is lost.

“I ain’t trying to lie to you, love. I just don’t wanna say it,” he murmurs, his gaze cast to the floor, counting the white tiles to glisten in the bright light.

Tell her, Billy

You gently grasp his uninjured hand, smoothing your thumb over his knuckles. “Are you sick?”

He nods.

“Are you living on limited time?”

He nods again. He’s told you all you need to know without saying a word.

“Will you let me be there for you?”

There is a hesitation before he nods a third time. He can see Rebecca smiling at him from over her shoulder.

“Thank you. I won’t say anything to the rest of the team,” you assure him. Secrets are for him to share, not you. You won’t betray his trust in that way.

“Thanks, love.”

“Come on, you can crash with me tonight.”

You find a show to watch that isn’t under the Vought umbrella and share Chinese takeout with Billy, squished together on your small couch, the space he’ll be sleeping on tonight. You made it painfully evident with the extra pillow and blankets sitting on the small coffee table in front of the TV. The truth may have been revealed, but you’re not ready to completely mend fences.

“Night, Billy,” you whisper, brushing your lips over his warm cheek, feeling the soft stubble of his beard scrape against your skin.

“Night, love,” he sighs, and you disappear into your bedroom.

Eventually, you’re finally caught in the hazy space of sleep and the waking world when you feel the mattress dip. Billy’s warm body settles against your back, and his bandaged hand rests on your hip.

“I’ll go if you want me to, love, but I’ve missed you,” he whispers in your ear before his lips ghost along the curve of your neck. Need palpitates in your belly. You don’t want him to go. Maybe you’re more forgiving than you thought.

“Don’t…don’t go, Billy,” you beg, your words holding a heavier meaning as tears sting your eyes.

“I’m right here, love, I’m right here,” he assuages, pulling you closer with his other hand before it slips under your tank top to cup one of your breasts. His thumb circles around your nipple until it hardens. His cock presses against the swell of your ass. Your citrus perfume tickles his nose.

You rut against him, grabbing his hand and moving it down your belly. He plunges into your shorts, his warm palm finding your damp cunt immediately. His rough fingers stroke your folds, gathering up your arousal.

“Billy,” you whine. His bare chest radiates warmth, and you yearn to curl into it.

“I’m right here, love,” he breathes as two fingers slip inside you. You clench around him, rocking your hips as needy mewls spill from your lips. It never takes much for him to make you come completely undone. You try to push away the thought that he’s living on borrowed time, which could be one of the last moments you share with him. Might as well make the most of it.

Your eyes roll back as his fingers pump steadily in and out of your pussy, making your toes curl before you spill into orgasm. Animalistic lust surges through you as Billy removes his fingers and tugs your shorts down your legs. You roll over, tugging off your tank and his boxers before lowering your mouth to suck on the tip of his cock. Once he’s coated in your salvia, you mount him, sinking deep onto his cock.

“Bloody hell,” he groans, his good hand gripping your hip tightly before slipping up your belly to take a handful of your tits.

You bounce on his cock, working your muscles and riding him like it might be his last night. You try to push away the thought that it very well might be. You reach down to cup his face as sweat pools down your back.

“Billy, fuck, Billy,” you moan, tracing your thumb around his plush lips.

“Love the way you scream my name, darlin’,” he grins, all cocksure. There he is. There’s your Billy.

“Don’t I know it,” you purred, squeezing around his cock as his hips thrust beneath you. A chill sets in the outside air, but inside is all heat. His flesh is sweaty and salty, and you can’t get enough of it.

Billy finds his fire and his strength, remaining buried inside you as he changes positions, placing you on your back underneath him so he can pound you. Your legs tighten around his waist as he leans down to capture you in a fiery kiss, one where you can taste his passion and the salt of his skin. Your nails skim down his back as flesh smacks together. Wet sounds fill the air, intermingling with his grunts and your pants. You tremble beneath him as you reach your peak, and he spills inside you, making you milk him for all he’s worth. He stays pressed against you as your fingers drag lazily through his damp, dark hair.

Billy gazes into your eyes, thinking it was well spent if this was his last night on earth. Better to go out with a bang and in between the thighs of a woman he loves. Not that he’s ever uttered those words out loud. Almost feels as if he’s betraying Rebecca, but fucking hell, how long can he hold onto ghosts? He gently slips out of you, leaving kisses along your neck, over the swells of your breasts and your belly, before he reaches your soaked, swollen cunt. He can’t help but swipe his tongue over the mess of himself mixed with you.

“Billy,’ you gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair as you squirm against his mouth.

“Indulge a dying man, would you, love? Don’t deny me my favorite last meal,” he murmurs against your damp thighs.

“Oh, you’re an asshole,” you laughed, giving his hair a sharp tag.

“Don’t I know it?” His tongue swirls against your core, dipping inside you.

You’re oversensitive from earlier, and it doesn’t take long for you to cum against his mouth, feeling absolutely spent by the time he’s finished. You’re coated in sweat, and a shower sounds so good, but you can’t be fucked to move. You barely muster up the strength to drape yourself over Billy’s naked chest, holding tightly to him. His bandaged hand rests lightly against your lower back. You snuggle your face against the crook of his neck, committing his scent and flesh to your memory.

Billy Butcher is staring down the barrel of a gun, but for now, he only cares about the feeling of you in his arms. He’ll bite the fucking bullet another fucking day.

[reiding-writing]

RESPITE — SPENCER REID!

Dealing with addiction withdrawals is a horrible experience. Having to sit at a desk for eight hours and act like they weren't happening was even worse. If only someone would just ask him if he was okay.

WARNINGS: Details of addiction withdrawals, Mentions of Spencer's kidnapping, Needle mentions, Vomit mentions, Thoughts of self-induced bodily harm, Inaccurate portrayal of therapy and legal loopholes, Mentions of touch-starvedness

s3!spencer x gn!psychiatrist!reader | ANGST | 5.6k

a/n: all the love in the world to my beta reader and loml @flowersfromautumn 🫶🫶🫶, and to those of you who followed me after my first upload, be warned, i almost exclusively write angst 😭

masterlist!

Spencer Reid was sat with his head in his hands, silently praying to Gods that he didn’t think existed to rid him of the enervating sensations flooding every nerve of his body.

All he wanted to do was be productive, to prove that he was still fully capable of doing his job. But no, instead, his body had decided to attack itself as though it were a foreign object, screaming at him to give in and supply it with what he most craved.

It had been six weeks since he’d returned to the BAU, and whilst he desperately tried to prove his mental stability, his physical reactions were letting him down.

He knew the statistics surrounding addiction. Of course he did. He knew that over 1.5 million people in the United States were addicted to opioids. He knew that they were the leading cause of overdose related deaths. He knew that the more he indulged in his compulsions the worse the withdrawals would get, and he knew that injecting it was the most harmful way to get the drug into his system.

His logical brain knew it was wrong; But his body didn’t care.

Knowledge wouldn’t stop the tremors in his hands. It wouldn’t stop the goosebumps littering his skin. It wouldn’t stop the ever-present lump in his throat, or the strain of his eyes as he desperately tried to absorb the information from the files on his desk. So much for an eidetic memory.

Knowledge wouldn’t stop him from wanting to claw at the skin of his elbow until his cephalic vein was exposed, or the urge to pierce the needle in so deep that it came out of the other side.

He had tried to find solace in his work, to distract himself from the cravings that consumed him. But no matter how hard he focused, the relentless ache in his bones refused to subside. It was a constant battle between the rational mind that knew the consequences and the primal instinct that sought relief at any cost.

He was so deep in his own mind that he didn’t notice you walk over to his desk, nor did he make any acknowledgement of you calling his name. It took you waving your hand literal inches away from his face for his eyes to finally turn up towards you, and you couldn’t help but notice how his pupils had almost completely overtaken the hazel of his eyes, his scleras tainted pink through the blood vessels clinging to them like ivy.

“Spence?” Your voice, usually soothing, was defiled by the constant ringing in his ears, sending a pounding ache through his head.

“Spencer…”

You wave your hand in front of his face again, each passing moment making you feel increasingly guilty for bothering him.

The whole team had noticed Spencer’s change in attitude after his kidnapping, as had they noticed his bouts of irritation and dissociation, and probably the most telling of all, his newfound habit of itching the inside of his right elbow over the sleeve of his shirt.

Sure a normal person could write off those behaviours as normal for recovering from what he’d been through, a mix of distrust and anxiety making him more irritable. But you weren’t normal people, you were a team of profilers, and as much as everyone tried to stick to the unofficial ‘don’t profile your team members’ rule, they could tell that Spencer’s behaviour wasn’t solely due to being held hostage for a few days, not even with the mental and physical torment he went through.

Everyone suspected, but you knew. Your years in medical school for psychiatry meant you could spot the signs of addiction in your sleep. You just wished you could say something.

Trouble was, under Section 4.1.2 of the FBI’s Fitness for Duty regulation, if Spencer’s addiction were to be officially recognised, he would not longer be deemed ‘fit’ to work, and no one on the team wanted that.

“hmm..?” The most Spencer could evoke was a soft hum, barely audible over the usual chatter littering the bullpen. His eyes remained static as he looked up in your direction, but he wasn’t actually looking at you, more like he was fixed on something just over your shoulder.

You have to consciously suppress a sigh as your eyes flicker over his features. His skin, already pale, seemed to have lost all colour barr the dark purple collecting under his eyes, and his face had become gaunt, shadows starting to form where his skin clung around his cheek bones. He looked awful.

“I’m sorry to bother you… Do you have the autopsy files for the most recent case?”

“Oh, yeah- yeah of course, i have a copy uh-” Your question seemed to remind Spencer of where he was, that he was sat at his desk, in his workplace, and that he should be being productive.

He rifles through the files on his desk, piling up due to his lack of motivation to actually finish any of them, and as he finally reaches the one you asked for, he pries it out from under the stack, the manilla folder shaking with the tremor of his hand as he holds it out towards you.

If only someone would just say something.

Spencer knew he was acting “weird”, he just wanted someone to say something about it. Anything.

He knew it was unprofessional, and that he had the potential of losing his job over it. Still he wanted someone to ask him if he was okay.

He just wanted someone to ask.

“…Why do you need it?” Spencer’s voice is hesitant, almost a whisper as he tries to stop himself from choking on his own words.

“I’m finishing up the medical report and i want to make sure I have all of my facts right…” You take the file from him with a frown, barely able to mask your concern through your expression. “Thank you…”

Spencer manages to give you a weak smile before he slumps back into his chair, fighting the lump in his throat that threatens force it’s way out of his mouth and spill all over his desk. He was twitching to say something. To tell you that he’s not okay. To break down in your arms and have you promise him that everything was going to be alright.

But he doesn’t. Because no matter how much he was suffering, he would never want to unload his burden onto somebody else. Especially not you. He just sat, silently praying that you would be the one to initiate the conversation. And lo and behold, you did. Albeit not directly.

“Hey uh…” You mindlessly flick through the file he’d given you, not really paying attention to any of the words on the pages as you use it to keep your hands busy and alleviate the awkward tension running between the two of you. “I- work overtime a lot… If you’re ever here after hours-”

There’s a small glint that returns to his eyes as you indirectly suggest that you’d like to speak to him off the clock. He almost spills everything to you right there at his desk, but as he sucks in a breath to speak, he catches himself, clearing his throat.

“Yeah… Thanks…”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You watched as the digital clock on your desk turned from 18:00 to 18:01. The work day had officially ended an hour ago, and most of the agents had already left to enjoy their long deserved weekend. You however remained sat at your desk in your dimly lit office, fiddling with a 5 x 5 Rubix Cube that Gideon had given you during a case in New York, tired of the way you’d tap your fingers against the table of the jet when you got bored.

You hoped that Spencer had understood the implications of what you’d told him earlier.

Watching him suffer in silence ripped a chunk of humanity from you every time you saw him, and it was getting to the point where you could barely look him in the eye without feeling so guilty you wanted to cry.

But as the time ticked on, you feared he hadn’t, and by the time it reached 18:30 you were dejectedly preparing yourself to leave, throwing your jacket around your shoulders and packing up your messenger bag.

Your retreat home was stopped by you almost walking straight into Spencer as you opened your office door, his hand slightly outstretched as if he was on the verge of pushing open the door himself.

“Oh… uh…” Spencer stumbled over his words a little as you took a step backwards, and his eyes flickered over your frame, focusing in on the bag hanging off your left shoulder and the jacket you were half-wearing. “Sorry…”

He stepped out of the way of the door to make way for you to walk past him, but you didn’t move, remaining stood in the doorway , your eyes watching his as they desperately looked anywhere except in your direction.

“”Are you alright?”

Spencer nodded hastily at your question, pursing his lips to the point where they were barely visible and bringing his hand towards his inner elbow, itching at it through the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah- Sorry, i’ll uh- I’m-”

“Spencer.” You stop his stuttered excuse to with a raised hand, slightly relieved that he had indeed come to your office, even if it had taken him over an hour and a half to build up the courage. ”Come in,”

You gesture for him to enter with your head, to which he replies with a shake of his own.

“No- No you’re going home, I don’t want to keep you-”

“Spence… Please, come in.”

You repeat your request with a gentle insistence, cutting him off once again.

You never liked to interrupt Spencer’s train of thought, it happened all too often with the people around him cutting him off before he could get his full thoughts out, but right now it was an unfortunate necessity. You knew that if you let him continue he would pull himself into a spiral and back out of reaching out for help, so you wanted to cut off the idea before he even had the chance to voice it.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and stepped into your office, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his internal struggle. It was clear that he needed someone to talk to, but despite him standing outside of your office door, he’d seemingly started to regret coming to see you.

You gesture for him to sit down on the small sofa lining the far wall of your office, and he hesitates for a moment before finally taking a seat, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and apprehension as they flicker around the room.

Spencer had been in your office a few times, although he’d never stayed long enough to actually look around.

Of course he’d noticed the floor to ceiling bookcase behind your desk, lined with a string of dangling fairy lights, as had he noticed the large cream rug with small tassels lining its short sides, covering a majority of the exposed hard wood lining your office floor.

He’d often found himself looking over at the wall closest to your door, covered in re-prints of renaissance paintings and gold framed mirrors of different sizes, your Psychology PhD and Psychiatry Doctorate Certificates hung right in the centre, framed in a similar rustic gold.

What he hadn’t noticed in the few times he’d visited were the small stress balls of different colours littering your desk, or the paperweight shaped like a brain holding down the small pile of scribbled notes you miscellaneously taken.

He hadn’t noticed the small replica of a marble Aristotle statue tucked into one of the squares of the bookshelf, lined with fake ivy, or the framed photo of you and your parents on the day of your first graduation.

Everything about your office was warm and inviting, and he was beginning to wonder whether your home was the same.

God how he wanted to go home. To lie in his bed and sleep until his bladder forced him awake under the threat of bursting inside his body from its own pressure.

"Spencer," you say softly, breaking him out of his short-lived observation as you pull the blinds closed, ensuring privacy on the unlikely occasion anyone was still roaming the bullpen.

“Did you know that one of the great things about being a private practicing psychiatrist is that anyone can ask for a private session without any paperwork involved?”

You place your bag onto your desk chair, re-draping your jacket over the back of it. “it’s called a ‘recordless session’, and holds the same confidentiality rules without any paper evidence, the cache being that it has to be under an hour,”

As you speak, you can see the weight of his struggles visibly lift off his shoulders, and a glimmer of hope flickers in his eyes.

“Yeah I… Yeah, I knew that…”

Of course he knew that. What didn’t Spencer know?

“I, uh…can I book an appointment?” A single tear rolls down his cheek, but he dries it with the back of his sleeve before more can escape.

“Please..?”

It takes you all of your willpower in that moment to not pull Spencer’s head into your chest, to not run your fingers through his hair and rock him back and forth in your arms until all of semblance of sorrow left his mind.

Instead you settled for taking a seat besides him on the sofa, gently reaching out to pull his left hand away from his elbow, holding it between your own as you try to transfer some of your body heat to his ice-cold fingers. “When would you like to start?”

“Can we start now? Please, before I change my mind?” Spencer looks up at you with a slightly desperate expression on his face. He just needs one session, he can figure out what to do next, but for now, he needs help.

You exhale softly with a sympathetic expression as Spencer’s voice threatens to break with his words.

“Now’s perfect…” You gently rub your thumb over the top of his hand in small circles, offering a simple form of reassurance before gently pulling them away.

You pull your sleeve up a little to reveal the electronic watch on your left wrist, the face on the inside for easier access, and you set a timer for 59 minutes, just under an hour. The perfect legal loophole.

“Alright, i’m all yours…” You send him a soft sympathetic expression as you mark the start of the session.

Spencer listens to the timer tick down, suddenly hyper aware of the noise despite not having taken any notice of it before, and he clasps his hands in his lap as he tries to gather his thoughts and his courage.

“I- uh- um-“ he starts quietly. He can’t force himself to make eye contact with you, but he takes a sharp breath in and tries to push the words out. “I’m an addict,” he says quickly, turning his head away from you.

And there it was.

You give him a soft nod at his confession, but don’t give a verbal response, fearing that if you were to say anything it would scare him from opening up any further.

Spencer can’t believe he’s actually admitting it out loud. He can already feel the panic rise as he speaks about his addiction, but he needs to open up, he needs to get this off his chest.

“I- I’m addicted to Dilaudid. Opioids. I- I started when I was held captive... He would inject me with it to stop the pain, i- I don’t know how to get off it,” he pauses, trying to form his thoughts. “I-“

Spencer exhales heavily, leaning forwards to drag his palms over his face. “I don’t know what to do-”

Spencer takes a few deep breaths, glancing back up at you. “I- I know that I need help, I know I should reach out to a support group or something, but I- I can’t do that, I- have work, everyone is relying on me, and this is- this is my fault I- I kept taking it and-“

“Spencer.” You take his left hand in yours again, pulling it away from his face and bringing it down to rest on the small gap in the sofa between you and him. “I need you to slow down for me alright? working yourself up isn’t going to help…”

Spencer falls back into a quiet panic as you speaks, the thoughts going so fast his brain feels like it’s on fire. Words fly in and out of his head and he desperately tries to grasp onto them, trying to string them together in a way that makes sense.

“Slowly, yeah, yeah, slowly…” he takes a few more deep breaths, his eyes staring down at the floor in front of the couch.

“I need help.”

He looks down at his hand as it sits in yours, your palm warm and soft, a harsh contrast to rigid coldness of his own. “I can’t think about work. I- I can’t hold a proper conversation, I cant even look at myself in the mirror anymore...”

“I just- I don’t know if I can do this alone…” Spencer quietly whispers the last sentence, staring down at the floor. He stays there, sat silently for a few moments before he raises his head towards you again.

“Did you know that addicts who don’t reach out for professional help have an 85% chance of relapse within a year of trying to quit?”

Spencer always seemed to revert back to his intelligence to shield his emotions, although the waver in his tone continued to give away how he was really feeling.

“Well I suppose it’s a good thing I’m a professional then,” You reply to his statistic with a light tone, trying to keep some semblance of optimism in the conversation as you give his hand a small squeeze.

"Addiction is a ruthless battle Spencer, but you've taken the first step by acknowledging that you need help."

Spencer's eyes flicker with a mix of relief and uncertainty. "I’m just- scared,”

"I know Spencer… It's normal to feel ashamed or afraid of judgement. But remember, addiction is a disease, not a personal failing. Seeking help is incredibly difficult, and it's also essential for your well-being."

You absentmindedly run your thumb over the back of his hand slowly, conveying your unwavering support. "I'm proud of you, Spencer. Recognising your readiness for change is a significant milestone in itself."

Spencer nods slowly, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability as he looks up at you, his eyes burning into your own as the resolve that he had quickly begins to falter.

Then, he takes a deep breath. And he breaks.

“I-I… I want to relapse,” He whispers. “I want to more than anything. I’m having trouble focusing, and… I can’t get it out of my head. And I’m scared I… I might-“

Spencer looks at you with a heartbreaking expression, his breath catching in his throat as his pulse quickens. His eyes flicker, the addiction begging to be let out as his expression becomes one of utter desperation.

He needs to be clean.

But that need to be numb outweighs everything else, and it’s terrifying him.

“Hey,” You give both of his hands a gentle pull to hold his attention, letting them rest in your lap. “I want you to listen to me when i say this alright?”

Spencer gives a half-hearted nod, small streams of tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks as his emotional wall completely crumbles.

“You are allowed to struggle. You’re allowed to not feel like you’re improving, but that does not mean that you’re failing, and it definitely doesn’t mean it’s your fault,”

”You’re allowed to struggle.”

Spencer doesn’t know why, but you saying it out loud makes him feel better, and for the first time in over a week, he actually starts to calm down to a point where he doesn’t feel like he’s self-destructing.

“I’m scared….” he whispers quietly. “I’m so scared that I’m going to give in.”

Spencer sighs as he lets his head hang, small tear drops beginning to speckle the fabric of his trousers.

“Truth be told… I already have.” He squeezes his eyes shut as he says it. He’s so mad at himself.

“I only did it once, I promise. And I regret it more than anything,” he speaks quickly, trying to explain himself before you’re able to get upset.

“I’m so sorry-“

“Hey- No, listen to me Spencer,”

You tilt his head upwards with one of your hands, brushing a tear off his cheek with your thumb.

“Recovery is never a linear process. And the more you beat yourself up over it the worse you are going to feel.”

Spencer’s eyes flicker, but he doesn’t make any movement to pull himself away from you.

“I just… I can’t help but feel like I’m letting everyone down.” He sighs. “I promised myself I-“

He closes his eyes and leans his cheek against the palm of your hand as he breathes out sharply. “I’m really sorry for dumping all of this on you,” he whispers, his eyes still closed.

“I just wanted to get it off my chest,” Spencer whispers. “To tell someone something without them cutting me off for once.”

“No,” You shake your head gently at him. “No apologies, this is what I’m here for Spencer,”

Spencer nods softly against the warmth of your palm. He trusts you. And about now he’s thinking that you’re the only person he would trust with this type of information.

“Sorry,” he mumbles out another apology. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I really don’t.” He sighs. “I was doing so well, you know? It took me weeks to even start feeling okay. And then everything was so much better in the office. And I was so happy and I- and then this happened.”

There’s a few moments of silence as Spencer mulls over his self-disappointment. He’d made such an effort to better himself after returning back to work, to go back to being the Spencer that the rest of the BAU were familiar with, and right as things seemed to get back on track he’d spiralled himself into another hole.

“I want to get better. But… withdrawals are hard.”

“And… I really liked how it felt.”

Spencer turns his face to speak into your palm as he mumbles his admission of enjoying the feeling. As upsetting as it might be, it wasn’t surprising. It was the main reason that people formed addictions in the first place, enjoying the euphoric release from reality that the substance gave them.

“Can… Can I ask a question? A stupid question?” His voice is quiet, slightly muffled as his lips graze against your hand.

"There’s no such thing as a stupid question Spence,”

Spencer takes a hesitant breath. “Why aren’t you going to… you know, have me fired?” Spencer pulls away from your touch to straighten his posture, leaving your hand to fall back into your lap.

“That’s the protocol, right? If someone has a drug problem and it makes them a liability.” He stares at the floor, expecting your answer to be ‘yes’ and to be asked to leave. “I… I know I shouldn’t be here. But I really don’t want to leave.”

"What the Bureau doesn’t know won’t hurt them Spence," You squeeze his left hand lightly as it remains in yours.

Spencer is shocked at your answer. For a second all he can do is stare at your hand as it remains around his, squeezing it back. “I… but… you could lose your job. Why would you…” After a second his words trail off as the severity of your words sink in. Someone cares. Someone actually cares.

Thank god.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

Spencer’s shuddering hands finally stop. He just sits there, soaking up the warm sensation of your words, of your fingers as they held his hand in a gentle embrace.

“Why do you care?” He whispers.

“I’m here for my brains, my memory and my profiling skills. And- I can’t even do any of that right- i shouldn’t-”

As he tries to finish the sentence, his mind goes completely blank, and tears begin to slip down his face once more.

"Spencer… Those things are a part of you, but you are so much more than just that…"

Your words almost feel like a promise. A promise that no matter whether Spencer was able to hold up his ‘genius’ reputation or not, that you would still be there. That you would still care.

“No one’s ever said that to me before.” He says softly. He smiles as best he can and wipes at the tears on his cheek.

"Well, I am. you’re a human being Spencer, you should never be confined to your intelligence,"

Spencer’s heart swells hearing the words “human being”, he’d gotten so used to being utilised as a human super-computer that he sometimes feared people forgot he had emotions.

“Can I- Can i have a hug..?”

He doesn’t have to ask you twice.

He barely gets the whole question out before you’re guiding his head to rest against the curve of your shoulder, rubbing a hand tentatively down the length of his back.

He’s hesitant at first to hug you back, despite being the one to ask for the hug in the first place. Although he eventually brings himself to connect his hands behind your back, allowing himself to lean into your touch. He’s never felt so safe, so comforted before.

“I… I want the withdrawals to stop…” He says after a while, his voice muffled by your shirt.

"They will Spencer, you’ve just got to tough it out for me okay?" you bring up your right hand to run your fingers through his hair softly, gently detangling the flattened sections that he hadn’t been motivated to brush out himself.

“I never understood how hard it would be until I had to do it myself…” he says quietly. “My head feels like it’s being pushed through a giant crusher. And I… I don’t know if I can stay sober by myself.”

"You don’t have to do this by yourself Spence…" A shudder runs through Spencer’s body at your touch. He pushes himself closer into you, letting out a contented exhale.

It’s been such a long time since someone has touched him, since he’s been able to feel warm and safe. He lets out a small half laugh.

“This was meant to be a therapy session.”

"Sometimes the best form of therapy is just having someone to comfort you,"

Spencer wraps his arms around you tightly nodding into your shoulder. You can almost feel the waves of his tension fade away and turn to content relaxation under your touch.

“You smell like lavender.” He whispers after a minute. He takes a deep breath, breathing in the scent.

"It’s probably my new shampoo," You laugh lightly as you continue to gently run your hands through his hair, not at all surprised he picked up on the difference in scent. He had always been more perceptive than the average person.

Spencer hums slightly as your scent fills his nostrils, sending a wave of calm and soothing through his body. “It suits you.” He says softly.

"Thank you," You smile down at him, your eyes meeting as he looks up towards you. "How are you feeling? be honest with me…”

Spencer swallows with a small exhale. “I can still feel those waves of shakes in me, and my head is hurting.” He answers, although you can hear the relief in his voice. “But I’m feeling… better. A lot better. I can’t thank you enough for doing this…”

“Don’t thank me Spencer, I haven’t done anything, this is all you,” You carefully move a piece of stray hair that had fallen over Spencer’s forehead to fall back properly with the rest of his hair.

“No really, you-”

Spencer’s attempt at a rebuttal was cut off by the faint beeping emitting from your watch.

Looks like the session is over.

He reluctantly removed himself from the soft comfort of your arms to sit up straight again, and you press a button on the side of the watch face to stop the noise. “Well uh- I guess I should go now,”

Spencer’s tone changed back to one of slight apprehension, seemingly trying to put up that emotional shield as your watch reminds him that even the respite he found in your company was temporary.

“Hey,” You instinctively call out to Spencer as you see his face fall again, you had just gotten him to a point where he was calm, and your subconscious was taking every effort to make it stay that way.

“I’ll tell you what-” Your voice is soft but slightly rushed, the words leaving your mouth as soon as they enter your head. “I’ve got a spare room in my house, how about you stay over?”

“What?” He blinks a few times at your suggestion, turning his head to face you properly.

You almost want to kick yourself for being so impulsive. I mean sure the two of you had become close over your years working together. But asking him to stay at your house? What were you thinking?

"I mean- don’t hesitate to say no if you don’t want to-" you add, attempting to downplay your sudden offer. His surprised expression lingers, and you worry that maybe you've overstepped some unspoken boundary.

“I just thought, you know- we’re friends, and friends have sleepovers sometimes right?”

You began to dig yourself into a hole the more you tried to explain yourself. Of course the real reason you wanted him there was so you could make sure that he was actually alright, that he wouldn’t fall back into a negative spiral the second he was left alone in his own apartment.

"I- Are you sure?" He asks cautiously, uncertainty tinging his voice.

You nod, mustering a reassuring smile. As much as your impulse was making you want to eat soap in the hope that it’d force you to think through your words, you wanted to be a lifeline for Spencer, and if that meant offering him a safe place to stay with somebody to talk to then so be it. Even if it was just for one night.

"Yeah... We can uh, watch that new season of Doctor Who that just came out-“

Spencer can feel his throat tighten as he looks at you. He can’t help but smile as he sits himself up, hugging you tightly with a small exasperated laugh.

“Really?” He breathes out. “You’re really sure..?”

You give him another nod, this one more confident than the last, leaning your head on top of his as he again rests it against the curve of your shoulder. “Definitely.”

“You can stay for as long as you need…”

Spencer tightens his arms around your back in response, tears threatening to spill from his eyes again. Except this time they weren’t the type that stung his eyes, followed by a wave of grief. They were almost comforting.

“Thank you…”

God, he’s been so… stagnant during all of this, and the thought of being at your place, with you, not hiding from everyone else like some kind of ghost, fills him with a type of joy he can’t quite describe. It’s like that child-like wonder coming back to him for just a moment.

“Let’s go home Spencer…”

Spencer sighs as he buries his head against your shoulder again. Of course you’d call your house home.

Of course he’d call a house with you in it home.

“Okay,” He mumbles, his voice thick with emotion as he relaxes against you, the world fading away around you.

”Let’s go home,” he repeats, the words feeling natural as he closes his eyes.

—part two.

[littleapplle]

change. 𝐈.

melancholy and the bitter taste of homesickness fill each corner of his brain when you're away. between broken sobs, stormy skies and lost pearls, rafayel is glad he can still find comfort in what is left of his long forgotten home and loved ones.

cw: nothing really. fluff, angst if you squint. mentions of fem!reader. weird way to describe jellyfishes... bare with me. 2.1k w. mermay event masterlist.

note: first chapter for mermay out! this was so fun to write<3 talking about lemuria and writing about it are one of my favorite things. i hope you all enjoy it. also this turned out a little angsty?? it wasnt the intention really LOL.

There are some days where getting his hands dirty with paint isn't enough to drown the feeling of being homesick. The days where you're away and his melancholy gets the best of him. 

There are days where Rafayel’s eyes match the dark stormy skies and he doesn't bother to pick up the solidifying tears that quickly turn into pearls and bounce on the floor.

And like a toddler in search of comfort, his limp body crosses the sand, getting soaked by the rain in the process. He doesn't bother to take his shirt off, nor his watch and jewelry. As soon as he's knee-deep in the water, Rafayel lets the following harsh wave swallow him entirely.

The scene would make anyone witnessing it panic. A man, apparently out of his mind, mindlessly walking towards the ocean while a storm roars in the skies and creates turbulent waves that crash against the shore violently. His figure is engulfed entirely in a single breath, leaving no traces behind.

Rafayel does not fight against the raging waters. Instead, he lets them guide him to wherever they want as a punishment. Shame hits his bones with the pain of a gunshot, crawling up his spine like an itch he can’t scratch.  His wish was for the waters that created him to eat him from inside out, filling his insides with salt and sand and devouring him whole. 

An unfortunate, hypothetical end that was impossible for the lemurian to reach. How would the waters of fate, that sculpted him with prayers and devotion, fill the lungs of the god of tides with  agony  and disrespect and take his last breath?

God of what now? Rafayel scoffs in his mind.

Rafayel would trade his royalty, adoration, praises, people, everything, for you a hundred times again and never look back. He'd wait for you, alone, looking for you in every corner of the world, more than a thousand times. Rafayel would trade the whole sea for the bond you two made all those years ago but still – his heart aches with loneliness. 

With his pale arms holding his tail close to his chest, Rafayel lets his body sink as deep as it can. He no longer can hear the raindrops stabbing the surface, just the misery haunting his mind.

He misses home. His studio is right there, the white curtains on his tall windows are probably waiting for him to get back and close them so the rain doesn’t soak the fabric. The painting he started earlier, a frustrated attempt to soothe his troubled mind, still waits for him to be finished, or burned. Everything he has achieved as Rafayel Qi is right there but he misses home.

He misses Konche and Algie’s rare banters, where he’d pet their heads with a hearty laugh and make both go quiet in the blink of an eye. He misses being surrounded by art, his culture. He misses his aunt brushing his hair while singing him praises, he’d puff his cheeks and say she’s family and he’d rather be viewed as a nephew than a god. Talia is alive, Verona is a flight away. He should call her later. She’d listen and if he cried for a lullaby, she’d fulfill his wish. But it’s not the same.

He isn’t sitting on his vanity while Talia plays with his hair. His luxurious room, where he’d lock himself in and silently curse the tome of the sea god that everyone expected him to follow strictly, does not exist anymore. The mothers with their chubby babies cradled in their arms that would stop him in his tracks and ask for a blessing — not an actual one, but the comfort of being seen by their leader — vanished. Corals dyed in crimson are the only things proving they once existed.

If Rafayel didn’t care for the pearls leaving his eyes and hiding in all the tricky and messy spots back in his studio, then he definitely doesn’t care for the ones slowly sinking in the deep. Maybe humans would find them years later and sell his suffering. They did it before, they’d do it again.

He does not dare to move, only sobbing and hugging his tail closer, maybe in an attempt to shift into something smaller and dissolve like sea foam.

The world is quiet around him, nothing dares to move.

“Is that him? Is he back?” At a chirp from afar, his ear fins twitch.

Another voice joins, answering the first one with a ‘pruuu’  sound. “Of course it is him. Who else would swim this deep?”

Rafayel’s inhumane eyes dart to the direction of the noise. He isn’t scared. It is not fear that fills him. Maybe some embarrassment for being acknowledged by the, apparently, unknown in such a weak moment.

His body relaxes once he realizes it’s no human language. It is fish language he hears. Rafayel does not know what goes through his mind at the moment but relief washes over every scale in his body. Maybe it was the quick distraction from his desperation, maybe it was the comfort to not have his mistakes pointed out by the first thing his sharp hearing could focus on in the deep. He doesn’t know. 

Swimming closer, his long body moves flawlessly to the direction the voices come from. 

“Ouughh!! He’s coming closer! Do my tentacles look okay?” The first voice fusses. To human ears, if they were ever capable of listening to the voices of the abyss, it’d sound more like a bunch of high ‘mimimi’s’. Rafayel is already certain of what he’ll find.

Taking shelter under a few large rocks that made it impossible for the human eye to see anything, he finally finds what has silenced his cries. Two jellyfishes ‘stare’ at him. The color of their tentacles almost drain out comically from being caught stalking the merman they’ve missed so dearly.

“Stalking is a crime on the surface, you know? You two are lucky my bodyguard isn’t here.” He teases but his stuffed nose fails to make him as intimidating as he wished to be. 

“Oh, we are so very, very sorry mr. Rafayel! We did not mean to intrude!” The pink jellyfish, Mimi, apologizes with high pitched chirps. Kiki, her lilac friend, swims in slow circles in agreement. “Yes, ‘ayel. We meant no harm but there are barely any visitors that swim this deep.” She sleepily adds, helping her friend out. “Only you.”

Tiny, misshapen pearls leave his eyes as he closes them tightly and laughs softly at their antics. 

Kiki, once stuck in the sand thanks to the high tides, was saved by Rafayel, who was taking a walk for inspiration. In gratitude, all the following times Rafayel’s body sinked into the dark abyss trying to find some comfort in what was left of his world, Kiki, and her loud friend Mimi, would make an appearance. Today wouldn’t be different.

“I’m not mad.” He chuckles and sniffles, cleaning his red eyes with his wrist. Mimi’s thin, pale pink tentacles twitch. “Were you crying mr. Rafayel? What troubles your mind?” She squeaks, worried ‘mimimi’s’  buzzing in his ears.

Everything. Rafayel thought. The absence of lemurian children that would love to play with you two, he’d like to say. Algie would adore them. The pair acts just like the siblings sometimes. Another tear falls from his bicolor eyes and quickly solidifies into a shiny, white pearl. 

He sits down on one of the rocks with a sigh, like a father that was about to give them the biggest and most valuable advice of their lives. The two delicate bodies rush to his sides like little kids, frightened to see a rare display of weakness of their guardian. 

“Back on the surface, I messed up one of my paintings,” he tries, “A commission. I did everything the clients asked for, but once I tried adding another person to the picture, the paint I used blended into everything else and it turned into a big mess.” 

His voice softens, he talks to them like they were toddlers. “And it made me really, really upset since the person I tried to paint was beautiful. The prettiest lady I've ever seen.” Rafayel’s does not care if he is making any sense or not. Well, venting to jellyfishes wasn’t already something common but he does not feel like being direct and say ‘I want my home, Lemuria. The one you two didn’t have the privilege to be born in. Algie’s favorite color was lilac, you’d be her best friend, Kiki. I miss my people.’ 

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier.”  

Another whistle like, ‘pruuuu’ noise escapes both jellyfishes in acknowledgment.

“She must be really pretty then!” Mimi chirps but Kiki turns her translucent crown to the side in confusion. “Can’t you start again, ‘ayel?” She whispers with her tired voice.

Rafayel bites down on his already bruised, pink under lip in an attempt to stop it from quivering. “I can’t.” A pitiful whisper. 

They all remain silent for a long time. The pair spins around him in gracious, slow circles. Their long tentacles tickle his face and sides by accident. He chuckles.

“Well!” Clapping his hands, he gulps down a weak sob. He has been busy lately and did not have enough time to visit his little friends. The little ones shouldn’t be fussing over him while he drowned in his own pearls. “I’ll paint something prettier when I go back to the surface.” A peaceful life with his bride.

“How have the two of you been?” A webbed finger pokes Mimi’s pale crown, she whistles as a response. “Good! But the water has been colder and it makes Kiki too sleepy.” The pink one chirps, whatever sound a jellyfish could make closer to a giggle. Her lilac friend fights back, her crown pushing Mimi away weakly, “Not true…”

‘Mimimi’s’ and ‘pruuuu’s’  escape the pair while they discuss in whispers Rafayel’s ears can’t really catch a glimpse of. He chuckles anyway. Mimi, as energetic as a jellyfish can be, is the first to snap out of their argument, tentacles going static when she suddenly remembers something. 

“Oh! Mr. Rafayel! With spring coming soon- did you find your mate?” Not ‘a’ mate, your. Lemurian’s mate with someone they are completely devoted to and their bond is sealed with the ocean’s approval. At the subtle mention of your name, his usual smug smile returns to his face.

His back hits the cold rock and his arms rest behind his head. If he had to be honest with himself, he has been holding back since you two started dating, afraid his ‘inhumane’ side would overwhelm you. Lemurians love with fervor, it’s intense, they’d trade everything for their soulmates in a heartbeat. He doesn’t want to scare you, really. It’d break his heart in a thousand pieces if he ever saw you shy away from his touch.

He smiles, looking fondly at the animals that acted more like little children. How could he not get baby fever with two little ones that clinged to his arms every time they spotted him underwater? His grin grows bigger, a ‘Yepppp��� leaves his pretty lips, his mouthing making a ‘pop!’  sound for the dragged p’s.

They giggle at his silly smile, multiple tentacles twitching with their tiny, breathy laughs. “Lucky fish…” Kiki murmurs and swims closer to Rafayel’s tail like a lapdog. “Indeed! Are they pretty, mr. Rafayel?” — “The prettiest.”

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier, Mimi. Like an angel.” Prettier than anything in this world, was his sincere answer but maybe the concept was too complex for a jellyfish.

He laughs as they have the same dialogue once more. Kiki does not intrude nor does she try to keep up with the conversation, quietly resting on the lilac and blue scales on Rafayel’s body.

An understanding ‘ohhh’ sound escapes the little one as she swims in circles. “Mr. Rafayel! You must show them to us! What could possibly be prettier than a lemurian?” 

“Do not fret, silly.” Again, a finger, glossy with mucus, pokes her crown. “I plan to, but she’s a dummy. Does not trust me when I say she won’t drown with me by her side. Humans are a pain, Mimi, do not talk to them, ever.” Rafayel sighs dramatically.

Misery and torment let go from his scales and bones and sink alone into the abyss, swallowed by the darkness they once came out of. Comfort is found in the silliest and strangest places. 

Rafayel sighs in relief as his eyes close, he keeps chatting to the energetic, pink child, entertaining her as much as he can before he has to come to the surface once more and deal with the, most likely soaked, curtains and maybe burn his half finished painting. 

His only wish now was for you to be able to understand fish language. Oh how delighted you’d be to chat with a jellyfish that acts like a four year old. The pair would love you, too, he thinks. He finds his mind in peace, the storm no longer suffocates him and pearls no longer try to choke him.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

[theothots]

faceless soulmates au but it’s also a faceless driver au. landoscar style

OP81 was a fucking mystery to lando. faceless drivers were more and more common, especially after max and lewis had had such impressive careers before their face reveals, so it wasn’t like he was thrown off by not knowing what his teammate looked like. it’s just. it had been a year since daniel left, the reassuring older brother bond frayed and tired as he departed, but still very much there, and the arrival of this faceless, monotone, machine of a rookie did fuck all to fill the void danny left. even a year on, despite the pr videos they had filmed together, lando just couldn’t get a read on OP.

he saw him sometimes chatting to logan and alex over at the williams garage, and OP was normal with them. he was normal with all the other drivers, in fact, laughing at their jokes, making quips when the moment needed them, giving a pat on the back after a hard race.

he wasn’t normal with lando.

sometimes lando would look across the garage and see OPs helmet staring right back at him, like his gaze had been fixed on him for hours, but then he would go over to chat and get the typical one word pr responses. lando was at the point where he thought it made the most sense that OP just didn’t fucking like him. which sucked, because having a teammate his own age should’ve been fun, even with the whole faceless thing, but lando could live with it.

it was just after the qatar sprint, everyone swearing buckets and thanking a higher power (their team principals) that media had been cut short due to the state of the drivers. lando had already been in his ice bath and was wandering back to his drivers room to go and pass out on the bed until someone started worrying about where he was and came and got him, passing by a cupboard when he heard a bump from inside and a crash.

intrigued and slightly concerned, he opened the door carefully to see a very wet OP with his helmet haphazardly on and his breathing halfway to hyperventilating.

what the fuck.

“oh fuck. oh fuck im so sorry you- shit sorry lando just pretend you didn’t see me- god this is fucking embarrassing-” OP rambled as he scrambled for the door handle, ignoring landos frozen body in the corridor.

his brain caught up to him and he clocked into the distressed tone of OPs voice. “wait, mate are you ok? stupid question, clearly not considering mr sprint winner is in a cleaning cupboard panicking. what the fuck happened?” he grabbed OPs arm from where it had been grabbing at the door handle and stopped it, making his way into the small cupboard at the same time.

OP stopped his rapid scrambling, seeming to accept landos presence in the cramped space, both boys sinking to the floor.

“i- have you not seen the photos? god they’re already all over the internet people probably know my fucking name- i just forgot there was reporters right next to the motorhome on the way back from the ice baths- i didn’t think they would see anything, i thought my face was covered-”

and oh. lando understood. OPs face had been leaked. oh fuck.

“oh fuck.”

smooth.

“yeah that’s-” a wet laugh escaped OP “that’s one way to put it. god this is so fucked.” his breathing was calming down, the situation no less terrible but the company in his moment of need bringing his heart rate down.

OP looked over at lando, who been subconsciously gently stroking his arm from his close spot next to him. he coughed lightly, trying to shake the broken tone from his throat, before speaking.

“have you seen what twitters saying? kim found me before i could look and grabbed my phone on his way to speak to zak and andrea. i was supposed to join them but i needed to just… take a minute.”

lando looked at him with sympathy, but got out his phone. considering the amount of bad press he’d gotten over the years, he knew checking social media right now probably wasn’t the best choice, but he also knew it was like an itch that needed to be scratched, and at least OP could look at it whilst he was with him for support.

he clicked on twitter, hesitating momentarily, but committing anyway, and went to the trending tab. OP81 was trending, along with a few other tags about the race and the name oscar. he clicked on the OP81 tag, and scrolled until he found a photo, the guilt of looking welling up in him but the curiosity winning out. but when he looked at the photo that had been posted he was confused.

“well mate it’s not that bad, it’s blurred anyway.”

OP81 looked at him, and lando imagined him slowly blinking underneath the helmet.

“what.”

“yeah look mate the photo that’s been posted has blocked out your face anyway. maybe that’s just edited.” lando focused back on the phone, eyebrows scrunching as he looked through the photos. “no look, they’re all like this see?”

OP81 did not see. OP81 was in fact having a crisis now for an entirely different reason.

what the fuck.

“lando… the photos aren’t blurred.”

lando looked at him like he was an idiot.

“yes mate they clearly are. look-” but before he could finish, OP lifted off his helmet. a completely blank canvas stared back at lando. it was as if someone had forgotten to tell landos brain what eyes and a mouth and a nose and a hairline looked like. it was all fuzzy, like he was looking at OP without glasses.

oh. oh.

“the photos aren’t blurred.”

OP81 sighs and tilts his head back against the wall, facing away from lando.

“i can’t see your face either. or. i guess now we know that, it’ll change.”

it took a few moments, the darkness of the cupboard now that the door had drifted shut again not helping, but when they looked back at each other, they could see. OPs swoop of brown hair, his moles, his brown eyes. holy shit. fuck being faceless, his teammate was pretty.

holy shit. his soulmate was pretty.

“wow. OP-”

“oscar. it’s- my names oscar piastri. i guess you should know now. that a good wow?” a hopeful gleam shone in OPs- in oscars eyes.

“god yeah it’s a good wow. you’re pretty.”

that got a laugh out of oscar, echoing around the cupboard and reminding the pair of the predicament they were in.

“we should probably-”

“yeah. zak and the team will be waiting.”

neither boy made to move.

“you know i didn’t- i’m really sorry if i was weird around you. before. i think i forgot i didn’t show my face? and so the soulmate rules of them having seen your face and clarity being restored to each of you wouldn’t apply. so when i kept not being able to see your face even after we’d been teammates for half a year, i just assumed what i had been landed with was a good old unrequited scenario. which sucked im gonna be honest cause you are you, and i obviously had a massive crush on you and-”

landos brain short circuited. “obviously? oscar i thought you were ignoring me because you didn’t like me. not because you thought that we weren’t soulmates. god i wish this happened earlier. well obviously i wish you hadn’t had your face leaked but-”

“oh shut up,” oscar said, and pulled lando in to kiss him. lando melted into him and he felt oscar relax as well. a moment went by and then lando pulled back, mourning the closeness but remembering why they were here in the first place.

“ok. as much as im loving the new teammate dynamic we have developed in the space of ten minutes, a panic attack, and a face reveal, we do need to go and talk to zak about that last one.”

they sighed and begrudgingly stood up, stretching slightly and nudging the door open. together they wandered back down to the main room in the mclaren motorhome, meeting the team and looking slightly sheepish.

they sat down as some of the social media team ran through their plan of action, condemning the posting of oscars face and name to the public, but encouraging oscar to embrace it. he nodded along, a distracted look in his eyes as he flicked over the faces of all the mclaren workers looking his way with curiosity. feeling a bit like a bug under a microscope, he grabbed landos hand for support, a look of understanding coming from the elder driver.

“um, one more thing,” lando said, speaking up for the first time in this meeting. all eyes fell on him and he looked at oscar guiltily. “me and osc are soulmates.”

“WHAT?”

[rayveneyed]

cw: smut / a/b/o dynamics / cisfem!reader

contrary to popular, old-fashioned belief, alphas and omegas can be friends.

long gone are those times of wilful ignorance, the use of nature as an excuse for shitty behaviour —well, i'm an alpha, see, so i really can't help trying to shove my hand up your skirt, so—

most people are chill nowadays, you like to think — like to being the key phrase. sure, you get the occasional tradomega trying to tell you that you need to dive into your divine feminine and serve your alpha as god intended — and you've definitely been on the receiving side of some ticking biological clock rhetoric, for sure, by snot-nosed alphas with not even a single yen to their name — but it is what it is.

all of this to say that: when sero hanta is guts deep in you, it's completely platonic. completely. cute. casual. nowadays, no hair-brained ideas of marriage or monogamy or commitment accompany your coupling — it’s animal instinct, dirty and intense and slick and hot, scratching a biological itch, and that’s it.

you really lucked out on your choice of partner, too. sero’s an alpha, yes, but not in the derogatory sense. he doesn't get pissed when he smells other alphas on you, like a territorial dog; doesn't tell you that you should be settled down, already, with a household of pups to manage at 25 years of age; doesn't push and prod when you work long hours and devote most of your time to your career. he's funny, and goofy, and tall, and lean, and — and, well, his hair is floppy and inky black, and when he's hunched over you, sweat dripping onto your collarbone from his pointed nose, his cheeks flush the cutest shade of pink…

ahem. anyways.

while there are many omegas that are no doubt stronger than you when it comes to heats, forgoing human contact in favour of 700-odd pounds of silicone, you're part of the large majority that would rather shack up with somebody real. you're not knocking it, of course! your sock drawer is testament to the fact that you love your silicone, really, but there's just something about a person. all heat and skin-to-skin, sticky and nasty in a way that leaves you more satisfied than anything else.

and sero — with his kind eyes and goofy smile (and skintight hero suit) — is not only more than willing to help you through your heats, but have you enjoy them. not an easy feat when your insides are tying themselves up in knots between orgasms, but by god does he do it. something about his hips... something about the way he bows his head to your shoulder, grinding long and slow into you, hips pressed flush to hips. his lips brushing against your skin when he groans, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back. you're not sure if you should be jealous of his obvious sexual experience, or just grateful that you get to be on the receiving end of it.

there is, of course, the obvious romantic connotations of it all. you’re not stupid enough to completely ignore it; after all, heats are these romanticised, coming-of-age-esque happenings, the plot of most early 2000 rom-coms and bad pornos. cute omega roommate forgets her suppressants and goes into heat! real alpha-omega love-making guaranteed!

but its not like that, because hanta is hanta and you are you. you’re like sharkboy and lavagirl. or fireboy and watergirl. whichever pairing fits the dynamic better — you’ve always been the hothead between you two.

“that’s a really shitty idea,” a friend warns you. she’d caught you with your scarf undone, baring the hickies that hanta had left on you to the world — an embarrassing result of the occasional non-heat trysts you’d find yourself caught up in. you couldn’t even blame the heat hormones for the way you’d almost mauled him, but a girl simply has needs! “i’m telling you, casual heat sex never works. trust me.”

but it works for you and hanta, right? because no matter how much you fight, how much you disagree, how much you chastise him for putting himself directly in the line of fire — on live tv, no less! — it all melts away in a pile of blankets and pillows. no matter how deep his cock drives in you, no matter how his teeth scrape your scent glands and have your toes curling against his back, it all ends up the same — slumped in front of the tv, lazily lounging on your phone while he boots up his nintendo 64 to kick ganondorf’s ass for the billionth time.

(and it doesn’t matter that sero isn’t seeing anyone else — it doesn’t matter that he’s deleted his dating apps, or that you keep the pillow he sleeps on when he comes over so that you can scent it when he’s gone. it doesn’t matter that he reminds you to take your anxiety meds — you know, omegas are 44% more likely to have GAD than the average person? — or that he remembers how you take your tea, coffee, and pho. these are things you’d do with any friend, of course.)

it’s cute. casual. not at all romantic, so surely you shouldn’t think twice about leaving a toothbrush at his place. and what harm could a set of pyjamas do? and you could always do with an extra pair of socks, and your skincare, and perhaps an extra phone charger…?

[alexa-yukiyu]

Phantom Pain (Shanks x sibling!gn!reader)

A/N okay so I fell asleep after doing the assigment yesterday but the assigment was about phantom limb pain and what goes behind it, and how can it happen and all I could think of during this was of Shanks and how likely it is he is dealing with his own phantom pain so here you go, I COOKED HERE

Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika

“Beck, where is he?”

He lets out a trail of smoke from his lips, and he gestures to the quarters of the captain, where a crash could be heard

“Thank you, Beck, I got him,” they sighed, shooting the man a smile as they entered the room, sighing as they glanced at the destroyed furniture that laid inside

They frown as they take in the man next to what was previously a bedside table, now a crumpled mess of wood, blood dripping as splinters dug into his skin

“Shanks, you can’t keep doing these; replacing them has started to become troublesome.”

“Dahahahah! Don’t worry so much, Dokucha!”

They shake their head, walking to the bathroom, and grabbing the first aid kit, pulling Shanks to the bed, and sitting in front of him, pulling out a pair of tweezers and beginning to remove the splinters

“You’re an idiot; you can’t deal with the pain with more pain,” she grumbles

“I told you to call me when this happens.”

“It’s no big deal, Dokucha; I can handle it.”

“So you say, but look at you, just the same as when we were young! Acting all mature but doing such fool things,” they fuss, pulling out the last of the splinters from his wounded arm and beginning to clean off the blood

“Shanks…raging like this it won’t make the pain

go away; it’s not something you can just brush away.”

“It’s not real, Dokucha.”

“It is you, idiot!”

“The pain is not real. My arm is no longer there; I am just imagining the pain.”

“No, you’re not, Shanks! God, you’re so stubborn! Both me and Honho have already told you that phantom pain is a very real thing; it’s not just in the mind; you are actually in pain.”

He gives them a small smile, ruffling their hair with his now bandaged hand

“I ‘m sorry”

“Please let me help you, Shanks; you are always protecting me; let me, for once, be the one to help you,” they plead

“Fine, what do you have in mind?”

They grin at him, running to the bathroom, returning with a mirror

“Hmm? Oh, are you finally accepting I am the better-looking sibling?” He questioned with a smirk that was received with a swift hit to the back of the head

“You wish, put your arm in front of it and put your other arm behind it.”

“I don’t have another arm, Dokucha; that is kind of the issue here.”

“Real funny jus- just make sure your stump stays behind it and your arm is in front of it.”

“Like this?”He questioned, positioning his remaining arm in front of the mirror

“Yes, now look at the mirror.”

He gave them a questioning look but did as they told him, glancing at the mirror

“Move it around.”

He began moving his arm around, gripping and wiggling his hand about, glancing at how the reflection showed him his right arm moving about

“What do you think?”

“It feels better…” he muttered

“It tricks your brain, makes it think it never was gone in the first place.”

“Huh, I ‘ll be damned.”

“Cool, isn’t it? That’s your primary somatosensory system, sending information to the brain. It believes your missing arm is there, and the pain stops.”

“Interesting”

“You have no idea what I just said.”

“Nope”

“Idiot”

What so yall think? Been a while since I did a normal reader and not child and I was itching to give you guys more crews after the barrage of whitebeard

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[annabelle--cane]

htn act four thoughts:

-> genuinely surprised that judith is still alive, good on her for surviving being mega stabbed. also condolences to her for losing her cavalier without even getting to eat her, gotta be one of the worst case scenarios for this kind of relationship.

-> if god felt the damage done to harrow's temporal lobe from touching her face, then surely mercymorn must have noticed as well, right? but when she touched harrow's head to try and figure out why she kept calling the saint of duty "ortus," it didn't seem like she came away with a clear answer, nor detected anything that would point her towards such an answer. hmm.

-> I think god believes that harrow couldn't have actually broken into the tomb, but I do not buy that reality for a second. similarly, cytherea was 100% under harrow's bed and either ianthe is up to something or that was non-hallucination ghostly apparition.

-> god's characterization is scratching some itch inside my brain because there's a lot that makes me want to like him. he speaks kind of awkwardly and uses metaphors that don't work. he quotes dead memes and even deader literature for no reason. he's in a weird situationship with his lyctors. harrow tells him about the greatest shames of her life and he tells her they're not her fault and she has nothing to feel bad about. but also his reactions when harrow came to him about "ortus" made me Violent. "yeah I know being constantly brutalized isn't fun and I don't like it but it's a display of loyalty to me so cope ig" "he's a stand up guy, that doesn't sound like him, idk maybe try being normal?" I'm going to bone construct chest explode you.

-> the Big Mysteries heading into the final act: what's up with the second person speaker, what's up with just how wacky the flashbacks are, what's up with the sword, why does "ortus" do any of the things he does, cytherea ???, who's the traitor judith mentioned, and whom the fuck stabbed harrow in the prologue.

[sweet-s0rr0w]

day 7 of @hprecfest - the best of your OTP

What We Pretend We Can't See, by gyzym - M, 131k, 2017

Summary: Seven years out from the war, Harry learns the hard truth of old history: it’s never quite as far behind you as you thought.

Excerpt:

“It’s only,” Ron says, and takes a long swig of his wine, clearly to brace himself. “You — well. You know how you can get, Harry. About Malfoy.”

“What?” Harry says, staring at both of them. “Sorry, what ? No, I don’t know how I can get about Malfoy, what are you even talking about?”

“Oh, Harry,” says Hermione, sounding very pitying.

“Mate,” Ron says, in the same tone. “C’mon. This is a safe space.”

“Also, we were there,” adds Hermione, with a heavy sigh. “Remember in sixth year? When you were so obsessed with him that we weren’t allowed to talk about anything else?”

“He was doing evil,” Harry protests, outraged. “And I was doing my best to thwart evil! That’s not obsessive, that’s — that’s — civic-minded!”

“Civic-minded, was it, to sit up all night watching his name move around the Slytherin common room on the Marauder’s Map?” Ron does not sound convinced. Also, he sounds like maybe he thinks Harry has suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury in the last ten minutes; it’s not a combination Harry enjoys. “I swear, one night we were down in the common room and I said, ‘You coming to bed, Harry?’ and you said — ”

“Oh god, I remember this,” Hermione interrupts, and groans. “You said ‘I won’t rest until Malfoy does!’ Then you threw a paperweight at the wall, and it exploded.”

“I loved that paperweight,” Ron says mournfully. “It died too young.”

&

Modern Love, by @tackytigerfic - E, 61k, 2020

Summary: Harry Potter, of all people, knows that life isn’t always fair. And no one gets to be happy all of the time. But surely there’s something more—something better—than a rubbish Ministry job, and a lonely old house, and that feeling that everyone out there is doing a better job of living than Harry is.

And it really doesn’t seem fair that Draco Malfoy is back in Harry’s life, all of a sudden, and even though he’s wandless, and living with Muggles, and making his mother cry with his lifestyle choices, he’s happy. So what's he doing right, that Harry isn’t?

Because things don’t really change, do they? And if Harry can’t be happy, he’ll settle for a good night’s sleep, some posh antiques, and the opportunity to find out what Malfoy has been up to for all these years.

And that’s what starts it all.

Excerpt:

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Potter. You think I'm happy without magic. I'm happy despite not having magic, you twat. Sometimes it itches under my skin until I think I'm going to go mad. And you show up like this—" he gestures wildly at Harry's Wizengamot robes "—and you Apparated here, didn't you? I could smell it off you when I opened the door, Potter." He sways closer to Harry, and he looks angry again all of a sudden. "You reek of magic, Potter, and you don't even know it. And it's so hard sometimes, being around that. It's just as well you didn't take me up on the offer of a fuck, I suppose. I’d probably have been able to feel your magic when you were inside me. Pretty hard to go back from that."

Harry, having never been in love properly, wonders if this is what it’s always like—feeling simultaneously pissed off and turned on and, through it all, endlessly fond—but suspects it might be just down to it being him, and Draco, and how they are together.

There are loads of fics I could have picked for this prompt. I considered Heal Thyself by astolat, and of That Old Black Magic, by bixgirl, for example, which are both all-time favourites of mine. I've been trying to rec less popular fics, because to me that's part of the fun and the challenge of recfest, and because I think we're so blessed to be in a fandom with such a wealth of talent going back twenty-odd years. But these fics were the very first two to pop into my mind when I heard the prompt, and I kept on coming back to them both, and it feels only right to rec them - and to rec them together - because I do see them both as the very best of Drarry. Both authors' words feel so truly full of love for the characters, and the world, and the ship, and both authors write Draco and Harry so convincingly and unequivocally as two parts of a whole. WWPWCS, of course, so witty and clever, has the amazing scene above so early on, where Harry's just appalled to learn that anyone might have thought he was at any stage obsessed with Draco Malfoy - and then he proceeds to demonstrate how completely and utterly obsessed he is with Draco Malfoy throughout the entirety of the fic. And then there's ML, such a brilliant, complex, emotional piece, with its Harry who begins to find unexpected joy in the little things as he spends more and more time around this fascinating, self-sufficient Draco. Of course, both fics then have their own excellent OH FUCK moment, the moment the dam bursts and Harry realises what we've known for ages - that he's so completely in love with Draco that there's no way back, and what the hell's he going to do about it now?

Neither fic's a quick read, but both are spectacularly written, with such delicious denouements that they are SO COMPLETELY WORTH IT, and if you're getting to read either of them for the first time - god, I envy you!

If you read them, and if especially you love them, please do let me know! And as always, please do take the time to leave the author a kudos/comment <3

day 1 - first fic you remember reading

day 2 - a fic rated G

day 3 - a fic not on ao3

day 4 - a comfort fic

day 5 - a romantic fic

day 6 - a fic for a ship you don’t normally read

[konigs-left-pec]

Worked Up

A/N: One of y'all (on the old blog 🥲) said you needed a pt.2 to Scent so here ya go.

Rating: E/MDNI (vaginal sex, shout-out to the missionary position, nothing too spicy.)

Summary: It's postpartum sex with König, babes!

It had been a long 6 weeks since your daughter was born - 6 weeks full of overwhelming emotion, sleepless nights, tears, and (regretfully) no sex.

You watched König longingly from the bed, heart warm and full as he cradled his little girl, large arms rocking her back to sleep in the peaceful sanctum of your bedroom as he whispered sweetly to her, lips pressed gently to her forehead. He was so lost in the German lullaby he was singing under his breath, swaying back and forth as he gently bounced her, that he didn't notice the hunger with which you were staring at him. Not just staring at him so much as trying to greedily consume him; your gaze grew more heated as you perused every inch of his form - from his strong back and broad shoulders (you wanted your legs draped over them as he moaned in your ear, rutting against you like he was starving for it) and all the way down to the curve of his ass and statuesque thighs (preferably digging your nails into his flesh as he loomed over you, hips flush between your thighs) - you stopped yourself with a muted oh my God as you realized that you were practically salivating like some feral dog as you ogled your husband. Sweet, not-so-innocent König completely unaware of your lustful thoughts and how your panties were uncomfortably soaked, an itch only he could scratch forming deep inside you. He cleared his throat suddenly in this unbearably authoritative way that demanded your attention and you met his eyes sheepishly, knowing you'd been seen.

"See something you like, meine liebe?"

He was smirking, but his eyes crinkled mirthfully before he turned to place the baby back in her bassinet, delicately soothing her with his hand on her chest as she finally gave herself over to sleep. With a deep breath he straightened to full height, stretching his neck and arms and your core actually tingled as his shirt rode up, absurdly excited at just a peek of his happy trail. God, you wanted to lick it... Right before he slid his stiff cock through your slick-

You wanted to wait longer, you really did, but how could you be expected to endure this kind of temptation? He was looking intently at you now, head cocked to the side, dark eyes undressing you as he moved closer to your side of the bed. Your brain was swimming in hormones and you shook your head, trying to pull yourself together to think with your brain instead of your traitorous pussy, which only wanted the pounding to end all poundings by the feel of it.

Out of all the activities you two had put on hold during your pregnancy, you had quite honestly missed plain old missionary sex the most. It seemed so simple, so silly, you couldn't quite articulate the yearning you had to feel your husband's weight on top of you - his safe, strong, warm body, braced over you with one hand supporting himself beside your head and the other feeding his cock into your weeping quim. You would turn your head to suck and nip at his wrist, running your tongue over the tendons and veins as he pistons in and out of-

"Are you sure you're ready, y/n? I can wait..."

"I can't."

His eyes grew impossibly darker at your boldness, that and a strangled groan was the only warning before he descended upon you, crawling over you as he pressed you back into the bed. You grabbed handfuls of his firm ass, hauling him closer to nestle in the cradle of your hips, gasping for breath beneath the insistent press of his weight above you as his open mouth worked along the column of your throat. Sliding your hands beneath the waistband of his sweats, you noticed with no small amount of pleasure that he had forgone boxers. Groping him you felt the muscles beneath your fingers tense and he rocked into you once, twice, smothering a grin against your cheek as you pushed further down to grab his cock and press him impatiently to your entrance. Despite the hesitation and fear, you were blessedly wet and he slid in slowly, easily despite the twinges of disuse in that tender muscle. He bottomed out and you released a breath you hadn't known you were holding, feeling him sitting heavy and slick in the hottest, deepest part of you.

"Oh...God...yesss..."

"Ja? So gut?" He paused to grind into you, needing to collect himself because you were never this vocal, typically gifting him quick breaths and rasping sighs as you climbed to the finish. His hands trapped your own over your head, thumbs rubbing absently over your wrists as you thrust back against him, shifting your legs wider so you take even more of him.

Thankfully he knew your body well enough after all these years and you nearly cried with relief as he briefly slowed his pace, hooking your knees over his arms and spreading you wide open. He slipped even deeper, bumping up against the door to your womb as that delicious ache began to build.

"I'm so close..." reaching down to touch your aching clit, you jolted under the intensity of it, coming almost immediately with a sharp cry and shock all over your face, judging from the cocky chuckle your husband failed to contain. The laughter died in his throat though as your own orgasm pushed him into his, pace speeding up as your slick channel spasmed around his cock; three rough thrusts later and he was exhaling harshly through his nose and spilling himself on your belly, his fist tight and sticky with your spend and his.

He fell heavily to your side, lying quietly with you as you both recovered your strength. He moved first, handing you one of the baby's burp rags to clean up. Boneless, you ineffectively sopped at the mess he had left behind. He was laughing to himself again under his breath, a deep rumbling that had you dragging your eyes up; up past his spent erection, still wet and twitching against his thigh; up to his generously muscles torso, still heaving (and dare you say glistening) a bit from your exertions; all the way up to his face - amused eyes, lidded heavily with desire and the biggest shit-eating grin you'd ever seen on him. He knew before you even opened your mouth.

"So when can you go again?"

[fortheb0ys]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTLYeA8Kt/

Okay okay okay

Pet play with Jeff vs Graves would be soo fun to see

Jeff only really gets rough if provoked, feels awful after usually unless it's sex. Then he's probably pretty satisfied, but even then he's really not that rough. Really gotta work him up to being rough, let him blow some steam in a safe environment where he won't be afraid to be "bad."

He has his moments, overwhelmed and probably panicked, especially after Shauna and her "book club." But he's not inherently a bad dog. He's a good boy, just needy and clingy, probably a bit insecure and wary around people.

That biting issue isn't awful after being with him for awhile, probably actually able to train him over Shauna. But sometimes he'll bite if something feels too good or he's frightened, but I can't imagine putting him in his kennel again over it. They're accidents, lost in his head like last time and everyone's learning from it

Graves?

Rough and mean for the hell of it. Is not satisfied by slow sappy shit unless you really work him in, or his day was genuinely terrible. But usually? Graves is wrestling and probably straight up sparring with you for dominance that he doesn't want.

Bites bites bites all the time. You look like you were thrown to the wolves after leaving a session with Graves, cannot train this out of him. It's his god given right as a puppy. Fuck him with a dildo with a knot? It's soo over for him. Eyes rolled back and drooling everywhere. 0 thoughts in this pups brain, literally none at all as he's shooting blanks over and over again.

He's bratty, mouthy. Loves to tease and be pampered. Stressed at work? Scratch behind his ears and coo at him and he's melting away, itching for that weight of a collar around his neck.

Anyways 😭 idk if any of that makes sense but you get to have my rambles anyways!

-🥭

AHHHH I WANNA DIG A HOLE IN YOUR SKULL TO LIVE IN YOUR BRAIN AND EAT YOUR THOUGHTS!! THIS SO PERFECT😭 This is fucking perfect! I'm so sorry if none of this makes sense.

Jeff is gentle natured. Only ever violent when really pushed in a corner or someone's threatening people dear to him. He's definitely not in control of his mouth when he experiences any overwhelming emotions. He would bite his lip, the inside of his mouth or tongue and not realize. He'd start panicing or whine when he taste blood.

He just doesn't like to be treated rough at all. Rough means punishment. He needs reassurance that he's not a bad boy and that no one's mad at him.

I feel like Jeff gets let off the handle more than he should. Don't want to push him and break his trust. He's, for the most part, well behaved. If he does something wrong he's most likely going to beg for forgiveness before he could get reprimanded.

His kennel isn't really for punishment. It's more of a safe space for him. Just plushies and throw blanket. It's only ever punishment if the cage is closed.

He likes everything soft and sweet, especially nicknames. Cute one like buddy, puppy, pumpkin, etc. He loves to be spoiled. Kisses and praises more the material things.

Shauna lets him stay at your place some weekends and as much as he loves spending time with you Jeff questions why Shauna doesn't love him anymore. He definitely soooooo fucking clingy. The type of dog to wait outside the bathroom door.

Shauna probably wouldn't have much patience with training him. Would give up quickly or scold him a little too hard. Gentleness is key in reinforcing Jeff's good behavior.

Graves gives the vibe of one of those pitbulls named 'Cupcake' or 'Princess'. He can be sweet but violence is in his nature. I think he reacts violently because that's how he was treated. He's violent with both play and sex. He'll violent rip apart toys and goes through them so easily. Old wounds can never heal properly cause he just bites over them (I have a fic talking about this actually).

Graves thinks if he does his mission he'll get rewarded but is let down constantly by Shepherd. He'll finish his mission and all Shepherd gives him is a cold pat on the back and his paycheck.

Yes, Graves loves the money but he craves to be praised both cause of his ego and his deep need to be wanted. If someone wants him, they pay.

Shepherd calls him a dog with a bone. He'd somehow learn of Graves' puppy play. Use it against him and for sometime Graves let him. He's loyal to the ones he's close with and it took alot to break that trust. But seeing his men, the ones he views as a pack, die made him snap.

So now with a new 'handler' he's never going to be fully trusting. He gave it away and it backfired.

I think Graves bite more so to show ownership. Yes, he has violent tendencies but he like to see markings. It's way of him keeping some level of control. Plus he just genuinely like to do it.

Graves accept no punishment. If boundaries are crossed or his actions too severe, just go quiet for a few days to scare him. He'll think he'll be abandon and will crawl back. It's a bit cruel but it's the only thing that works.

He has money so spoiling him with gifts isn't going to win any favor. He just wants someone to 'play' with. Honestly he'd probably pay. Of course, most of the paycheck is hush money.

Graves requires a lot of energy burning activity aka sex when in his head space. He's a busy man and doesn't get to relax often. I can imagine his has those heavy chain collar. Chain him somewhere and get him to fuck himself on a knotted dildo while trying to finish work than fuck him for hours after.