#i deserve it. for the horrors i have undergone

[dullahandyke]

fuck this lad im appealing my english paper, theyre marking me down on shit thats not even wrong..... h1 for eimear h1 for eimear!!!!

[contact-guy]

I was seized with a fervor and could not rest until I illustrated one of my favorite scenes from Sherlock Holmes: the Adventure of the Devil's Foot. While Holmes and Watson take a holiday in the Cornish countryside for Holmes's health, multiple people in the nearby village are found driven mad or dead from horror. Holmes deduces a substance that was burned in their presence is to blame. With a bit of the mysterious powder and a gas lamp in hand, he proposes an experiment to Watson...

content warning for drug use!

I'm not sure if it's supported by the canon but in my mind this is the first time Holmes ever apologies to Watson and he is so overcome with emotion that he immediately makes it weird

Text under the cut:

"It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found. The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await developments."

They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which we had undergone.

"Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry."

"You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."

He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?"

[malkaleh]

@nocompromise-noregrets more golden cage verse. As ever if anyone wants to write fic in this AU (or create art or…) I would perish of happiness just please tag me so I can like scream about it.

He hears of his little nightingale first - a smile from Galadriel as she tells a story, a soft look from Celebrimbor, from the others in the forge. When he sees him for a moment Sauron thinks himself somewhere else entirely.

Melian stares at him through sweet star light eyes - her black curls and olive brown skin, her steadiness shining through a mingling with mortal and elvish blood. But a gentle kindness and a wisdom.

A little nightingale, who should never have been let out into a world that would always covet him, would think they had rights to this precious beautiful treasure of the Ainur.

Sauron resents every moment that others take Elronds attention - from the gwaith i mirdain who gently banter and laugh, to the damned High King who seems to feel he has any right to Elronds service, to the equally irritating dwarf, to the patients he sees.

(Sauron does not think of Her. He does not name Her, though he shudders at the sight of a dog that comes to Elrond for pets).

-

Celebrimbor is brilliant and yet, yet he is too gentle too good natured. And if he could Sauron would take every single one of the inhabitants of Eregion who believe Celebrimbor is somehow theirs and kill them for it - they do not fit into his plans, into his visions. And yet, yet he must spend time to make sure they are all woven into his strategy.

He hates them for what he must do to Celebrimbor. He hates them because when his precious jewel tried to leave he had maimed his hand for them.

-

Galadriel was always meant to be his Queen. The way he should have had her brother, had he known.

Golden haired, his Queen of Light. She had given him so much and he would have her stand before all of Arda as his - as his little nightingale and his jewel would.

-

Gunhild looks at the elf and his poor maimed hand and her heart goes out to him - it is an awful thing to have been so caring that he would have done so, would have undergone such horrors for those who did not deserve it. Lord Sauron had explained it, Sven said - the elf had believed it would save his city and so he had struggled but now, now he understood.

He had looked so very sad at that and had stroked that maimed hand with such gentleness and love it made Gunhild weep.

-

“I will not do such again”

And it is true, Celebrimbor thinks. I cannot. Not when you have bound the freedom of the people of my city, even when it is ashes and dust now, yet the people, the light of them yet lives. Not when you have so bound me.

“My precious jewel, you should never have done this to yourself - such a cruel thing, to maim such beauty and yet, yet you are yet more beautiful Tyelpe.”

[couldpolyamorysavethem]

BRAD CHILES, JUDY REEVES, and FREDERICK "FRED" JONES, SR. FROM SCOOBY-DOO

Justification:

"Look. In the universe that most of the series takes place in, they are all absolutely perfectly terrible for each other. I want to see the three of them tormenting one another in the most horrific ways possible because the three of them deserve it. It wouldn't save them, but it sure would be fun as hell to see the three of them burning each other down in a perfect blend of toxicity and mutual pain! But that's not the version of them that I'm talking about here. I'm talking about the universe that Mystery Incorporated ends in!

Like, for anyone that's seen the show, we all agree that the universe that the show ends in is horrific, right? The gang are in some bizarro "good" universe where everything bad that they were subjected to didn't happen. But the writers sure have a strange idea of a "happy" and "better" universe, right? Shaggy is successful, loved by his parents, and well on his way to become a famous chef. Velma and Marcie are dating. Daphne's army of older sisters… Are failures in life…? And Daphne is seen as the "successful" daughter because… She's still engaged to Fred…? Speaking of which, Fred, who experienced the worst of The Horrors(tm) gets the worst of it! His father aka the guy that kidnapped him as a baby and whom Fred decided was his only legitimate parent is now his school principal who has no real reason to be in Fred's life after he graduates, meanwhile Fred now has to live with his biological parents who were… Just the absolute fucking worst in the old universe! They tried to kill Fred and his friends on multiple occasions, and then they did the SUPREMELY fucked up thing of getting plastic surgery as part of an elaborate scheme to gaslight the gang into giving them an artifact that the gang were hiding by them kidnapping Fred and replacing him with Brad (who got plastic surgery to look identical to Fred), and gaslighting Fred into thinking that the world blew up and that he's hanging out with an elderly Daphne (who is actually Judy, his biological mom also having undergone plastic surgery… AND WHO HAS TO FLIRT WITH HER BIOLOGICAL SON FOR THIS SCHEME TO WORK). And some time after that scheme fails, they swear their loyalties to an eldritch abomination from another dimension, and get eaten alive for their troubles! While still looking like Fred and an elderly Daphne!!! Like… It takes a A LOT for one to make a good case that someone's kidnapper should actually be their victim's legal guardian… But Scooby-Doo Mystery Incorporated sure as fuck does it! And now Fred has to live with those two while he wouldn't really be able to see his only legitimate parent after he graduates! So like… It is genuinely no surprise that Fred decided to run away from home at the end of the series! But at the same time… Fred's biological parents in this new universe seem to be… Like… Fine. Perfectly nice people. They're doctors and deal with newborn babies in this new universe rather than being professional pieces of shit. So they genuinely did nothing wrong! But that doesn't diminish the trauma that their alternate universe counterparts made Fred go through! Trauma that Fred would still need to deal with! And now that they're in this new universe… It does bring up some questions… Because like… In the previous universe, Fred was kidnapped as a baby. We don't even know what his birth name would have been! Would he still be "Fred" if he wasn't kidnapped by a "Fred"!???? And if his name is still "Fred" in this new universe, then why!?

But do you know what would make all of this just a little less horrific and answer some questions…? Polyamory of course! Fred can't see his only real parent after he graduates? Well, Principal Jones is actually dating Brad and Judy! He's going to be over all the time, if not outright move in with them! Of course Principal Jones sees Fred as the son he never had! He only helped Brad and Judy raise him! And that's also why Fred is still named Fred! He was always going to be named Fred because Fred was always going to be named after the same guy! If they weren't allowed to include Mr. Jones' last name on the wedding certificate or the birth documents, by jove, they could at least give their son Mr. Jones' first name! And sure. Fred's only legit dad may not have any memories of the old universe. But he can stay in Fred's life and now comes with a wealth of experience of dealing with kids Fred's age and knowledge on how to deal with kids going through problems and dealing with trauma! I ship the Jones Parents Polycule where no one else does and I'm proud of it! Polyamory can just outright FIX many of the problems that I have with Mystery Incorporated! Polyamory FTW" - @maniacwatchestheworld

[horrormovierevue]

31 for 31 Day 2: Eyes Without A Face

Getting classic on the second day with the French horror film Eyes Without a Face, an absolutely fantastic depiction of a doctor with a God complex refusing to accept failure.

Spoiler review under the cut.

This film reminds me of how much we lose in many modern movies by relying on over explanation, too fast pacing/dialogue, and trying to rush the big reveals/character development beats.

The titular female character, Christiane, conveys so much emotion through just her eyes, the conflict in her character is present in every moment. While she is initially complicit in the horrors being carried out supposedly for her sake, her ultimate choice to live as she is and free those who have suffered at the hands of her father, including herself, is fantastic.

I truly appreciated the nuance in her character, at first seemingly more moved by the suffering of the dogs than of other human beings, buying in to her father's obsession with restoring her to her former beauty. I see a realistic echo of those who suffer abuse and as a safety mechanism buy into this same idea, and extremes needing to occur before being shaken out of it.

A similar journey is undergone with Louise, who at times wishes to break free from the cruelty of luring in victims, but ultimately is blinded by her affection and devotion to Dr. Génessier.

I see hope in the ending of this film, a hope that the victim/complicit person can be liberated by their own hand and that evil will not triumph as long as someone chooses to object and take action.

The visuals were stunning, the devotion to taking time to sit with every stroke of removing a person's face, the at times starkly contrasting jaunty music paired with luring a woman to her death, all serve to create a haunting and beautiful film that is deserving of its lofty place in horror history.

Overall, a solid 9/10, and one I won't soon forget.

[darklinaforever]

When I am accused of romanticizing incest and grooming because I ship Daemyra, whereas when grooming is involved I recognize it, criticize it and have a tendency to despise the character who carried out this horror ! Wasn't it Lucille Sharpe who manipulated and groomed her own little brother ?! (Attention, I still love the character of Lucille. She is a fascinating complex character, I can't take that away from her. On the other hand, I definitely remain objective about the relationship she had with her brother ; Thomas, my little darling for the life that did not deserve so much misfortune)

Not to mention the characters of Tyler Galpin and Kylo Ren having also undergone grooming ? But obviously no one talks about them since they are men! And that the anti will have a tendency to demonize these two characters, refusing to recognize their victim status in order to make them into pure monsters having manipulated the poor young women in front of them (Wednesday Addams and Rey) ! There is definitely this tendency to demonize men and infantilize women during our era which wants to be so feminist.

Especially since I've already seen the Grooming story come out for Wyler and Reylo, but reversed, claiming that these young men groomed these young girls ! Either by transforming the canonical age of Tyler in addition to ignoring the canonical events making him a victim of grooming (nice try but failed), and for Reylo, although the characters are both adults, use their almost 10 years (I think ?) of age difference to shout about grooming ! (Definitely the use of this word is really trivialized these days) Yes ! Let's infantilize women, such as Rhaenyra Targaryen (who ironically always goes from victim to whore / aggressor with the anti, sometimes within the same episode, showing all the consistency they demonstrate in their speeches) or Alina Stakov by saying that they were groomed by Daemon Targaryen and The Darkling (Both stripped by many fans of their complexity / the fact that they are gray characters to make them pure monsters who are attackers and rapists of women, while there are canonical rapists around them in these universes respective !) to fix our anti discourse and pretend to be feminist ! Great to compare that to womens who fully choose to be with the men they want !

[aviculor]

Resurrected (2023), a computer screen "found footage" film told through a series of Facetime calls and internet searches. I'm not crazy about the "screenlife" subgenre, like Unfriended and Dashcam and Host, but I can't deny that it's creative.

The plot here is that the Vatican found a way to resurrect people through undisclosed means. The first subject was a little boy whose dad got drunk and put him in the passenger seat instead of a kiddie seat in the back and then got into a crash. The mom wouldn't even visit him in the hospital and very clearly divorced him afterwards. Because only Catholics are allowed to be brought back, about 90% of the world has been converted. Some less willingly than others, as apparently missionaries are out here baptizing corpses. Millions of people have undergone..whatever process this is that brings them back from the dead with no wounds or scars. But only if the Cherubim, hackers hired by the Vatican, have scoured their lives to determine they're not a sinner and "deserve" it. Those who do return aren't exactly living the good life either, like a woman traumatized by her murder and a man distraught because his wife wasn't brought back alongside him. That's why priests act as counselors for them, like the dad from the beginning who got ordained during a timeskip. But it turns out when a resurrected person or "RP" snaps, it doesn't reflect very well on the priest who oversaw them. Perhaps there's a bit of a pattern here, possibly a conspiracy going on. Gotta get to the bottom of it.

You know, when I first heard about this, I thought the resurrection process would play a larger role in the plot and possibly even be a source of horror in and of itself. But it was just a narrative device, a vehicle for a story about society in a world where such a thing is possible. Literally the last line was the Cardinal hand-waving it away as a miracle you just have to believe in.

Sexy hacker NB make my brain go brr

[noahsbookhoard]

📚February 2024 Book Review (Part 3/3)📚

The final three books of February! Not much to say as an introduction except a quick disclaimer: I read Coraline (as well as American Gods later this year) before the accusation against Neil Gaiman had been made public. I do not condone sexual assault and have since taken my distance with his work. Coraline is included here since I had already read it, but if it make anyone uncomfortable feel free to contact me and I'll remove the review altogether.

Coraline by Neil Gaiman

Coraline has just moved into a new, wierd, old house. With her parents busy with work she is left on her own to explore it until one passage led her to another brighter, happier version of her home with a caring, loving mother which looks just like her own, only with buttons for eyes. But as nice as it seems, this Other Mother might not have the best mind for Coraline

It took years between the first time I started watching the film adaptation and the time I watch the end of it. Much like Spirited Away it was too scary for sensitive 9 year old me.

Therefore it took years before I learned that it was based on a book and since I heard everywhere that the book was scarier than the film I postponed the reading for a really really long time. It might be that I am far less sensitive to horror in written form or that I was a little too old but it didn't find it that scary.

The anticlimax made the read experience... not disappointing but less thrilling than it might have been: It wasn't nightmare inducing but there is tension and suspense and a strange atmosphere which pulls you in. I love a good twist on a fairy tale classic and the Passage To A Magic World But Wrong works really well here. The Other Mother grows more off putting the longer the story goes, I have to admit she creeps me out!

Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes

Algernon is a mice which has undergone a new type of surgery to increased his intelligence. After this succes, Charlie Gordon, a mentally disabled man, is the first human subject to undergo the same treatment. His story is told through the diary that marks his progress and Algernon's, until one day Algernon starts declining: what does it means for Charlie?

As much as possible I try to read book by English speaking author in English but this one intrigued me at the public library so french translation it is!

This is a really emotional story: the title is the saddest part but you don't know it until the very end of the book. It has a really clean symmetrical construction and once I reached the peak and realised where it was going I couldn't help but think I should have expected it. This is a tragedy of the "It was always going to end this way" kind.

I had to excuse the not very ethical jump from one (1) successful test on a mice in the last few weeks to human subject, but it asks some really interesting questions on the treatment of disabilities, especially mental ones and n what intelligence can or can't bring to someone. Charlie's description of his inner "less intelligent" self and it's struggle to fight him and later accept him touched me deeply.

Paradoxically the thing that made the book so interesting: The story is directly from Charlie's point of view and use diary entries to show his progress (he describes it, but the improvement of his spelling, grammar, and vocabulary really makes it feel real). But as time passes and Charlie becomes a genius he grows apart from people around him (some he needed to cut out of his life, some he drove away) and he becomes condescending, cold, altogether not a very likable. As a reader I felt pity for him but he doesn't want it from other characters so like them I felt kinda uneasy. I softened as the end grew nearer but the middle part wasn't all that fun to read.

I don't want to end on a bad notr because it wasn't a bad read! It's a rather short one too so go ahead, it deserves your time!

Et à la fin ils meurent by Lou Lubie

The version of popular fairy tales we know today are often really softened versions of the original. Lou Lubie trace them back for us with a bit of blood and a lot of humour.

I hadn't realised I read that many comic book in February! This last one is in french and more educational: it is a research on the history of fairy tales and how much more violent and dark they were in earlier versions, long before Disney.

The author also asks the interesting of the "original" version of fairy tales? How do you pinpoint the first form of an oral story? If a similar story exist earlier in another culture should it be considered more original than the occidental Brothers Grimm and Charles Perrault? (I actually discovered that some version of Cinderella existed as a Chinese tale). Like any academic worth the title she has found lots of sources and cites them, so I trust

However it is also really funny : I still remember the panel with Bluebeard holding a traveller pigeon to his ear like a cellphone! This makes it the most entertaining essay I've read ever.

Unfortunately I don't think it had been translated in English but I'd you speak even a little french (it is not a hard read) check it out to learn some funny/bloody anecdotes on fairy tales!

[seras-victoria-rp]

🎀💜🎀

“Remnants of a very powerful alien parasite that I’m part of. Because of my high affinity towards it, I’ve been designated as the ‘Primordial Vessel’. Recent mutations I’ve undergone have also increased my power, but its control over me also grows, which mostly occurs whenever I am sufficiently angered enough. Kind of like a certain green titan from another universe, but without the gamma radiation.”

"I see. An ancient cosmic horror tied to your very being, whether you like it or not. I can sympathize with that. Integra, if we're not going to ally with them, then I think at least keeping an eye on this girl is in our best interest. She clearly needs all the help she can get."

"It's rare for you to take an interest in other people. Why now all of a sudden?"

"Because I know better than anyone what it's like to live the life of a monster, and this girl is anything but that. She doesn't deserve to be seen as one for being what she is."

[corbcro]

kenny's hold on sanity appeared to wane with each passing moment, mirroring his dwindling sense of control. he found himself suffocating, unable to navigate his thoughts clearly. desperately, he yearned for just a moment's respite—to catch his breath and untangle the chaos within his mind. a momentary pause he needed to get everything straight again. come up with the perfect reason, a believable and calculated excuse why his actions were justified. why they would make sense to the other boy. so everything could go back to the way they were, the way kenny had become to enjoy it. the boy after all, was full of stories. likening himself to a master craftsman practised at turning coal into gleaming diamonds. this artistry wasn’t new to him; he had, time and again, reshaped himself through the narratives he meticulously crafted. in his own story, he had undergone complete rebirth, emerging anew from the threads he intricately spun. a sliver-tongue, honeyed words and an answer to get him out of anything. yet this resource too had become finite too. sing yourself out of this one, kenneth white. he wanted to scream, to tear himself apart and transform once more. please, please! if there is a thing out there with ears, deform me into a worthy thing. a being who is more than flesh, and blood with a guilty hand and skin stretched over a body that does not fit.

attempting apathy was useless; kenny was far past that point. his breath hitched; tears streamed down his face. though desperate to reach out, to seek solace in blaze's embrace, he remained rooted in place. a shattered image of a boy, a stark contrast to the confident singer who felt invincible on stage. not a man, but a frightened child with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes—the part of him still trapped within his parents' home.

kenny, despite everything he told himself, was just his daddy’s child. the devil always comes for his dues. his parents weren't accountable for how he turned out; perhaps this was simply the way he had been assembled from the moment he entered the world. another horror committed by his two hands alone. he deserved this, he deserved all of it. foolish child, every one of your stories ends with your slaughter by the one you were to love the most. desire had become a corrosive thing, eating at him until he lost all senses. yes, if there ever was a piece of shit, you’d have found it in kenneth fucking white. was there even any room for the truth or had kenny cried wolf too many times? leaving even the truth to be believe as another lie fabricated get the boy out of yet another mess.

" i... i didn’t want to hurt you, " kenny replied, his voice quivering and wavering. he was confident in his words, yet they seemed to be spoken by another’s mouth. " i didn’t mean to almost get you strung up or sent to the mines. " he paused, grappling with the weight of his actions. then what else was it, kenny? you know well enough the cruelty of peacekeepers, the cruelty of men. he attempted to swallow the lump lodged in his throat. a frightened child, traumatized and desperate, feeling cornered into believing he had no alternative. he had to escape. there were countless moments where he almost divulged everything, yet each time, his mouth sewed right back up.

blaze leaving would have been the best choice he could have ever made.

" you gotta believe me, peaches. i can’t manage if you're gone. you'd be takin' my whole heart with you. please, don't make me spell out what's waitin' for me out there; just know it ain't enough to face alone. "

Blaze had given Kenny the benefit of the doubt at the beginning. He had. Especially during that first captivity day, when he had been all alone in that dark, cold room. Tied and beaten, while the peacekeepers were trying to figure his identity out. He could barely cry, as the shock hadn't yet passed. His body had been entirely lost in a damn limbo back then— Kenny had left him, for fucks sake. There was anger... a slow one back then... erupting now. A boiling, burning feeling. He felt as if he could rip apart anything that touched his hands. Who the fuck was the guy he had been sleeping with, after all? It couldn't be the same person to stab in the back, no way. He was not that stupid, that naive. Or that much of a disposable idiot. He would have seen it coming! Wouldn't he? "You'll do better?" The venom was dripping, wasn't it? Caring, sweet Blaze, all broken after being disposed of by his lover and then repeatedly drugged in that hell of a place! Of course, once identified, he was sent to receive medical care, no marks were left behind, and no permanent ones were made while kept in that rehab institution... None but the ones in his mind and heart, that is. Which hurt like a bitch. "We always give the best we can give, Kenny. And when it fucking mattered, you did what you did" he spat. At least the other had the decency of apologizing... Not that apologies fixed anything. The only thing they seemed to be doing now was putting Kenny in a position of victim.. as if Blaze was the bad guy for not uttering words of love, and thanking him for bringing him out. As if he was the bad person for wanting to leave. "And that says a lot about you-!" his voice was breaking, upset and harsh. Seeing Kenny in that situation was upsetting — how dared he? To still look handsome with that messy hair, but playing the victim when Blaze had been the one screwed! It wasn't doing him any favors! Fists closed, the words weren't even filtered anymore. Blaze stepped forward, pointing an accusatory finger straight at the other's face"I don't fucking know you anymore! I mean, did I ever? Who the fuck are you? Have you always been a piece of shit or did you fucking turn into one over time? Why the heck did you even come back for me after that? Why—" tears, salty tears streaming down his cheeks, hand lowered. "They could have killed me, Kenny! Killed me. Or sent me to the mines if they hadn't liked my face!" Luckily, they had identified him first. But Kenny... fuck, Kenny didn't know, did he? Before this, at least... Didn't know who Blaze's parents were. And the fact that they'd protect their rebellious son through their distorted ways. It stung even more.... because Kenny had taken not just a risk.... he had simply accepted the path that would likely get Blaze killed. "I don't want to see you anymore, Kenny. Or ever. Ever." he whispered, barely audible, and so, so very hurt.

[pleasantanathema]

The Witcher’s Woes

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: bruising/marking, rough sex, dirty talk, light degradation, mentions of blood/injuries, very mild angst, porn with plot

Word Count: 10k

A/N: This is a collab piece for the Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab hosted by myself, @present-mel, and @linestrider​ 

You can find all the other wonderfully creative and smutty pieces on our masterlist!

P.S.: This is a long one, if you feel like only reading smut, feel free to jump down to the second line break and begin there. 

_____________________________________________________________

         A Witcher: someone who has undergone extensive training, ruthless mental and physical conditioning, and mysterious rituals, which take place within Witcher schools such as the Wolf, Cat, and Griffin in their respective hidden Kaers, or home castles, in preparation for becoming an itinerant monster slayer for hire. (source: fandom.com).  

          The storms were raging on the coast, salty waves crashing into the shore like heavy hands attempting to crawl out of the sea, only to get dragged back into the abyss. The winds were howling, lightning crashing, yet the storm was the last thing on your mind as you opened the door to your lowly estate.

           Ushijima of Velhad still had his arm raised from where he knocked on the wood, his yellow eyes glowing against the darkness of night. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, his chestnut hair tousled, lines of rain water dripping down his nose, his cheeks pallid. Even still, The Witcher looked to be a living memory, no new wrinkles or scars that you could detect when the rumbling flashes lit the sky. If it wasn’t for the rain, he would’ve looked entirely the same since you last saw him years ago, smiling in the evening glow of the countryside before departing for a new journey.

           You ushered him in quickly, silently, your instincts for hospitality taking over before you could begin to think of questioning him about his sudden arrival. His armor was damp, heavy, sloshing and clinking as he undid the leather and meteorite laced straps from his shoulders. He was breathing slowly, deliberately. You rushed to grab towels from a chest, blanketing him in warmth as he sat before your rolling fireplace. He uttered a quiet thanks, never one to use words out of place.

           The tea you had been brewing above the fire began to boil. You quickly poured two cups, adding a dash of the alcoholic white gull to his and using a burst of fire magic between your palms to keep the cup warm. You settled into the chair beside him, noticing how his gaze leered into the sparking fireplace.

           “Ushijima,” you finally called him, after time had passed and his hair began to dry, “are you hurt? Is that why you’re here?”

           He grunted from beside you, moving the hand you noticed had been clutching his rib cage.

           “Yes, but not badly. I needed refuge from the storm more-so than a potion.”

           “How did you know where to find me?”

           He was quiet for a moment, perhaps pondering if he should simplify the truth.

           “A sorceress, even in hiding, is never hard to find. The townsfolk talk, you know. I knew you were nearby before even beginning my hunt.”

           “You could have asked for more than the tea I gave you, you know I’m here to help.”

           He leaned back in the chair, his thick, long legs spreading out before the fire, his socks still damp and clinging to his toes, a big cat uncurling his weary limbs.

           “It would have been rude to barge in begging for assistance.”

           Ah, yes. He was still as courteous as always, his Griffin School teaching still ingrained in his mannerisms. Most Witchers were not so polite, but that school in particular valued traditional teachings. You knew you’d have to indulge his small conversation before getting more answers from him; he always played the chivalrous game, after all.

          “Tell me, what brings you to the shores of Blaviken? Last I saw of you, you were riding north, returning to what is left of Kaer Seren.”

           “There is nothing left,” he sighed, both arms now resting on the chair, the last remnants of tea staining his cup, “everything was destroyed, save a few books I found amongst the rubble.”

            “What a shame, that library was a marvel. I would’ve liked to visit it myself.”

             The story of the destruction of Kaer Seren was only well known to those acquainted with the last remaining Witchers. The keep was tucked away amidst the edge of the sea and the snowy mountains of Kovir to the north. The Witchers of that school, all of Ushijima’s kin, were well acquainted with magic and kept a vast library of mystic tomes within their home. But they were secretive, protective of their knowledge. Witchers, men created by magic to become the monsters they killed, were guarded for good reason. Years of persecution had left their numbers in ruin.

            A group of mages felt scorned by the Witchers’ refusal to share their wealth and toppled the castle of Kaer Seren in an avalanche, leaving bodies and crumpled books in the wake, all never to be used again. You could almost picture the blood and ink that stained the snowy graves.

           You’d only heard this story from the mouth of Ushijima himself, one night after too many scuffles and too many drinks.

            “I brought some for you,” he smiled then, warm and soft, full lips on display, “that’s the real reason I’m here.”

            His eyes were especially luminous in the firelight, gold irises reflecting the flames like the most precious of coins. His cheeks were flushed now, color regaining across his skin. Freckles smattered his cheeks like dried blood; you had to hold yourself back from reaching to him, from caressing his skin to see if the marks were lost war paint or new stories etched into his skin. He was tanned from all his time spent meditating in the sun, truly a unique specimen to behold. It was rare to see someone so brutal be so beautiful.

           You were excited at his words, your fingers digging into the grooves of your cup at the mention of magical books awaiting you to peruse them.

           He could see the eagerness behind your eyes and he laughed, then coughed, but continued his soft chuckling again. You paused, realizing he must be in more pain than he was letting on. His arm had returned to his torso, the thickly corded muscle clutching and protecting whatever injury was lying beneath.

           “They’re in my bag by your door, you should go look at—.”

           “Ushi, you’re hurt. Let me take care of you.”

            Before becoming friends with the valiant hunter, you would’ve leapt at the opportunity to read hidden knowledge. But years of acquaintance with the hardened man had your heart tugging in another direction; suddenly, Ushijima was becoming more important than all your years of study and practice in sorcery.

            He had a habit of breaking everything he touched: monsters, glass cups, weapons, he had a very powerful grip, and perhaps you were just the next thing in line to come undone by his hands.

            You stood from your place by the fire, strolling over to a cabinet where you kept all the alchemy ingredients you had collected from your years living alone here by the sea. Many travelers had come by, having heard of the witch by the shore, bringing elements and components to sell at a high price. And you had taken them all, emptying your purse at even the faintest glimpse of a rare material peeking from their bag. You loved your craft, you had perfected it, almost, and every day you spent toiling away finding new ways to create potions and expand your magical knowledge.

          “I need to know what you were hunting earlier.” Your fingers began rustling within the crowded shelves, grabbing an empty bottle as you heard him sigh behind you.

          “A Hym,” he said softly, “it scratched my side, it’s deep, but not fatal.”

           You stilled, eyes darting across all your ingredients. He said the word so easily, so nonchalantly, like he didn’t just battle a demon.

           “A slice from Hym’s ethereal claws drains the life force from their victim, the longer that wound sits untreated, the worse you will get.” You mentally cursed at him, blaming his chivalrous nature for hurting him for longer than he deserved to be in pain. If he had said something when he came in your front door, you could have had him on the mend already.

           “I know that, but a small potion to get me through most of the pain until now.”

           “You’ll need more than that. You’re lucky, I just went to town last week and managed to find vitriol. I can make you a superior swallow drink, just…stay still.”

            Quiet mumbles tumbled from your lips as you worked: measurements, ingredients, small musings as you set aside all the components to begin assembling them upon your alchemy table. Plants like white myrtle, celandine, crow’s eye fell into the bottle of enhanced swallow you already had on hand; you added fruit, nothing too exotic, just the common berbercane, and finally the blue tinted vitriol powder.

           You eyed the hunter as you mixed the potion, swirling the now red liquid within the high neck of the bottle, speeding up the mixing process with a little magic of your own. Only he would have such insouciance concerning a fight with such a wicked creature. He was talented, perhaps not as much as the more legendary Witchers that roamed the lands, but Ushijima was strong, sturdy, nimble and smart when in battle. His stoic nature allowed him to distance himself from the horrors of his life, a life you knew he had not chosen.

           He was an orphan, brought up by the Griffin School and transformed into a monster hunter without much consent, though you knew he had none to give. But he wore his profession like a badge of honor, looking at his life through a lens of helping those who could not help themselves in a world infested with demons, ghouls, and humanoid monstrosities.

           You’d always wanted to admit how admirable you found him, but you knew he was never one to take compliments.

           Standing next to where he was patiently sitting, you offered him the small bottle, the glass precariously dangling in your fingers.

           “Take this,” you pulled the flask away just slightly as he reached for it, “but only after you tell me what the hell you were doing fighting a Hym.”

          “You said it yourself, I get worse every moment I don’t drink that.”

          “You’ve lasted an hour, Ushi,” you chided, “I think you can take a few moments to tell me why there was a Hym near Blaviken.”

           You sat the bottle back on the table, moving to stand behind him and press the towel around his shoulders a little tighter into his neck. He gave you a contented sigh, eyes closing. He never liked to talk about his work, but you always pressed him. You lived in this monstrous world as well, had killed a few drowners while walking along the sands, aided an earl with a botchling, once even made friends with a rather tempting succubus. Everyone in this world was plagued by wretched creatures, he was just more qualified to kill them with his training and silver swords.

          Your fingers pressed into the soft cloth around his neck, picking up the fabric and using it to brush against his hair and continue drying the damp spots still lingering around his ears, the back of his neck. You normally weren’t so blatant with your affection for him, but you knew you had him as a captive audience within the chair. He’d have to tell you his story before earning what he desired, but you might as well humor him with soothing touches while he did.

         “Hyms are nasty things, you know. Demons that feed off the guilt of others.” He began.

         “I found a note from a daughter in distress about her father on a notice board not too far down the road. He was going mad, she wrote, she thought perhaps he had become possessed. I did some searching in their house, found love letters tucked away under the old man’s mattress addressed to his sister-in-law. He wanted her, he loved her, so he killed his own brother to have her. But then she threw herself into the sea from her own grief; I think the Hym could’ve gotten to her first, then transfixed itself onto the man.”

         “Hm, the things we do for love.” You mused, hands coming to rest on his shoulders once again.

          Somehow, he felt stronger, broader than the last time you’d touched him. You sunk your fingers into the sinews on display in his damp shirt, humming to yourself. You’d thought about this before, about having the strengthened hunter sit vulnerably before you, only your thoughts involved the two of you in much less clothing and talking of much less rotten things.

          You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering the sketches you’d seen of Hyms in bestiaries. They were murky, shadowy beings, devilish horns upon their faceless heads, long black claws dripping from their hands. You would have cowered at the sight of such a creature, yet Ushijima sought out to destroy it.

          His gruff voice continued on, “I confronted the man, called out the Hym, and it began to attack. Its claws are long, it scratched me from the very beginning. But it’s gone now, perhaps banished to the dark realm from whence it came.”

          You plucked the bottle from its resting place, handing it to Ushijima over his shoulder. He took it with a simple thanks, head tipping back as he drank the entirety of its contents. You watched almost gleefully at his thick, irresistible neck on display. Everything about him was so strong, so well kept, even as he sat before you dampened from a storm.

         “You know, Ushi, I could listen to you talk like that for hours.”

         “Oh yeah? Then maybe I’ll stick around for a bit this time, let you listen to all my seedy tales.”

         “Mhm, they’re only seedy when that bard friend of yours is around. Is he still alive? Tendō, that is.”

           A flash of red hair and a catlike smile flashed before your mind’s eye as you thought of the dangerous, yet comical bard who often clung to the Witcher’s side.

           Ushijima laughed, clutching at his stomach as you circled his chair and came to stand before him, arms crossed delicately in front of your body. Your figure cast a silhouette across his own, making you seem larger than life in the firelight. He was enraptured in the inky vice of your shadow.

          “Yes, somehow he is still alive. Last I heard of him, he’s off singing songs in the capital of Redania to some rich heiress.”

          “Good to hear,” you shrugged, “I always liked him.”

          “No, he always liked you.” He wiggled his eyebrows, the action sending you into a fit of giggles as well. “And I can’t blame him.”

          Your laughter subsided at his words, a warm tingle spreading across your body. Normally Ushijima was not one to flirt without the aid of alcohol; perhaps you’d given him more than you thought in his tea earlier? You watched him relax in his seat, lifting his shirt to reveal a quickly fading wound upon his tawny skin, the old blood sinking back into the muscle where it belonged.

           Thunder rumbled outside the walls, a heavy boom resounding from the gods above.

           “You should bathe, Ushi.”

           “What, do I smell?”

           He was suddenly so playful, so charming, his grin making you feel flustered.

           “You will soon, I’m sure. Go beyond those doors,” you pointed over your shoulder, “It’s a heated pool, one of the reasons I chose this god forsaken estate.”

           “Will you join me?”

           You took a pause. This man was always making you pause, making you step back and evaluate your words and actions around him. Surely, he was joking. But the gleam in his bright eyes told you a different story, there was more lingering behind his words that you did not yet understand.

           “I will, but only after I take a peek at those books you brought me. Now, off with you.”

           You brushed by him as he stood, arms stretching above his head, his body shifting as he evaluated the healing wound upon his flesh. His heavy boots clunked against the floorboards as he followed your command, the sound of an enhanced predator marking his path. He slid through the door at the back of the great room and left you alone once more.

           You would’ve been ashamed if he saw how quickly you rushed to his bag, gathering the cold, dusty books in your arms before setting them gently on the table. They were relics, ancient, undoubtedly hiding secret runes and magic within their spines.

           Your fingertips brushed over the titles of the four books he brought you, but despite being entranced by the knowledge lying in wait for you, you were imagining your fingers to be elsewhere. You flipped one book open, your nails following the lines of ink, but your mind took in no words you read.

You were somewhere else; you were mentally with Ushijima, your fingers back in his hair, your hands exploring places unknown to you on his skin. He was the well-guarded book you desired to read, to hold, to explore.

______________________________________________________________

           Ushijima was astounded by your bath. He knelt to the stones on the ground, using his keen senses to feel the heated rocks and look for their source. There were some offshore vents that were connected to this place, feeding in warm water to the bath. He took in a deep breath, smelling the lingering hint of salt in the air, but the scent didn’t entirely match the ocean.

           He dipped his fingers in the water, finding it smooth, warm, unsalted. You must have put magic in place to filter all the sediment from the pipes. You always were clever, even in the smallest of ways. Your wit was something he admired about you.

           He took his time undressing, his ears perked as he heard you rustling paper in the other room. He had felt embarrassed at first about being so sentimental towards you; he had known from the beginning of his journey that any tomes he found would be placed into your care for you to enjoy. He’d read them, of course, the journey from Kovir and Poviss still a long one to the border of Redania where you lived. As he divulged himself in the ancient knowledge of his Witcher school, he always pictured you reading the same words he did; he felt your presence nestling into his skin, enveloping him like a magic spell. He liked to imagine how you’d react to the pages, how many notes you would scribble down from certain intriguing sections.

           Ushijima thought about you more than he cared to admit.

           Naked, he stepped into the bath, his screaming muscles finally silenced under the hot press of water against his body. The bathing pool had a ledge around its border, and he took a seat at the back, arms spreading out like heavy wings along the rocky edge. He sat where he could watch the door; it was instinct, he told himself, to always be aware of his surroundings, but he knew he was just waiting to glimpse your figure appear before him.

           Some nights, when preparing his tent under the stars, he would think of the first time he met you. He had traveled with Tendō to some opulent gathering in Toussaint, one filled with wine and vampires he knew were hidden amongst the crowds, but any thought he had of a hunt had vanished when he saw you. You were delightful, enchanting, eye-catching amongst the throngs of people. It didn’t take long for his friend to seek you out, to gain your friendship, and Ushijima watched patiently from the sidelines, watched how you held yourself with such poise and dignity. But all the while, he was aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to know you.

          You had become his guilty pleasure over the years, a fantasy he envisioned as he lay alone at night. Even when he was meditating, he was hard-pressed to not find himself seeing your skin behind his eyes, imagining how your body would feel within his hands. The hands of a killer, a fiend, hands that crushed whatever he held all too easily. But you, you were so powerful, so seemingly untouchable, and he found himself unworthy to behold you. He was just another creature, a man turned monster, someone wholly undeserving of a divine sorceress.

          He huffed to himself, a shy smile pulling at his cheeks as he thought of your words from earlier.

         “The things we do for love.” He repeated the words to himself, sinking a little deeper into the water.

           He didn’t have to wait long for you to enter. He was unexpectedly aware of his nakedness as you entered, fully clothed still in your corset and trousers. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, spreading down across his belly, at the prospect of watching you change; it would be impolite to ogle you. He turned his gaze instead to the water, watching how the surface lapped at his skin as he shifted his weight.

           “Are you comfortable?” You called out to him from across the room. He could hear your clothing shuffling, hear the laces coming undone one by one from your body. The room felt quiet, the air smothering. He’d felt so bold earlier, but now he felt almost ashamed that he had asked you to join him.

           “Ushiwaka,” you implored with a little more strain to your voice, “don’t tell me you’ve gone shy on me.”

           His gaze shifted up for only a moment, catching a glimpse of your naked back as you peered over your shoulder at him, your hands ready to pull down your breeches and become fully naked. He couldn’t help himself, he gawked at your beauty, tracing every curve, line, and dip across your splendidly sculpted skin. You looked more beautiful than any constellation he pointed out with his finger in the night sky. He unabashedly gazed at the planes of your shoulders, the gentle slope of your spine. He imagined taking his time to map the uncharted waters of your body, of discovering every hidden cosmos tucked away within your curves.

           “Yes,” he cleared his throat, “I think I’ve become even more comfortable at the sight of you.”

           He held his breath for a moment, waiting for your reaction. Upon seeing you smile and turn your face away, he sighed, sinking deeper into the pool, arms barely keeping him afloat from where they rested on the edge.

           He heard splashing as you waded into the water, submerging yourself up to your neck before you came to sit just a few feet away from him. From here, he could study you more closely, see the elegant slope of your neck into your shoulder. He was pleased to note that he could still make out the form of your breasts in the water, the lovely globes just barely dipping out of sight.

           “I must say, even in the given circumstances, you’re still a sight for sore eyes.” He always loved how silky your voice was, always melodious to his ears. He always worried he’d forget how it sounded, but your timbre matched the tone he had been playing in his head since he last saw you.

           “I haven’t heard the name Ushiwaka in a long time,” he confessed, “it’s always Witcher now, or Ushijima of Velhad since that’s where I did most of my work.”

           “Well, you lost that name—Wakatoshi—a long time ago when you were picked up by the Witchers, but I know it is sentimental to you still. If you prefer, I can just call you Ushijima.”

           “You know I don’t mind it.” He felt like he said the words too quickly.

           “Hm, well, I’ll call you anything you let me, Ushiwaka.”

           A shiver hit his body at your words, he was keen enough to know there was innuendo laced behind them.

______________________________________________________________

           You closed your eyes, head leaning back against the warm stone as you allowed the steamy water to wash away the grime of the day. You moved your hands over your body, feeling the sticky sweat melt away. You reached for a small towel, tossing one in Ushijima’s direction and watching how he caught it so effortlessly, like a cat swatting at a shadow on the wall. He received a small bar of lavender soap with the same ease, his nose wrinkling at the flowery scent.

           You both took a moment to wash, you humming an old tune, Ushijima remaining silent aside from the sloshing of water made from his heavy limbs beneath the surface.

           You’d never been in such an intimate space with him before. A bath is time of solace and cleansing, but also one of exposure and susceptibility. Water intentionally brings forth feelings of intimacy and ambivalence. You knew he was there, watching, his heightened senses attuned to every sound, smell, every minimal movement around him. You couldn’t take his silence any longer.

           “I—,” you began quietly, “can I ask you something?”

           His movements ceased, those radiant eyes now focusing entirely on you. You instantly felt heat spread across your chest, climbing up and darkening your ears with blush. You wondered for a moment if he could see through you, in you, see how fast your heart was pounding blood through all your veins. His intense stare made you feel like he was closer, his deadly hand wrapped acutely around your heart, aiding it as it struggled to beat harder, faster.

           “Of course.” His words were direct, poignant, the deep vibrations almost tingling the water itself.

           “When you were facing that Hym, at any moment, did you fear it would sense your grief?”

           You could tell he was taken aback by your words. He placed the wet cloth to his chest, his long fingers digging into the fabric as he pondered what you said.

           Once again, he wasn’t sure if he should simplify the truth. He mulled over your question, let the words seep into his consciousness as he looked up to the ceiling. He should’ve known you were astute enough to see through him.

           “Yes,” he stated, “I did.”

           He didn’t wish to elaborate any further, but he could tell his curt response didn’t satisfy your internal reasonings.

           “I see.” You noted somberly.

           “How did you know?”

           He watched you slink farther under the water, searching for cover, searching for a way not to express your thoughts. He noticed how your legs crossed beneath the surface, the light from the hanging candles glittering through the water.

           “I know you didn’t choose this path, didn’t choose to be a Witcher. That was forced upon you; you were lucky you even survived the Trial of Grasses that made you into what you are—.”

           “A monster.” He interjected flatly.

           “You’re not…” you sighed, dipping your head into your wet hand, “you’re no monstrosity, Ushi, not even a miscreation.”

           He tensed at your words, catching how you regarded him with a solemn look.

           “I didn’t choose a life of sorcery, you know. I was torn away from society when I was a girl, taught to use my source of magic to heal wounds, but also how to kill someone in an instant. People…powerful people used me to their advantage. It’s why I stay hidden now, I’m running from my past misdeeds. I know what it is like to have regrets; to grieve.”

            He only nodded in understanding, afraid of using the wrong affirmations.

            A heavy silence fell between you once again. You plucked the soap from its resting place behind you, thoughts tumbling through your mind like the waves crashing at the shore outside. So many words were desperate to leave your mouth, to be birthed and said and made into reality between you, but you dared not.

           If anyone understood the weightiness, the hidden meaning behind silence, it was Ushijima.

          But even he couldn’t bear it much longer. He grunted, running his wet hands over his face as he contemplated his next move.

         “Well, tell me this. What would you be if not a sorceress?”

         “Hm? Oh, I’ve never thought about it before. I’ve just…always accepted my fate.”

          “I’d have been a sportsman,” he declared, a slight uplift in his voice.

          “Oh really?” He watched as a grin pulled at your cheeks, the heaviness of the conversation before dissipating. “And what sports are you good at, Ushiwaka?”

          “Anything with a ball,” he shrugged, “some kids down south play games with poorly strung nets, and they do their best to keep the ball from hitting the ground as they toss it back and forth. I think I’d be quite decent at it; I am agile, after all.”

          “Powerful, too.” You remarked.

          “You think so?” He teased.

           He eyed you carefully as you set the cloth and soap aside.

           You began to move... towards him. His eyes narrowed, his hands mimicking your actions and setting his bathing instruments to the side, freeing his hands.

           You were ethereal in the water, gentle waves lapping at your skin, the ebb and flow of it shimmering around your body.

          “Now that I think about it, I know what I would at least be proficient as if not a sorceress.”

           The smirk that tugged at your lips intrigued him. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out for you, taking your arms and pulling you towards his chest.

          “And that is?”

           Time stopped for a moment as you settled yourself into his lap, the sound of your breathing, the feeling of skin upon skin, touch upon touch, the only increments of time needed.

           His body was so hot, so willing to accept yours upon it.

          “I’d be a wonderful whore.”

          Golden eyes flickered up to you, lashes low, his lips parted.

         “Care to show me?”

          Your skin was cold to his warm touch, his hot breath fanning across your cheeks. He was so close, so eager, you could feel hardness begin to form between where your thighs cradled his.

          Your hands slid across his shoulders, feeling the grooves and puckers of scars pass under your touch. You settled your grasp onto his neck, steadying yourself above him. His hands played against your skin under the water, the heavy fingers finding your hips and sinking into the smooth flesh he found. You gasped aloud at the feeling; his grip was strong, iron-clad, daring to leave marks behind. You wanted to break under his touch, collapse against his chest and allow the water to pull you both under into euphoria, but you secured your inner desires. Your back straightened, your fingers clawing into his thick skin.

          “Ushiwaka,” you whispered it like a humble prayer, your lips brushing his, “kiss me.”

         He groaned, pulling you a little closer, spreading your thighs a little wider.

        “Why don’t you kiss me, little temptress? Show me how much you want me.”

         You felt bewitched, wondering for a moment if he had placed you under a mind control spell with his words. Your thoughts were jumbled, but they were still yours: kiss him, touch him, read the hidden words on his inky pages like you had long desired.

         Your lips met his tenderly, hesitantly, tasting the salt of water and sweat against his awaiting mouth. He breathed through his nose like he was exhaling life into you. He moved his mouth against yours, testing you, pushing at you, and effortlessly you gave in. Your eyes were closed, but you felt like you could still see him, felt like you knew every step in the dance he was leading you in. It felt so natural, so smooth, and you found yourself clinging to him with every press of his lips against yours.

          Then his mouth fell open; an invitation. You followed him, sliding your tongue in, finding his own past his teeth. He felt like true sin, his tongue tempting yours to reveal its secrets to him. It was slow, methodical, a mutual exploration of tastes and pleasures you had both long craved to discover.

          Your chest fell to his, your breasts meeting the hard planes of muscle found there. You moaned, the sound of water moving igniting your hunger as one of his hands meandered up your back, fingers lapsing into your soft muscles. He offered you a groan, and you took it desperately, hastening your kiss and plunging you both deeper into one another. One of your hands wandered from his neck, slipping down his chest, pressing him back against the edge of the pool. Your nails pulled at his flesh, wanting, needing, unknowing how to gain purchase against such solid muscle.

          He tasted like tea leaves: earnest, alluring, but also like the earth, like something natural and primal. It was a taste that was familiar, enticing, and every time he took a moment to breathe, you found yourself diving back in for another taste, another glimpse of what lay hidden beyond his lips.

          “Mhm,” he moaned as he finally pulled away, chest rising and falling, “perhaps I’ll mold you into my own personal whore.”

          “I’d like that, Ushiwaka.”

           The blood within his veins rushed to his cock at the sound of his name, of that personal name, falling from your sweet voice. Fuck, he would give anything to have you, but it seemed that he didn’t have to. He could feel by the way you clung to him, by the way you kissed him with such fervor, that you desired him all the same. It was thrilling to know you wanted him, and he wondered how far he could take you.

           His hand glided away from your back, circling around to your chest. He cupped one of your breasts in his hands, holding back a groan as he felt the weight of it within his palm. He watched how the water lapped at your skin, the ripples from his movement brushing against a hardening nipple. The small sound of delight that left your lips had him refocusing his gaze to your face. You wore a sly smile, your own hand upon his neck tightening in anticipation of his next move.

           “I’m a dark man, my love. Hardened.”

           He was toying with you, but his words offered some truth. Ushijima had been envisioning you like this for far too long; there many devious things he wanted to do to your body.

           You leaned forward, pressing a wet kiss to his ear, your voice low, “hardened indeed…I can feel you between my thighs.”

           He smirked at your words, taking your nipple between his fingers and listening to you gasp as he gave it a simple tug. Your teeth found his ear in response, nipping tenderly.

          His eyes fluttered at the feeling; a groan caught in his throat. He wondered if you could sense it. You pulled back slightly, angling your head to give him another kiss. He accepted it gladly, tongue ready to find yours again.

         “You can be an obedient little whore, can’t you?” He rumbled against your lips; his words being lost inside your mouth.

          You ate the words like you were starved, a hot moan swallowing them down as you felt a shock of pleasure race down your spine. He grunted at your action, the hand upon your breast squeezing in response.

         “Yes,” you said softly, as he allowed you to escape his kiss, “where did all your chivalry go, Ushiwaka?”

         He smirked as you teased him, his lips dipping to your neck, tongue tracing the lingering water droplets that fell down your skin.

         “It’s waiting between your legs.”

          It was a growl, the sound of a predator marking his prey, the sound of a man holding back his lusts.

         You sucked in a breath, eyes closing as you dipped your head back and allowed him more access to the length of your throat. The hand at your breast squeezed harder, his thumb and forefinger rolling languidly across your straining nipple. You felt like you were lost at sea, the weight of the water around your bodies feeling heavier as Ushijima pulled you into his tides. He was the moon, pushing you, pulling you; he always has been. For so long he kept you at arm’s length, toying with you, teasing you, bringing you so close to him but never close enough. But tonight, the moon was waning, his control faltering as he finally gave in and allowed himself to fall into the calling sea.

         He held you back on his thighs, but you could feel the heat radiating from his body below the surface. One of your hands trailed down his chest as he sucked dark red marks into the junction of your shoulder and neck, staining your skin with colors from his own making. He bit your skin especially rough when your wandering fingers found the hard lines of his stomach.

        You were tentative, taking a moment to feel if his wound was finally gone from the magic bestowed upon him. You could only feel scars underneath your palm, though one felt particularly puckered and new. But his stomach wasn’t your goal, it was what was straining against it.

        He cursed into your skin when you wrapped your hand around his cock, fingers pumping against the silken skin within the water. His lips fell lower, his eyes closing as he littered open-mouth kisses against your chest, now using both hands to cup your breasts and bring a nipple within his mouth. You moaned loudly, a rush of ecstasy coursing through your veins. He pulled you forward, forcing your hand away from his cock. Instead, he shifted to where his cock was nestled between your pussy and his stomach, allowing just enough friction to keep you wanting.

        He needed to keep his head clear if he was going to please you in all the ways he had dreamt of. He was going to taste you, tease you, earn the right to claim your body as his own.

        “Ushi—,” you went to whine, but a calloused pinch to your nipple ripped his name away from your mouth.

        “Be quiet.” He demanded against your breast, teeth lightly tugging at your hardened bud.

        You only gasped in response, hands smoothing across his broad shoulders as he worked his way to your other breast, hands needy, mouth exceptionally hot. Your hips pressed down and you felt the length of his thick cock against your aching pussy. You experimentally slid yourself against him, desperate to feel more touch against your most sensitive flesh, against the place that had wanted him for so long.

        His hands moved to your hips to still you, his vice-like grip returning.

        His mouth left your breast, his chin tilting up to look at you. Those glowing eyes were dark, ravenous; perhaps there was something monstrous sleeping inside of him, ready to awaken.

        “Stop tempting me. You’ll regret it.”

         His reflexes snapped as your lips parted to speak. Two thick fingers slid onto your tongue, pressing it down, the taste of water and leather swirling in your mouth. His taste was a mixture of his worn gloves and the floral soap he’d cleansed himself with. You groaned, head tilting back as you let him have his way, your mouth suctioning around his fingers for some kind of relief.

        He eyed you carefully, watching the sinews in your neck come on display for him. Bruising marks of his design were blooming on your skin, little fragments of memories coming to life before his eyes. Your mouth felt like sin and he could already imagine how it would feel to have his cock sliding against the supple lips wrapped around his fingers.

        Ushijima twisted your nipple again, a little harder, a little tighter, feeling pleased with himself as he heard and felt the grumble of a groan against his skin. A small drip of saliva trickled down your chin and he used his thumb to smear it into your cheek.

         He could’ve held you like this for all eternity, had you pressed against his cock, his fingers padded against your tongue, your beautiful breasts on display as he groped one, watching the flesh mold into his hand. He had you subdued, compliant, a wondrous creature caught in a dangerous trap. He could do anything he wanted to you right here and now, and the realization had his cock twitching against your cunt.

         For his own enjoyment, he was going to mark you, leave something behind on the picturesque pallet of your body.

         You would never be allowed to forget him, as he knew this vision of you would forever live inside his mind.

         He took his time, each bite and suck carefully and meticulously placed. Ushiwaka was never one to use his mouth without purpose, whether it be for his words, or his kisses. Your shoulders, your chest, your breasts, nothing was forgotten, and you felt like you had been sitting on his lap for eons. Each time his mouth curled into your flesh, his hair tickling you, you felt hotter, more alive than before. You pressed down harder against him, searching for some kind of release to the pleasure he was building inside of you. But he had you pinned, a strong arm encircled your back and kept you exactly where he wanted you.

         When he sucked your nipple back into his mouth, you cried out against his fingers, your tongue darting between the digits as you sucked a quick breath in through your nose. He paid you no mind, his own tongue licking meticulously at your nipple, up and down, slow and steady. The bliss that erupted from your breast was almost mind-numbing. Your thighs clenched around his, your head lolling back even farther than before. You needed more, you were desperate to feel that talented mouth back on yours, to feel his fat cock slip inside you were you needed it.

         Finally, he released you, his mouth leaving your breast as he slipped his fingers from your mouth. You took a moment to catch your breath. He splashed his drool covered fingers in the water, bringing the wet digits back to your face to wipe you clean, his thumb tracing your lips with care.

        “See what being quiet gets you?”

         You nodded your head in agreement, your nails finally releasing his shoulders where they had been clawing into his skin.

         “I need you,” your arms wrapped around his neck, your mouth finding his in a tender kiss, “please, Ushiwaka.”

         “You beg so prettily, my love. Perhaps I should have you beg a little more.”

         “No! Fuck, please…” you entangled yourself around him, legs curling around his toned waist, your face nestling into his shoulder. You brushed the skin found there with your mouth, hungrily moaning against him. You were frantic; you had already waited for him for so long, thought about him for too many nights, too many years.

         His strong arms enveloped your back and he lifted you easily from the water. You adhered yourself to his body, ready to have your muscles clench around him to assist, but he needed no such help. Your weight was effortless to him.

         Ushijima used the ledge of the pool as a step, faultlessly exiting the pool like a nautical divinity coming to soft shores. He was cautious as he laid your wet body upon the heated stone, careful not to crush you under his weight. He watched your eyes alight as you took in the sight of him out of the water, now hovering above you. Your gentle fingers traced over his biceps, his shoulders, his chest, finding the constellations of scars upon his skin, his own physical galaxy for you to explore.

         He took your face in his hand as one of his muscled thighs spread your legs. You were entranced in his gaze, finding yourself lost in the molten amber of his eyes as his pupils danced across your face. He was taking in every bit of you that he could, burning this vision of you below him into his memory. You were flushed, lips parted, slightly swollen from his ardent kisses. Your delicate hands moved to rest beside your head, palms facing him, submissive.

        “Please,” your voice broke him from his trance, “don’t make me wait any longer.”

         He nodded in response, eyes tracing down across your body. He relished having you before him like this, back arching towards him, breasts falling, your hips shifting against his legs. The hand on your face trailed away, making a path down your torso, fingers swirling against the lost dewy droplets against your skin. And then he finally peered down farther, having to steel himself from groaning as he found your awaiting pussy.

        Your skin was prickling from the cool air meeting it, gooseflesh creeping up your legs, down your arms. Your heart was pounding in your ears as you watched him, waiting for him. You could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind, though you wished you could know them. What was he thinking? Was he hesitant?

        Your own contemplations vanished when his warm, wet fingers spread your pussy, two fingers deftly sinking along the sides of your lower lips. You moaned, eyes fluttering closed, heat pooling within your belly. He took his time exploring you; he was a man of patience, after all.

        You could feel his weight shift back as he sat on his knees, spreading your legs across his thighs. He curled one leg back for him, opening you up more for his viewing pleasure. His finger slowly traced up the center of your cunt, finding your sticky wetness coating the digit as it carefully curled against your clit. You let out a quick gasp, hips twitching, and he repeated the motion, watching you slowly come apart from the simplest of touches.

        His other hand found his cock, fisting it as he played with you. You could hear the slick pumping of his hand against himself, and you moved your weight upon your elbows to sit up and watch him. Even on his knees, Ushijima of Velhad was intimidating, all broad shoulders and heavily corded muscle across his body. You admired how his arm flexed as he stroked himself, how his toned stomach was clenching with need. Your mouth fell open as you glimpsed his thick cock within his palm. It fit so perfectly in his big hand, throbbing, thick veins calling out to be inside of you.

         You wanted to beg for him again, but your words were lost when one of his fingers slid inside of you, stretching your walls to fit around him. You dropped back against the warm stone, mouth falling open.

         “So tight,” he said it like a fact, like he expected it, “you’ll feel so good stuffed with my cock.”

          You bit into your lip in a whimper as he curled the digit inside of you, pumping it once, twice, with agonizing slowness. But soon, he added a second finger, the thick digits spreading you, testing you. His pace was calculated, fingers pleasurably systematic. You moaned at every twist and plunge, hips arching off the floor to meet his pace. His thumb began to circle your clit and you swore that stars overtook your vision, bursting in the corners of your eyes as you tried to focus on the ecstasy churning deep within your stomach. His long fingers were stroking your velvety walls just perfectly, each plunge feeling deeper and deeper than before, fanning the flames beneath your skin even hotter.

        “Ushi, please…”

       “Please what, my love? Tell me.”

        He was particularly cruel, electing to rub your clit faster, harder, making your words choke in your throat. You cried out, feeling the orgasmic coil begin to tighten in your belly. You were already so strung out for his love, for his touch, and you knew your little death was just around the corner.

       “Make me cum, p-please!”

        You felt his heavy body come back to yours, the hand on his cock ceasing its movements and instead finding your hand beside your head. His strong fingers wrapped around your flesh, curling into your forearm, thumb tactfully pinning down your wrist to the stones below.

       He repositioned the hand between your thighs, now using the palm of his hand to press against your aching clit. His fingers found the soft patch of flesh inside of you, petting against it skillfully, like he already knew exactly what you needed, knew exactly what made you fall apart to his immoral hands.

       His face dipped to yours, causing your eyes to flicker open to find his adoring gaze above you. He pressed a lazy kiss to your lips, muffling your moans as your legs began to press against his forearm, thighs begging for the release he could bring you. His mouth matched the rhythm of his fingers within you, his body in harmony with your own, pulling you tightly like the strings on a well-played lute. You were so ready to snap, so ready to sing songs of praise up into him, but all too soon his mouth and his hand left your body.

        He could read the bewilderment on your face, feel you try to press back against him, but he held you down easily with the weight he forced onto your wrist.

        “I want to feel you come undone on my cock,” he whispered against your lips, “are you ready?”

        His hand, now slick from your pussy, pushed your thighs apart wider, curled your legs back farther, his own thighs pressing into your soft flesh. You felt his cockhead brush between your dripping folds.

       “Yes! Take me, for the love of all things hol—!”

        His hips slammed into yours, his throbbing cock filling you, stretching, pressing you far beyond what you expected. He hushed your cry with his mouth, his hand cupping your thigh and urging your body to move with him as he began to thrust within you. Your hand that he pinned to the floor fisted in on itself, your nails threatening to break your own skin as your mind struggled to catch up with your pleasure. You were so full, so fucking full, so overwhelmed by him.

        His dewy, tawny skin felt so sinful against yours, the lingering moisture on your bodies bleeding into one another. His hips were strong, fast, each plunge of his cock going deep, deep, deep into your awaiting depths, finally uncovering every hidden place on your body to have as his own. You gasped and moaned into his mouth, and his sighs melded with yours, his kiss desperate, lips crashing into yours with more fervor than the storm that raged outside.

        You felt so utterly lost, yet so wholly encompassed by him, by his earthy scent, by the weight of his body against yours. Your breasts slid against his chest, nipples pebbling as they brushed against his downy hair. Your back was skating against the warm stones below, the pressure against the hard surface enough to make you ache, but it paled in comparison to the jolts of pure pleasure that resounded through your body with every thrust of his massive cock inside of you.

        “More,” you pleaded softly, lips peppering him with ardent kisses, “more, more, more.”

         You felt him place more pressure on your trapped wrist and you gasped, worried for a split moment that your bones would splinter under his power. But he was cautious, moving your arm gently to rest above your head. The hand on your thigh crept up your body, stopping for only an instant to grope at your bouncing breast. But his fingers quickly moved on, skimming up your other arm, palm smoothing against your dampened skin. He soon found your wrist, now using both his mighty arms to pin your own above your head, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

         “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

          His words were a dare, a wicked promise.

          At the nodding of your head, he smirked, lips coming to your ear.

         “Tell me to stop if it becomes too much, you promise?”

          His thrusts had never faltered, the air in your lungs still hot from all your heavy breaths. You closed your eyes again, finding your voice.

          “I promise.”

          The primal sound that left his chest startled you; you could feel the rumbling spread across your body like aftershocks of an earthquake. His hands around your wrists tightened, arms tensing. He shifted forwards, pushing your hips up, legs wider.

         And then he began to pound mercilessly into your body. You screamed, the high-pitched shrill echoing within the room, rebounding off the walls, soaking into his naked skin. Every fantasy he ever had of you suddenly came alive inside his mind, burning like a roaring fire, making his vision go blind as he pounded himself inside of you. You were so warm, so god damn tight, your pussy sucking him in with every unbridled thrust that he felt like he would break open from all the euphoria that was crackling within him.

        He called out your name, over, and over, and over again, reminding himself who he was with, who he finally had coming undone below him. He was still holding back, too afraid of breaking you, but even still his hips moved faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing in his ears like the constant moans and praises that feel from your mouth.

         “Ushi, fuck, fuck, yes!”

         He was being cruel, he knew it, slamming into you like this, making your body bow into the floor, but he didn’t care. He needed to feel that coil that was tightening inside of you earlier come to fruition on his cock, he needed to spill his seed inside of you.

         You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel what was happening to you. All your focus was upon his cock stretching your pussy, filling you so perfectly that you knew you’d never want to feel another again. It was like you were made for him; all your limits were being pushed at once. Your wrists ached within his grip, surely bruising under such an immense hold, but you felt secure, safe underneath his power.

         Your knees were bent to their threshold of flexibility, your ass now well above the floor as he curled you to fit him. His cock was so deep, his thrusts now remaining almost entirely inside of you, pounding away at your insides like a man gone mad. You were at the borders of your composure.

         “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, eyes watering, mouth open, body stinging, longing, begging for him, “g-gonna, gonna, cum!”

         “That’s right,” he murmured, tongue daring to skim the shell of your ear, “cum on my cock, baby, cum for me.”

          Your nails finally pierced the flesh of your palms as you came completely undone around him, orgasm bursting forth and blooming around you in euphoria. All your senses came crashing down, every small detail becoming more alive and ever present than ever before. It was all so much, the pleasure pooling in your belly and spreading across your body faster than lightning that raced across the sky. His hot breath was against your neck, your legs aching, blood dripping down your palms, water still cooling against your skin, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks. You could hear every sound: your screams ringing against the stone, his grunts into your hair, the wet suck of your pussy around his cock, even the still water resting in the pool.

          Your body was wrecked with tremors as he continued his ruthless assault, sweat beading at the nape of his neck. Your orgasm drenched his cock with thick, wet slick, encouraging him to drive a little harder, push a little deeper. He heard little pained gasps from your mouth, but he warned you he was corrupt, told you to stop him, yet you were taking him so fucking well, so fucking perfect like he knew you would. He was so close, so painfully close, his cock throbbing, his rigorous pace becoming unsettled as he felt your sweet thighs wrap around him.

          Then there it was, the sound of your voice, the sound of his goddess calling to him.

          “I want your cum, n-need it, please, fill me up, make me yours.”

          He finally crashed, your words like the irresistible call of a siren. Hot cum filled your tight pussy, his cock thumping deep inside your womb. You felt like you could breathe again, his inhuman strength finally laxing upon your ruined body.

          His mouth found yours again, his lips tender and now so familiar and welcoming. The tension in your body washed away, his loving hands tracing over your body as he allowed your legs to finally rest. Your heart was hammering in your chest; you could feel every beat inside your rib cage as you finally calmed down, mind returning, body waking up from its lust.

         Ushijima slid himself from inside of you, leaving your body with a groan of satisfaction. He watched his cum pool between your thighs, pearl white and stark against the stones. He looked up at you, all of you, admiring your spent body below him. He watched how your breasts heaved with breaths, how your eyes were blinking mindlessly up at the ceiling as you came down from your high.

        But then he recognized the bruises on your arms, the bites on your chest, the indentions of the stone upon your sides, the bloody nail prints in your open palms. He cursed himself, cursed his monstrous hands—he knew he was never meant to hold you, that he was unworthy.

        “I hurt you.”

         His simple words brought you back to reality.

         You sat up then, stretching your body as you came face-to-face with him once more.

         “Oh please.” You chided, a smile forming on your face as you cast a simple spell within your torn hands. He eyed you curiously as the blue tinge of magic twisted within your palms, your small wounds closing, even the marks upon your chest healing to a more reasonable color. They were still there, the small reminders he created, but they would fade on their own in a few days.

         You took his face in your hands, thumbs caressing his handsome cheeks.

         “No more grief, Ushiwaka. Please, for me?”

          He only drew you closer in response, cradling you in his arms.

          A few words of thanks came forth from his mouth, but you paid them little mind, too caught up in his embrace. You remained entangled in one another for a moment longer, both at ease in the company of each other’s breaths, your heart beats, the feeling of fingers skimming over skin.

        “Stay with me awhile?” You questioned softly into his chest.

        “Did you think I was going to leave after that?”

        “You always leave, you know, at some point.”

        “Not this time, my love. I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.”

         You both felt the pull then, the same tug that you had both longed to feel for so long.

         You were at home.

         Ushijima pulled you to your feet, wordlessly leading you to get dressed and follow him back into your great room. You saw the books still open on your desk, forlorn and nearly forgotten.

         He settled back into the chair after stoking the fire in your pit, bringing the flames back to life. He stretched out, yawned, and appeared wholly comfortable there, magnificent arms crossed upon his chest.

         You could get used to seeing him there, and you knew little by little, he’d allow you to read his pages, too.

_______________________________________________________________________

Note: I don’t own anything from Haikyuu or the Witcher Universe. 

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[goldentournesol]

The Receptionist and the Profiler (Epilogue)

Chapter Eight: Epilogue

(Spencer Reid x f!Reader)

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

A/N: Welcome to the final chapter of the series. this is just a summary of what Spencer and Reader’s life is like in the future. thank you so much for joining me on this journey. I’ve enjoyed it so much more than I thought I would. So without further ado, enjoy.

Working for the FBI made for a pretty wild life. Even though Y/N wasn’t an agent, her life had been caught up with work just like all the other agents’. It also didn’t help that her boyfriend was endangered practically every minute of every day. It was hard, but Spencer and Y/N made it work. Among the darkness, they created light for each other. Spencer was no longer dreading coming home to a quiet life of reading and rereading his favorite books. He had a partner, he had a lover, someone to depend on. She was there for him as he grieved the loss of his friend and coworker deeply and she was there when he struggled with his excruciating migraines. They walked through life together, facing the challenges head on.

Emily’s death had taken a toll on the both of them, but they were nothing short of relieved when they found out that she was alive and well. Many changes took place after that.

JJ had worked long and hard to turn into a profiler, the liaison had years upon years of experience before switching jobs which meant Hotch had to find a new communications liaison, but he didn’t have to look far at all. He had offered Y/N the job without a second thought. A lot of her job as receptionist covered a liaison’s job. She would often get numerous calls a day from nosy reporters and she’d have to shut them down. However, with the added responsibilities, she’d had to take classes and had undergone copious amounts of training with JJ and Hotch, but she found that she flourished in this new job, despite the hardships that came with it.

This meant that she had her own office now. Whenever Spencer wasn’t at his desk, he was in her office, and whenever she wasn’t in her office, she was at his desk. She often found that she missed her old job as receptionist, but nothing could replace the newfound feeling of making a difference in the world. She used to admire JJ’s ability to stand before nosy reporters and judgmental cops, and here she was, blowing herself (and the team) away with these hidden abilities. 

Before, she was aware of the general gist of the job, she knew it wasn’t easy, but the team often kept the gory details to themselves around her. Now, she had to pick and choose the gore which constantly left her with the question of whether she’d made the right choice or not. The intensity of the job had slightly damaged her spirits, but thankfully she had an amazing support system. She couldn’t have done it without Spencer’s unending support, or Hotch’s for that matter. Before allowing Y/N to accept the job, Hotch had made sure to warn her about the horrors first. She assured him she was ready, even though sometimes she felt like she wasn’t.

On the somewhat bright side, this also meant that she was around during most, if not all cases. This had Spencer jumping for joy, but it also terrified him to his bones. All his emotions were always on overdrive when it came to her. He was glad that he didn’t have to spend so much time away from her, but it simultaneously meant that he was constantly worried for her safety. He never wanted her to go into the field, ever. No matter the amount of combat training she did with Morgan. She found that she preferred interviewing victims’ families and controlling the press to facing serial killers head on anyway.

Sometimes it was easier for her to control the press from Quantico, so it wasn’t uncommon for her to stay back during cases. One particular case had dragged on for much longer than any of them had expected. The whole team was gone in Wisconsin and Hotch had asked her to stay back and hold down the fort at Quantico. The team ended up staying there for two weeks. It was the longest she’d ever been away from Spencer. Nightly calls weren’t enough for them and Spencer truly hadn’t experienced such an emptiness without her before.

As he scooped her into his awaiting arms right outside the elevator when they finally made it back to the office, he breathlessly declared to her, “Marry me.”

She pulled back from the tight embrace to examine his features, “What?” She said, voice thick with confusion.

“I don’t want to be away from you for that long ever again. I don’t want to wait anymore. Marry. Me.” He enunciated firmly. She broke out into a grin.

“Okay, I will.” She laughed and he squeezed her once more, savoring her warmth.

“This isn’t the official proposal by the way, you deserve something far nicer than all this, but I just want you to know that I’m ready if you are.” Spencer clarified and she threw her head back with laughter. Spencer’s heart soared at the sound.

Spencer took that statement and ran with it. He teased her every chance he got. At one dinner date they had planned, he had the nerve to begin his sentence with her full name, her heart dropping to her gut.

“Y/N Y/L/N, would you do me the honor of...sharing this fine wine with me?” Spencer said smugly, resulting in a shocked, but somehow relieved scoff coming from her.

A different time, he decided to give her a false alarm during one of their daily lunch walks in the park nearest to Quantico. He knelt down to one of his knees in the middle of their promenade.

“Y/N Y/L/N, will you...wait for me while I tie my shoe?” Spencer asked with a face-splitting grin. This time, she didn’t hesitate to shove his shoulder slightly, causing him to lose balance and almost faceplant into the pavement.

At this point, she truly had no idea when he was going to pop the big question. Knowing him, it could literally be at any point in time. She had to admit, though, he kept her on her toes. A month later, she was sure he’d pop the question during JJ’s wedding reception because of the way he was staring at her all night. He’d looked dreamy in his tux to say the least. Y/N was almost too shy to dance with him because of how magnificent he looked. What she didn’t know was that he was thinking the same exact thing about her. She looked exquisite in the evening gown she adorned and Spencer was absolutely enraptured by her. 

Being so surrounded by love and admiration, Spencer finally asked her to marry him the second they made it through her front door. They stood in the small hallway between the kitchen and the living room. She had just turned around from taking her heels off and was met with Spencer down on one knee, holding the most beautiful ring out to her in a navy blue velvet box.

“I had this elaborate speech planned, Y/N, I really did. I was going to talk about the stars, about the first conversation we had when I told you about the origins of yogurt, about how stupid we were for not realizing our love for each other earlier, but I realized that none of that matters right now. All I know is that this feels right, you make everything feel right. Will you marry me?” Spencer asked, his face incapable of hiding even a sliver of the adoration he felt for her.

“Yes, I’ll marry you in every lifetime and every universe.” She said, tears falling freely from her eyes. He sprang to his feet and wrapped her up in a long awaited embrace. He felt her body shake with wet laughter against his. He placed the ring on her finger and quickly kissed her passionately. Their giddy giggles flew through and around them.

Spencer knew she didn’t want a long engagement. Her previous engagement was hard enough of the both of them. Their jobs were just so demanding, it was hard to set a date and keep from pushing it back. Their wedding planner was beyond frustrated with them, but what can they do? They’re literally out there saving lives. And before they knew it, two years had passed them by and they were due to be married in two months.

But, alas, Spencer Reid seemed to have a knack for getting shot by unsubs right before weddings. While they were investigating a difficult case in Texas, Spencer was shot in the neck. Y/N was at the police station when she’d heard. She wasn’t sure who took her to the hospital to see him, everything was a blur since she got the call. She was plagued by the fear of losing him. 

She’d overheard Alex Blake and JJ discuss how he’d always wanted children when she arrived at the hospital. In the back of her mind, she screamed that she’d give him all the kids he wanted, if the universe just let them breathe. 

All too quickly, she was a sobbing mess in JJ’s arms. He’d gotten hurt before, he’d been in danger before, but she’d never been as close to it as she was then, it terrified her. Garcia had arrived and guided her to Spencer’s room. In another flash of events, there was a loud bang and Y/N had barely registered that a gun was shot inside the room.

The ringing of her ears subsided just enough to hear Spencer tell Garcia, “You saved my life, do you hear me?” 

That was the second time his life was endangered in the span of two hours. Y/N looked her fiancé square in the face.

“I don’t want to wait anymore. As soon as you’re up and well, we’re getting married.”

Exactly one week later, they’d rushed through whatever they could rush through. Thankfully her dress was ready and altered, the cake was made to order, but sadly, they’d given up their gorgeous, gorgeous venue. Rossi was more than happy to offer up his backyard and the couple found it more than fitting to commemorate their love in the very location where Spencer had first confessed his feelings to her and where she’d returned them later. 

Life truly came full circle as Spencer stood in the same exact spot where he’d confessed his undying love for her the very first time. Spencer did everything he could to keep from sobbing like a child as he saw the owner of his heart stand before him, just like she did that day, but this time adorning her white dress.

Being the romantic sap that he was, he recounted almost every milestone in perfect detail during his vows. Through the unrelenting tears, of course. Y/N’s words came out wobbly and wet, but she managed to get her vows out. There really was not a single dry eye in the small, intimate crowd. The entire team had watched them fall in love oh-so-gracelessly over the years.

Their ceremony was beautiful. It was different than JJ’s had been, it was more special to the two of them. Spencer was in nothing short of awe as he watched his wife sway with Henry wrapped up in her embrace on the dance floor. Henry’s little arms and legs were wound tightly around her, the bottoms of his shoes surely smearing dirt all over the back of her dress, but she didn’t care. Not when Spencer was looking at her like that. His throat clogged itself up as she caught his eye and smiled sweetly. The same thing was on both their minds, it was like an unspoken agreement had been made through some kind of special, invisible bond between them.

He couldn’t wait to have a family with that woman.

And they’d wasted absolutely no time. Three months after the wedding, Y/N announced that she was carrying a baby Reid. Tears and cheers erupted for them all. They had found the perfect little house with the help of Morgan. It was perfect for their growing family.

Pregnancy wasn’t easy on Y/N at all. Flying all around the country and helping catch serial killers was not an activity that pregnant Y/N wanted to engage in. The team had been more than forgiving as they dealt with her mood swings and crazy cravings. It also turns out that soon-to-be mama Y/N was especially helpful in chewing out unsubs in the interrogation room, but as useful as she proved to be, she couldn’t wait to pop the little peanut out.

Spencer and the team were rushing off the jet to the hospital as they’d heard Y/N had gone into labor. Spencer had only missed the very beginning and was by her side the entire time after that.

They welcomed baby Emelia Reid into this world on a chilly September night. Spencer was over the moon, he was borderline obsessed with looking at the baby and keeping a hand on her at all times whenever she was in the room with them. 

He waited for his mother to fly out a few days later just to meet baby Emelia. He wept as he watched his mother kiss the top of his baby girl’s head. No other feeling could ever compete with the one he experienced at that moment in time.

Emelia had grown into such a radiant little girl. She was a miniature hurricane of chocolatey brown curls and rosy red cheeks. She’d already blown her parents away as her intelligence only seemed to increase with time. The similarities she had to her father were astonishing. She was a daddy’s girl through and through, but Y/N didn’t seem to mind sharing him. Not when the sight of them together instantly melted her heart every single time.

Diana tried to be as active in the baby’s life as she could possibly be, however her condition began to worsen over time. Eventually, Diana had had to move in with Y/N, Spencer, and Emelia. Thankfully, their house was large enough, but taking care of a toddler and Diana while being 6 months pregnant was inarguably too much to handle for Y/N. She’d found out that she was pregnant again, and they were expecting another baby girl. Y/N had also taken time off from work to focus on the dilemmas at home. 

The at-home nurse was doing the best she could since Spencer was always either at work or off finding Diana some kind of new treatment. He’d told Y/N that he’d been going to Mexico to get her some special medication and so she didn’t mind as long as she’d been kept in the loop of where and how he was. Spencer Reid never kept anything from his wife. They were always transparent with each other. Y/N was glad that he’d told her about his trips down to Mexico, or else she’d be out of her mind looking for him. 

But suddenly, during one trip, he’d stopped answering her calls. Complete silence on his end. It had driven her absolutely mad. It was only until JJ visited her the next morning informing her that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico for the illegal possession of drugs and possibly murder. If JJ hadn’t been around to catch Y/N before passing out, she or the baby would have been in extreme danger.

But Spencer Reid never kept anything from his wife. She’d been adamant that she would have known if he was struggling with drugs again. The last time she’d seen Spencer was during the trial. He’d looked so terrified as they pronounced him guilty and shoved him away from her. From his family. He’d spared Y/N one last broken glance, his gaze drifting down to her swollen belly. Their second child was on the way and he won’t be there to meet them. He mouthed a heartfelt apology before they took him away. Y/N wept and wept until everyone but the team left the courtroom.

“How am I gonna do this, Pen? How am I gonna do this without him?” She spoke between breathy sobs. The baby, Emelia, Diana. She couldn’t do it on her own. It would break her.

“You won’t be alone, Y/N. We’re all going to help you.” Penelope reassured her, but the only thing that was capable of reassuring her was currently in handcuffs behind closed doors.

She’d had to keep Spencer’s whereabouts from Diana and Emelia. She’d told him that he was consulting a case somewhere in California, where he also had access to the beach. Up until that lie wasn’t viable enough. Emelia’s questions about her daddy absolutely tore through what remained of her heart.

Diana’s caretaker had apparently quit and a new one came by. Y/N thought something was off, but she pushed that thought aside as she worried over her husband and the baby that they were due to meet any day now. Two months had passed and Spencer was still incarcerated, he hadn’t allowed Y/N or Emelia anywhere near the prison, but she’d broken down at the possibility of him being locked away for 25 years.

She’d visited him once, right after the birth of their second baby. They’d had another beautiful baby girl, whose name had been decided long ago by the two parents. Baby Adaline. The delivery was immensely difficult without him, but she pushed through. Y/N had almost begged Emily to pull any, any strings she could to get them to meet since Spencer said he’d only agree to see them if he could ensure their privacy and safety. They’d managed to get them in with Spencer’s lawyer, Fiona. Y/N cooed to Adaline as she cradled her in her arms, wrapped in her little blanket. The cooing served as a distraction as she waited anxiously for Spencer to meet them in the small little room. 

Suddenly the doors emitted a loud buzzing noise, prompting a loud cry from Adaline. A sound that was strange to echo off the walls of this place. Y/N shushed her gently until she caught sight of her husband walking through the door. Tears gathered in her eyes as she took in his disheveled state. His eyes found hers and quickly flitted to the squirming bundle of joy in her arms. Spencer’s lip wobbled as he entered the room. Y/N shifted Adaline to rest upon her shoulder as she wrapped one arm tightly around Spencer. No touching was allowed, but the guards pretended to look the other way, courtesy of whatever strings Emily had pulled.

The three of them bawled against each other in an unceremonious reunion. Spencer at last pulled away from his wife and stared at the baby in the bundle. He hesitated to carry her. His hands were clean, but they still felt so dirty. How could his hands hold this beautiful gift of life while they’d been committing such heinous acts within these very walls? But one utterance from his wife made that all vanish.

“It’s okay, Spence.” She smiled slightly, angling Adaline towards him. 

He gazed at Y/N closely, as if checking to see if she was sure. Y/N carefully handed her over to him and he instantly turned into less of a shell of himself and had begun to resemble the man that Y/N could recognize. He cooed to her softly, kissing her face repeatedly. Adaline instantly quieted down at her father’s touch.

The small interaction had fueled the pair for weeks. Spencer found a source of hope and was determined to see through to the other side. He would not rot away in his cell forever. The team continued to try and crack the case from the outside. Y/N was instructed to be more careful than ever. She often brought Emelie and Adaline to work with her. She had not been flying out with the team, preferring to stay close to her girls until Spencer was back.

On one of the days Y/N brought her girls to work, she’d found out that Diana had been missing. Her caretaker was accompanying her to visit Spencer in prison and then neither of them had been seen afterwards. They quickly identified the caretaker as Lindsey Vaughn. If Y/N had been on the case with them ten years ago, she would have identified her, but she was just another face to her. Y/N was livid, Vaughn had been around her children, she’d been inside her home. If Spencer didn’t get to catch the bitch, they better believe Y/N will.

Spencer was released quickly after the BAU proved his innocence. He was on his way to the office now. Y/N had been peering into Adaline’s carriage when she’d heard the high pitched voice of Emelia.

“Daddy!” Emelia exclaimed, racing across the bullpen to jump into her father’s arms.

“Hi baby. Daddy missed you so much.” Spencer said, hiding his tears in his daughter's hair. He held her tightly to his chest as he crossed the bullpen and made it to Y/N’s office. He put Emelia down gently and scooped his wife into his arms.

“You’re back.” She said softly through tears. 

He hooked his chin over her shoulder and sniffled strongly. He might not be the same man he was before, but he still loved her unconditionally. He still loved all three of them unconditionally.

“I’m here.” He repeated the phrase out loud like a mantra.

And he was here, but he also wasn’t. His wife could tell that the man who stood before her had endured hell, but when he cradled their baby girl so tightly to his chest, it was hard to imagine him as anything other than a loving, gentle father, and a compassionate partner. She knew she’d hold onto that thought forever. Once they retrieved Diana, they knew they could face anything.

As long as they were together.

And they knew they would be, for as long as the universe would allow in this life, and then the one after that.

~THE END~

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thank you for all the love, feedback is always appreciated!

[chrstbll]

miracles and lucky days| ben hargreeves

(gif not mine) 

+tags: @lalisbitch @spaceclone-mom , @meowmeowrex23 @strangeyouthcrusade

plot: after coming back from the 60’s, instead of finding the sparrow academy, the group come face to face with a much more positive outcome of their actions.

                                                           -

The words of Klaus were diluted, inaudible and ringing loudly in your head. Your limbs could barely hold the weight of your body, and the nausea from jumping between timelines hitting your stomach didn’t quite put you at ease. All was blurry at first, not hearing nor seeing properly caused you to feel light-headed as well, but before your legs or your mind gave in, somebody strong arms held you up protectively.

- Are you good? – Diego’s gentle call for you brought you back to reality. He was always a little bit concerned about you. He didn’t show it in great actions, it was in the seemingly unimportant things he did for you. There wasn’t anything romantic involved between you two, instead of that it was a deep understanding of each another that made you appreciate the other significantly. You nodded to confirm that you were in fact all right, shrugging it off with a smile.

Klaus was right. After you successfully registered what he was saying, a wave of relief washed over your heart, mind, and soul. Your whole being. For once, all seven of you managed to successfully jump back to 2019 without any harm or mistake being done. It was quite unbelievable. A dreamlike scenario which proved itself to be nearly impossible to believe. Looking around the hall, everything seemed to be all right. It felt okay. The aura was intimately comforting, yet something was amiss. Different. Changed. It certainly was not a malicious ambiance that you discovered, but one new, something yet unexperienced thing. The others noticed it too, as all six of them were looking around suspiciously. Memories, feelings, and people rapidly invaded your mind, those you haven’t thought about a lot. Pogo? Grace? Are they okay now?

Luther suggested to enter the living room ahead of you, so that’s what you all mutually agreed to. Five was the one who went further on before you heroically and begged all of you to proceed with caution, because we don’t know what’s waiting for us there. The walk from the hall to the living room happened painfully slowly given that the feeling of uncertainty was sitting in one and all’s eyes and was at fault for your lack of speed. Upon realizing the academy was unnervingly noiseless, the anxiety birthed a huge lump in your throat, which you couldn’t swallow. Your heart was terrified from the possible negative outcome of this time jump. What if that moment of clarity and amenity was only a façade and was only felt because none of you faced reality in the short but drunk moment of arrival? Sometimes you thought about how nice it would be to just live without worry. To live in pure bliss, without a care in the world. Without a problem in the universe to solve. How astonishing it would be not to recall what loss, trauma, or sadness feels like. But then again, we would live in ignorance that way.

Turning towards the divans and sculptures in the living room, your attention automatically focused on the small moving figure, who was absentmindedly cleaning the shelves with dusting feathers. Recognition hit you like a truck, as the character of an ape appeared before you. Your breath hitched in your throat. Mercifully, it was a positive reaction, a sentiment you haven’t undergone in a long time.

- Pogo?! – Allison was the first one to call out their siblings’ friends’ name. Barely letting his name roll from her tongue, the sea of emotions instantly overthrew her, and tears stormed down her face. Their beloved guardian turned around in shock, he looked so puzzled, it was as he didn’t recognize the people in front of him. You feared that was the case. What if we screwed it up even more?

- Oh, children. I was waiting for you all to return – he’s spoken politely and gifted us with a kind smile, just like he always did. You almost forgot what a courteous and caring figure Pogo was. His scarce although deep voice reminded you of simpler times. A type of nostalgia which you subconsciously yearned for god knows how long. Everyone gathered around him in a matter of seconds, engulfing him in a suffocating hug. Pogo was still bewildered from the sudden act of affection, as you all were from seeing him alive and breathing, but in this instant of happiness, the questions why and how didn’t matter. What mattered was the present minute, what you currently knew as is.

And next, a voice broke the silence.

Who would dare to turn around first? Who wanted to confirm that the voice that was just heard from behind them, came from a legit source? On a serious note, was it even real? Your minds are only playing tricks on you. You were ecstatic for having Pogo back, but it would be too good to be true to turn around and see the possessor of the voice. We can’t have all the wonderful things. It never went that well for you. Your bodies turned stiff, and your feet were frozen on spot. But what made you fear to turn around? The horror of hearing something that’s not truly there or facing it bravely. Something…someone you haven’t faced in roughly two decades.

- What the hell took you guys so long? – the annoyance sounded so raw, hence genuine. You could hear and understand the words crystal clear; then why didn’t you believe your ears?

The group hug disassembled at a snail's pace and turned to face what they never expected to see ever again in their lifetime. You, on the other hand, had secretly wished for a moment like this. Your heart was aching for the chance, not caring about being rational nor delusional. It kept the faith in your soul steady.

- Please, tell me I’m not the only one who can see him – Klaus muttered.

- Ben – Diego confirmed in a hushed tone without letting out any more words as he didn’t need to. He was the bravest out of all of you to speak up.

So, there he stood in his monochrome outfit, with his black leather jacket hugging his form and a coy smile painted all over his face. The faint rosy cheeks, lively eyes and vivid emotions displayed told you everything. The Ben standing in front of you was very much real, and more importantly, alive, and well.

- All of you look like you’ve seen a ghost – he grinned from ear to ear, and his light-hearted joke legitimately freed your body from the tension which held you in your place so aggressively. Number Four didn’t hesitate one second longer, and slammed himself against his brother, who sweetly returned the embrace. Registering it, savouring it, then finally loving the physical contact, Klaus broke up in a hysterical laughter. The group succeeded to pull the strings in a way his death was luckily prevented. How the hell did we manage this? But he didn’t care. All that mattered was the present minute, what he currently knew as is.

- You’re telling me, man – his laugh slowly started to die down, but his joy only rose. Of course, a group hug was crucially needed and initiated effective immediately. Everyone surrounded him, and you held onto each other tightly, so he never slips away from your grasp again. You admitted it to yourself, that it felt heavenly, but more precisely, it felt so damn terrific. The others eventually backed away, but you stayed right in front of him.

- Hey, you – were all he needed to say for you to go flying into his arms – Where have you been? I missed you – his confession was a simple, warm, and loving anecdote, and it broke your heart in the best way possible.

You missed me?

Your loud sobbing, and ocean of tears was baffling and a mystery to him, and he looked at the others with a perplexed expression. They asked him to just let you be because they understood everything perfectly. Each tear was valid and every one of them had a reason. His arms were wrapped around your body, as he was shielding you from all the cruelty in this world. His embrace wasn’t tight, but fond and sensitive enough. You weren’t greedy at all; it was just all too marvellous. Hearing his stable beating heart as he held you close to his chest completely fulfilled you. A featherlight kiss was tenderly placed on your forehead by him, in an attempt to calm you down. It failed, as more droplets of salty water coated your apple-like cheeks. Even so, the kiss was given so compassionately, it must have come from heaven itself.

Maybe you were in Heaven. Maybe your life ended when you arrived in the hall. This isn’t real and I’m probably dead in Diego’s arms by now. But what if you accepted it as your reality now? You couldn’t believe it, even after feeling his touch and his kiss on your body. It might be because you thought you didn’t think your wish to see the person closest to your heart again would ever come true. After the horrific months you went through, it was certainly an impossibility to be gifted with something this enormous, significant, and joyous.

Maybe miracles and lucky days exist. Maybe they existed both on the same day in favour of you. I’ll accept this, I deserve this. You absolutely deserve to be happy and to drop the burden that’s been weighing on your soul for years. Nobody deserves to live their lives in inescapable guilt and grief. Having Ben back in all your lives meant the world to you. You were thinking about how you might have to fill him in on the details of the previous events, but that was a case for a later part of the day. For now, it was nice to bask in his love and warmth. You’ll care about every other issue later. This was the only feeling that mattered in that moment. Peace finally taking its rightful place back in your heart, which has been waiting for it for a long time now. He radiated pureness, an energy which was incomparable to anything else. Clutching his jacket was your anxiety making sure he doesn’t leave again. Maybe he was reading your thoughts, but at the same time he was realizing he’d never leave you even if it meant his life.

- I missed you too.

[edward-little]

honestly honestly honestly goodsir’s characterization in the mutineers’ camp is so fucking interesting. people have talked about how he loses his zest for life, his will to live, his gentleness, his hopefulness (or naïvité, depending), his ego in its entirety. goodsir as we come to know him drops off the face of the planet; he has no reassurance to offer gibson, nothing but instruction for crozier. even names, a symbol of the individual even if everyone within a 10 mile radius is called thomas, escape him.

when gibson comes to him about his progressing illness, goodsir outlines his decline and tells him that he should expect to die. that he has no sympathy for the men who took him is understandable, as gibson points out: “i wouldn’t, either, doctor.” “what’s that?” “comfort us. any of us.” goodsir expresses his disdain for the mutineers by withholding the qualities required of a doctor, and loses the characterization we recognize. even his ep 5 “does that really work on anyone, mr. hickey?” remark was prompted by hickey remarking on a gesture of kindness offered him; goodsir has gone from “you shouldn’t carry heavy things until your wounds mend” to “it will get worse, this.” we can detect a chipping away when he resolves to test the tinned food on jacko, or when he goes to crozier to report on his findings. he shows some sort of horror at jacko’s death and carries her corpse on the walk out as reminder and incentive; he directs silna away from the tinned food and breaks down when morfin dies as a result of the pain he endured from lead poisoning. in these moments, we see him acting, resolving to act, or having a crisis over the lack of adequate, life-saving action. at the mutineers’ camp, he’s spurred into action by an imminent threat to hodgson’s life, but that action is an order from hickey. the only self-affected momentum he displays brings him to his own death.

(the most dramatic change in goodsir, in my opinion, shows when crozier tells him to cut open irving’s stomach. however, the murder of an indigenous family is not About a white man on an imperialist expedition, nor is the character of goodsir capable of understanding the loss in an appreciable way. after all, he tells silna that people in england are good.)

one of the questions i’m interested in ruminating over is, is his part in the goodsir-gibson-(later hickey-)tent scene cruel? it’s not comfort, and the discussion of whether or not the mutineers deserve comfort isn’t one i find relevant in this case-- desert, as it were, isn’t on the table. the part where hickey stabs gibson pits goodsir and hickey against one another, hickey holding gibson on the knife and close to him, while goodsir tries to separate them from one another. hickey looks at goodsir with reproach over the top of gibson’s head. hickey’s prior words to gibson-- “we’ll make the best of a bad situation, as we always have”-- suggest that he considers it a killing done for a greater good (whether that greater good means feeding the camp alone or if he included putting gibson out of his misery in that assessment, i couldn’t tell you.) but while goodsir makes no effort to comfort gibson regarding his imminent death, he still makes some effort, however belated, to stop hickey’s murder of him. we can infer (or, at least, i can infer at 3:45 AM) that he prefers letting gibson’s illness play out to its conclusion, knowing in great detail the misery it brings. he had cried after morfin’s death; it was admittedly a violent one, but it was one which came as a result of one of the two illnesses the crew suffered. he offered morfin treatments for his symptoms, but has nothing for gibson but candor. if we position hickey as the merciful one, then of course goodsir becomes the cruel one. with nothing in his arsenal but broken glass, poison, and his medical knowledge, maybe the only mercy is the one he enacts upon and through himself.

the other thing i’ve been thinking about is what would goodsir have done if he, rather than bridgens, had been the one to tend to fitzjames just prior to his death. firstly, in staying with crozier’s crew, would he have undergone the same loss of substance as he had with the mutineers? my guess is that it would have been slow enough so that he would have been in a better mental place during fitzjames’ death scene than during gibson’s. then again, he would also have had more of his things at his disposal, and would likely have had more to offer than an indifferent recitation of worsening symptoms. secondly, when fitzjames asks crozier to “help [him] out of it,” would goodsir, like bridgens, have offered a drug to ease him along? if bridgens was thinking romeo and juliet or hamlet at the time, goodsir would likely have taken a less poetic approach. the goodsir of ep 9 is also a different goodsir from ep 7, though, so maybe he would have had less of a tolerance for life for life’s sake. goodsir from gibson’s death scene might have sat and watched crozier massage the mystery liquid down fitzjames’ throat, or he might not have volunteered any assistance at all. a goodsir who hadn’t been removed from the others, who had some sort of emotional attachment to the crew he was around (if not for the presence of warm feelings, than for the fact that none of them were hickey), who hadn’t yet been confronted with the prospect of aiding and participating in cannibalism, might not have changed the scene.

[gh0ulgeist]

major tma spoilers from the end of season 4 onward all the way to the end of season 5

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cw: talk of r*pe, grooming, breaching consent of bodily autonomy

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i didn’t notice this until my second or third listening of the entire podcast nor do i know how intentional it is on jonny’s behalf but to me, personally, mag160 and jon being deceived into being the lynchpin for the fearpocalypse reads like a very clear and cut and dry allegory for being raped/assaulted/being taken advantage of with all of the horror and pain something like that entails. how jon acts in season 5 is very reminiscent of a survivor processing the trauma they’ve just undergone and learning how to cope however slowly and bumpy that process may be for them, and the allegory only gets more real and sad the longer the series goes on and as the event is discussed among the characters. jon being chosen as a child by the fear entities to bring about their apocalypse reads to me like child grooming but i don’t have much else to say on that since this canon is so new. all in all season 5 makes me very sad as an assault survivor who projects way too hard onto jon mingus archives and i hope this makes sense. jon deserves to have a support system that loves him and doesn’t blame him for what happened and helps him cope and grow

[noncon fetishists do not even look at this post i swear to god this discussion is not meant for you. nothing about this is meant to be romanticized or fetishized]

[avatraang]

#27, azulaang 😶

THIS WAS SUCH A CHALLENGE!!! I’ve never written or even thought of these two in my life. But it was such a good test, thank you!! If any of y’all want to request a prompt and pairing, it’s from this post.

Without further ado, here is your azulaang fic <3

when the sun goes down.

It’s a rainy day when Aang feels her presence. To say they are tied together is an understatement – Aang is connected to all worlds, but to her more than most. The way his scar almost stands on end, a phantom of electricity ghosting across it. He often feels such thunder in his veins when she’s nearby, the universe’s way of reminding him that he is tied to her in more ways than the norm.

Azula has been out in society for a number of years already – indeed, her in public is not what threatens to surprise him. What almost throws off his balance is that she’s at the Southern Air Temple. He’s known of her presence since he landed there early that same morning, climbing the winding peaks til he’s sitting on a crumbling balcony, mediating on his past to gain clarity on his present and future. Upon giving it some thought, Aang comes to the conclusion that it isn’t so odd that Azula is at the Southern Air Temple. Indeed, before he’d personally seen that the remains of the monks and Fire Nation soldiers had been given proper funerals, the temple gave the clearest examples of the wrath the Fire Nation could produce. Even now that the bodies are gone and the temple cleaner, charred wood and blackened walls still lend evidence to the tragedies of times past. Aang supposes that him being here, the lone airbender mediating in the empty temple of his people, serves as even more proof. Azula, from what Zuko had told Aang, left to see first hand both the horrors and wonders of the world through newly unclouded eyes. Of course she’d stop here.

What drives home that Azula’s come along way from delivering blows rivaling death, is how she reveals herself to him. Sitting up on the balcony, Aang can feel her as she climbs the broken staircase towards him. Her footsteps are as silent as they were when they were children; if Aang weren’t the voice of the wind and if he were unable to feel the earth under his toes, he would not be able to tell she was coming. But her steps are still sensed by the ground, and the wind tumbles around her, interrupted by her small frame. Stepping out into the balcony, Azula crosses the threshold and moves to settle in front of Aang, so she is in full view of him. Aang is struck, easily and almost comically, by how different an image this is compared to times past. The circle of life is funny that way.

They sit there meditating for quite some time, the cool air flowing around them, the sun rising until it’s warming Aang’s nose. Air courses through his veins and through the temple, which, even after over a hundred years, still makes a pleasant noise when the wind runs through it. It sounds like the waves against the ocean, like muted wind chimes while one watches the flying bison play, like a baby’s sleepy laughter. The monks had designed it that way, and that way it had remained. Constant as the air around them.

Finally, Aang opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is that her hair is short. Unconventionally so – it’s short on the back and sides of her head (shorter than Sokka’s). It reminds him vaguely of his days with hair, back when he was hiding in the Fire Nation. It makes her face look sharper, but more open, too. A small scar rests on the top left corner of her upper lip, and there’s a tattoo on her right wrist. Azula opens her eyes and looks back at him, soaking him in with the same open wonder in which Aang is regarding her. “Hello.” Azula says, and for all intents and purposes she sounds exactly the same but also very different. There’s no anger or malice dripping in ever letter, just an openness that can only come from someone who has gotten to know themselves. “It’s nice to see you.” She gives him a smile that is so awkward, Aang finds it easy to see the resemblance between her and Zuko.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Aang says, and he means it. “What brings you here?”

Azula’s eyes widen only fractionally, but that is the only noticeable change in her demeanor. “I came here to see, for myself.”

Aang tilts his head, “And what do you think?”

“I think it must have hurt.” She purses her lips, wringing her small (dainty, yet Aang knows the power she wields so well) hands. There’s a note in her voice that Aang registers easily as compassion. He holds it for every living thing he sees. “It still hurts.” Azula looks past him, as if reaching for something she can’t see. The scar on his back tingles again. “I’m sorry.”

With an honest smile, Aang waves away her apology. “It’s not okay, but it’s also not your fault. There is no guilt on your shoulders or blood on your hands. I forgive everyone, and my people do, too.”

With a small shake of her head, Azula continues. “Not just about your people. I’m sorry about what I did to you. And to Zuzu, to Ty Lee, to Mai, Katara, Sokka, Toph, Suki.” Azula lists names like she’s spent the past few years writing them down every day. She gives him a sardonic sort of laugh. “Caldera City. Ba Sing Se. The world.” Aang doesn’t speak. Something tells him she isn’t finished. “I am sorry for what I’ve personally done, the hand I had in inflicting conflict onto the world. I’ve come a long way, still am coming a long way. I have my own personality and views, now.” Azula throws him a smile, a real one, that showcases her sharp canines and perfect teeth. “I know my purpose, my place. And I know I shouldn’t guilt myself, but there are people I owe proper apologies to. And you are one of them.”

“What’s your purpose?” Aang’s curiosity is piqued.

“To do what little I can to help people. To travel the world without any aim other than that.” Azula shrugs, “At least, for now. For now, I just want to help. However I can.”

And well, shit. He can’t think of a nobler, brighter purpose. And her apology is so genuine it almost hurts him. For a second Aang just stares, smiling brightly at her, entire body beaming like he is reaching for the sun. Then he realizes Azula might be weirded out by this, so Aang clears his throat and stands. Reaching down, he offers his hand to her. Tentatively, Azula takes it, letting him haul her to her feet. Aang pulls her up with more force than he ended up needing (she’s much lighter than he remembers) and as a result she ends up colliding with him. With a gust of wind behind him to keep them from crashing down the stairs, the two steady themselves and then step away from each other. Neither of them blush (one ever poised and the other ever shameless), but they both busy themselves with readjusting their clothes for a good while. Finally, Aang turns and motions for Azula to follow him. As they wander down the steps, skipping over missing ledges, Aang speaks. “For what it’s worth, your mission is amazing.” He looks over his shoulder at her, “Reminds me of my people.” Almost tripping over a missing step, Aang tears his eyes away and continues. “It’s all good, Azula. You’ve undergone more of a journey than most people do in a lifetime, and are determined to keep doing it.” He takes an exit on the second floor, crossing into a room that’s surprisingly untouched compared to the others. Momo is sitting on the window ledge, Appa resting down below in the courtyard on the first floor. Kneeling, Aang picks up a mostly deteriorated Pai Sho tile and vividly remembers Gyatso gifting him the game for his eleventh birthday. “I forgive you. I’m proud of you, and I’m proud to know you.” He tosses her the tile and smiles, a charming thing that could give birth to a million stars.

Azula stares. “It’s that easy for you?”

“Of course.” Aang says.

“How?”

He shrugs. Sits down on the stone slab that’s under the windowsill Momo’s sitting on. “Because everyone deserves love and forgiveness.” Aang says it simply, because to him it is so. “Especially someone who’s actively making an effort to do better.”

Azula’s eyes are owlish. She’s running the tile across her fingers, the tips of her ears red. “Was this your room?”

Aang doesn’t stop her from changing the subject. “Yes,” he says.

Azula eyes the space next to him, and sits down next to him with the same confidence one would have if he’d himself invited her to invade his space. “Tell me.” Azula says, “If it’s not too much to ask.”

Talking about his people is never too much to ask, so Aang does one of the things he does best: Tells her stories.

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