#i only slightly altered the colouring

[luveline]

I wanted to know how Aaron Hotchner would react to discovering the existence of a daughter (something from college perhaps), she would be his copy both in appearance and personality

—Hotch has a surprise visitor and the world spins on a new axis. daughter!reader, 2.2k

readers physical traits like hair and skin colour are not mentioned, but she is described as looking like her mother (also not described) and as sharing some characteristics with Hotch!<3 I also altered canon so that Hotch and Haley take a break at college 

“There is a kid in your office.” 

“Morgan?” 

Hotch pulls his phone away to check. D. Morgan blinks on his phone screen. It’s a slightly absurd sentence. 

“There’s a child in my office?” he asks, returning the phone to his ear. 

“I’m standing with her right now. She won’t tell me who she is. Anderson let her in.” 

“How old?” Hotch asks, scratching his cheek. God forbid he steal two minutes of peace in the bathroom. 

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m twenty two,” a feminine voice says. 

“You said kid,” Hotch says, frowning. 

“Anyone under twenty five is a kid to me. Are you on your way?” 

He sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and hangs up, dropping the small body of his phone into his pocket. Twenty two isn’t a kid, it’s a year younger than Spencer was when he started at the BAU; Hotch doesn’t underestimate the intelligence of young adults. Why you’re in his office is another thing. He can’t have one day without inconvenience. 

Hotch makes his way into the BAU office and up the stairs to the half level where his own office resides. Morgan leans against the door with his arms crossed, standing to attention when Hotch passes. 

“Thanks, Morgan,” Hotch says. 

Morgan nods, sending a curious gaze at you before he leaves. 

You’re dressed very formally for someone your age, but it’s not as though this is different from the norm of the building. You have on a dark shirt with a starched collar and a fitted blazer, a crisp skirt, and leather Mary Jane heels, one pressed flat to the back of the other. 

You stand when he comes in. 

“Mr. Hotchner?” you ask. 

“Yes?” he asks. 

You have a small file in your hand. Paper with worn edges pokes out of one side as though you’d been looking through it and put it hastily away, and the Manila file itself is fresh.

“Do we know one another?” he asks. 

You look familiar. It’s possible he would’ve known your parents —it could make sense. A colleague or acquaintance assumed he could help you with something, and you in your naivety you made your way in. 

“I think you know my mother.” 

“And she was?” he prompts. Not impolite, but needing to move forward. He’s very busy. 

You take a small step back. “Mr. Hotchner,” you say again, something nervous in your eyes as you lift your chin, “I don’t want to waste your time. I’m aware I might sound foolish, or that this… might not be something you want to hear, but. My mother told me you met in college, and that…” 

You bite your lip. 

He’s incredibly confused now. Not one to let a stranger suffer whether in real pain or awkwardness, he opens his hand. “Can I?” 

“Yes, sir,” you say.

You don’t want to pass it over, but you do as he’s asked. 

The photograph is a shock, held with a paperclip to a magnolia sheet of paper. It’s of Hotch, undoubtedly, a much younger Hotch sitting on a bench with a woman he recognises immediately. He only looks at her, and he knows why you’re here, and he knows exactly what you’re thinking. 

“Do you remember her?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

“She says you’re the only man that could… possibly be my father.” You hold your hands behind your back. 

He lifts the photograph. There’s not much else to look at, only your photo ID, your birth certificate where he is glaringly not listed, as well as your mother’s birth certificate, and proof of her enrollment at George Washington University. 

You look a little teary. Trying very hard to be sober, as you have been since he laid eyes on you, but clearly getting more and more upset as time goes on. He’s feeling a similar ache, a searing pain in his chest, staring at you from over the Manila folder to really, really look at you. He swears he can see something of himself in your face, though he’s not sure what. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking. 

There’s certainly some of him in your frown. 

“I think you should sit down,” he says softly. 

You sit down immediately in the chair you’d inhabited a few minutes ago. 

He’s not sure what to say. Are you sure it could only be him? Is your mother? But you’re looking at him with an expression he practically trademarked, whether he wanted to or not, and the proof is in his hands: you’re your mother’s daughter, and Hotch would have slept with her almost twenty three years ago. He doesn’t need much time to do the math. 

“I realise my word alone isn’t a lot to go on, sir, so– so if you’d want to, I’ll of course submit for a paternity test. Or if you want nothing to do with me, that’s okay too.” 

“It’s not okay,” he says, closing your folder. 

Your eyes widen just a touch. 

“Can I sit with you?” he asks. 

You push your chair back to make lots of room. He sits in the chair besides yours, cautious that being across a desk from you is insensitive, or cold, at least. 

He looks at you and he’s sure that you’re his. The longer you sit there, the more sure he becomes.

“I do want a paternity test,” he says, watching your tight nod. 

He believes you. And truly, if he was unsure of what you’re saying he’d still give you grace now, because the first time you meet your father should be full of love. He should’ve been there to hold you in one arm twenty two years ago, he should’ve been there for you through everything he’s already missed. 

“But I believe you,” he says.

“You do?” 

“I’m a very good judge of character. I know that you believe what you’re telling me completely,” he says.

“How?”

“When you’re nervous your hand drifts to your chest, but you didn’t move when you suggested I’m your father. You haven’t once checked the door or looked toward the camera in the corner of the room.” And the full truth. “I want to believe you.” 

“Why?” you ask.

“You look like your mother, but…” He lets himself smile. “You sound like me.” 

You laugh under your breath. “Hopefully not so deep.” 

“I’ve had it described to me as mellifluous.” 

“I’ve wanted to hear your voice since I can remember. My mom didn’t talk about you much, but I’ve always wondered. She told me she didn’t know who you were, and…”

“And you believed her. Any child would do the same.” 

“She’s made mistakes.” You look to him with eyebrows gently pinched, asking him to understand. “But I looked you up. When she told me your name, I looked for you online, and… I always thought I never needed you, even if I wanted to know you. I thought you might want to know me. I thought that a man like you would want to know.”

There’s something you’re not saying. Hotch doesn’t mind. “Of course I want to know you.” 

You chance a smile at him. “You really believe me?” 

“You were expecting me to turn you away.” 

“No, just– I’m not a kid, even if your colleague said so. And I’m not an image of you, I don’t have your eyes. All I have is that photograph. There's not much evidence to go on.” 

He sees no reason why a young girl like you would walk into his office and tell him who you are. Self preservation insists on a paternity test, and soon —UnSubs haven’t ever done something so conniving as imitating a family member yet, but there’s no prediction for evil— but Hotch has an inherent sense of the truth.  

“What do you do?” he asks. 

You frown. “Sorry?” 

“What do you do?” he asks again, “You’re dressed like a lawyer.” 

You nod with a smile you’re pushing into a flat line unsuccessfully. “I’m at GWU. For law, like you and my mom.” 

“She only just told you who I am?” He speaks each word carefully. 

“The photo fell out of an old album, and I had a funny feeling. I asked her about it and she said I’m too much like you. She admitted it like the secret had been eating her alive.” You look at your hand on the armrest. “We aren’t getting along right now.” 

“I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell you. Or me,” he says honestly. 

“I don’t know either.” 

Hotch is expecting a lot more awkwardness than he feels as he puts his hand over yours. You stay very still. 

“Thank you for coming here today.” He gives your hand the barest squeeze and stands. “Have you eaten? I could take you out for dinner,” he suggests. 

You stand with him. “Are you serious?” you ask, gentle and pleased at once. 

“I think you have a lot to tell me, and I’d love to listen.” 

“You’re not working?” 

Sometimes, sometimes, there are things that can be worked around or held on the back burner. You and Hotch go for lunch. 

—

Aaron Hotchner knows many important people. Your paternity test takes a day, less than twenty four hours from the time you both submit samples, but you have a class you can’t miss and he’s sure you’re nervous, so you don’t meet again for two days regardless. By then, you both know the results. (And Aaron’s had to have a very strange conversation with his wife, in which she doesn’t believe him, and then has to sit down.) 

He can admit to being far more protective of you once he knows the truth for sure, though he knows it before the results come back. You’re his daughter, and he’s left you without a father for two decades of your life, your formative years, time he can never get back. 

He doesn’t even know what to do. How can he make up for it? Twenty two years of birthday cards? He feels like buying you a diamond necklace with a stone for each year, and then he wants to buy you a house, but mostly he wants to give you a hug. He thinks about it for so long the morning before he’s scheduled to meet you again that it makes him as upset as he’s ever been in his life, desperate to say sorry to you and your mother and furious with her for keeping you a secret. 

He thinks of all those years without an inkling of your existence, and now you’re the only thing he can think about. His remorse makes him sick. 

You’re smiling when you see him. For a millisecond, you look like Jack. 

“Hi, Mr. Hotchner!” you say, standing from the table, your formal dress and cardigan pressed neatly, your hands held behind your back.

‘Mr. Hotchner’ will need to be fixed quickly, though he won’t force you to call him anything else. He can’t help himself, however.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says softly. 

You pause, and you laugh. “This is weird.” 

He doesn’t mean to make it weirder, but he opens his arms, and he waits for an indication that you might not want a hug before he leans in to hold you. You’re still so young. There’s still time for him to be a good father to you. 

He can’t say everything he needs to in his hug, and at the end of the day he’s a stranger to you; you probably don’t want him to hug you for too long. But he rubs your back, and he promises himself that he won’t let you down twice.

Your arm curls tentatively behind his back. For a second, you press your face to his shoulder and breathe. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, pulling away. 

Your lip twitches to one side like his would when presented with such heavy sincerity. “I’m okay. How did, um, Haley take the news?” 

“She just wants to meet you, okay? You’re part of my family now.” 

You give no indication you’ve heard what it is he’s saying to you, or whether you like it as you sit down at the dinner table. He quite likes that some way, somehow, you’ve become like him, but he wonders if he might not love it so much when he asks how your mom is taking this new development and you just smile. 

“We’re going to tell Jack about everything this weekend,” he adds. “He’ll be excited, if no one else.” 

“And Haley doesn’t mind?” 

“She’s not going to ask you to babysit anytime soon, honey, but no, of course she doesn’t. He should meet his sister before she’s too old for legos.” 

You actually laugh. 

Dad humour transcends age, and for that, Hotch is grateful. 

—

only after I finished did I wonder if I misinterpreted the request and this was supposed to be x reader with a shared daughter so if that’s the case I’m sorry original requester!! and I can totally write that if that’s what you meant 🫶❤️

[joonieskinks]

I just read your blurb where reader wakes up and she’s married to Sergeant Soap and not Captain Soap but I feel like what if it’s reversed. What if she’s this young bonnie thing with a young husband and then she wakes up to be married to older, slightly more mature, Captain MacTavish.

uh- HELLO?? I love it. Sorry it took so long but here you go, hope I did it justice xx

warning: age gap so shoo if ur not into it

You sat up slowly in the bed, stilling orientating yourself and emerging from sleep. You had thought the sheets felt a little different, but assumed that maybe you were still dreaming. It was only when your eyes opened did you realize you weren’t at home anymore.

You were on base in the early morning, in a room that looked an awful like your husband’s when you would come to see him and stay with him for a couple nights. Well, that was what you did until his passing.

Johnny and you were a young love. He got down on one knee before he was even 23, and got to the altar before 24. You only got a couple months with him as husband and wife- a young widow they now called you. Everyday is hard, but that horrible day you received the news plays over and over in your mind all the time like a nightmare you just can’t shake.

John, Simon and Kyle all came to your door to tell you personally. They cried with you and stayed with you, they promised they would help take care of you, always. It’s what Johnny would have wanted.

The panic finally began to sink in as you could not remember how you got here. Everything was different but also incredibly familiar. This was the base alright, but the layout seemed altered, the paint a different colour. Looking around, you turned on the nightstand light, eyes briefly glancing at the framed photo beside.

It was like your blood turned cold.

There was your Johnny.

That’s your Johnny with his boys, with John, Simon, Kyle. But older, so much older. But he was alive, he was smiling, he’s so handsome and he’s there-

You shot out of bed, running into the hallway, searching for anyone, any familiar face. For your husband. Is he your husband? If he’s older? But how is he alive? Is he still alive?

The questions running around your head, threatening to ignite tears from your eyes. You turn a sharp corner, bumping straight into a hefty figure.

“Sorry” you stumbled out, trying to regain your balance.

“‘S alright.” The man started, looking down at the small, young girl who’s a frantic mess before him.

“Hey, hold on,” he starts again, and you glance up. Coming face to face with John Price. Much older, a thicker beard adorning his face, but that same damn hat. It was him.

“Slow down there a sec and-“

“John?”

The recognition in your voice stops him in his tracks, he looks you over for a couple seconds and shakes his head.

“Think you might be mistaken, love.” He smiles gently, trying to be as polite as possible.

“Johnathon Price- Captain. You, Kyle, Simon and my Johnny were all on Taskforce 141 when we met. You even came to our wedding, you were one of the groomsmen for crying out loud. I-“

“Stop right there.” John orders, his hands coming to grip your shoulders. “How could you possibly know about all that?”

“John, I know you. Now, what’s going on? How did I get here and why’re you older?” You asked, utterly confused and exhausted, you needed answers and you needed them now.

He glanced around the room before making his decision.

“Alright, come with me. We’ve gotta talk.”

-

John sat you down in a private room with a two-way mirror where you told him all about himself, how you woke up here and your marriage. Your Johnny MacTavish, your young husband who went by Soap. Everything, you laid it all on the table, the task force, the mission, the death. Everything.

And John believed you, as crazy as it sounded, from wherever you came from and however you got here- because how else could you know all this?

As he listened, he kept looking to your ring finger, the gold band adorning that you refused to ever take off. He admired your devotion.

John sat, silent when you finished, glancing towards the mirror every now again. Thinking and planning his next move.

“Wait here.” He stood up from his chair and left out the door, leaving you with your own thoughts. But only the same questions were on repeat.

Where am I? What was that photo? Why is he older? Is he still alive? Does he know who I am? Would he think I’m crazy? What now?

You almost didn’t register the sound of Price opening the door again until his figure reappeared. He could only stare at you, empathy in his eyes. Although this was a weird situation, he could tell you were genuine and wanted to help, so he trusted you. Anything for his boys, Johnny included.

“He’s been listening.” John starts and you draw in a breath.. You didn’t even know you were holding it.

He? As in your Johnny?

“He would like to meet you, if you’d like to see him-“

“Yes.” You reply without thinking.

Eager for anything, anything at all that could bring you a glimpse Johnny. The love of your life taken so young, life was so cruel and unfair. Taking him just as you were happiest. He was alive but was this still your Johnny? From the photo he was older, he’s different. He probably doesn’t even know who you are, for all you know he could be married, have his own kids. Who the hell are you to interrupt all of that?

“Then I’ll take my leave.” John huffs, interrupting your thoughts. He eyes you up and down one last time before exiting once again.

You sit up from your chair instinctively, playing with your ring. It’s only now that the doubt hits you like a truck.

Would he believe you? Would he laugh you off? Would he even like what he sees?

The thoughts raced until he opened up the door, reveling himself to you. Then you could only stare in shock.

That was your Johnny.

Older, yes. But that was him. Banged up with more scars, he looks tired yet wears his age well, you just wish you could’ve seen him grow older alongside you… But that’s your Johnny alright.

His eyes drag from the floor to meet yours and he offers you a small smile. It’s enough to shoot the air back into your lungs and for your heart to beat again. The tears starts to leave your eyes and your hands shoot up to wipe them away.

Johnny takes a good look at you and particularly that golden wedding band that he supposedly gave you. It’s still always been his dream to marry a girl like you, in some odd way he feels proud that in another life he got you. A gorgeous, caring and devoted wife that he could love up and spoil. Johnny knows himself and in any life, he would do the same: wife up a woman like you. Looks like he did. Looks like he still could.

“I ‘eard what ye said.” He softly speaks. You close your eyes at the sound. It feels so good to hear him again. A little different, but it’s still him.

“Bonnie, ye don’t have to cry.”

He steps forward to cup your face, wiping your tears away with his fingers. You place your own hands over his, keeping him there. Having him touch you again, it’s better than anything you could have ever prayed for. This is all you think about and to finally have it all come true. Even if it’s just for a second, you’d trade it all away.

“My wife, eh?” Johnny jokes to try and lighten the mood. You look up into his eyes and laugh with a smile despite the tears still leaking. He doesn’t mind, he wipes them still anyway.

“It’s so good to see you again.” You confess, a hand leaving his to touch his scarred face. From his cheeks, a thumb over his chin and his lips. He’s so hard to look away from, how handsome he grew up to be. His gaze and attention makes you bite your lip out of habit. A blush flooding your cheeks- he still has the same effect on you. Damn.

The feeling goes straight to your core, and you react before you can think. Bringing your face to his, foreheads resting against each others while your hands explore his back and shoulders, his neck and through his hair. Something he used to love, and it makes you whine a little when he moans at the feeling. He loves your touch just as much.

“Lass, yer doin’ somethin’ wild to me.” Johnny stumbles out, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you in until you’re flush with his body. He feels so good, so toned under his clothes and solid. You didn’t want him to stop, your mind starting to spin.

He runs his hands up your sides, gliding your shirt up to touch the bare skin underneath. The slightest touch has you moaning his name out and he can’t help but swell with pride as he sees this gorgeous, young girl before him come apart, desperate for more of him. His ego has never felt so big until this moment.

“Johnny…”

“What do y’a need?” He mumbles out against your lips, brushing them with just enough touch to set your skin on fire, begging for more.

“Kiss me.” You lean further into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. It’s all too much, and yet you want more. God, you knew that if he were to take you right here in this room, you’d come undone within a minute. Easily. Happily.

“Please.”

“Well- what the wife wants, the wife gets.” He chuckles as he clashes his lips to yours, his large frame utterly engulfing your small one. The way he uses your title so easily, wife- you can’t help but need more of him everywhere, all over like a wife deserves from her husband. Your own hands itching for more of him to touch, your mouths moving together, tongues finding each other as he hums against you.

Johnny guides you and gently backs you up against the wall, a hand protecting your head as your body meets it. You try to pull him even closer to you, grabbing at his clothes when you realize you need him completely bare. It’s been so long since you’ve felt good, only ever wanting your husband. And now here he is just for you. You wonder if he’s even better now with his age... Hard to tell without a test drive.

But it’s only when you need to part for air that some of reality comes back to you.

Guilt.

“Wait, Johnny.” The alarm bells go off in his head and he looks at you worriedly.

“What’s wrong?” Seeing his eyebrows crease you immediately try to calm him. Another kiss to his lips and he eases up a bit. Just like he used to.

“I need to know. Do you- do you already have someone? A wife?”

Your nerves hit once more. He could still have someone in this universe or wherever you are. And even like this, you couldn’t be that woman that ruins a marriage. Even if he does feel rightfully yours.

Johnny smiles a bit at the question before glancing downward, almost as if he’s shy or embarrassed.

“Nay, never did.” He starts before taking your cheeks back into his hands, looking into your eyes.

“Just you.”

The biggest smile breaks out on your face, your hands tugging at his shirt to bring his lips back down to yours. He feels good, warm, right. Yours. Still yours. Always yours.

“I know I’m a little young, but that doesn’t bother you, does it?” You ask with a slight smirk against his lips.

Johnny just laughs, his hands working their way down your body to cup your ass almost possessively.

“Certainly not.” His eyes looking all over your face, taking you all in. Gods, you’re gorgeous and all his? He could still hardly believe it, but he’ll be damned if he didn’t at least get to know you and try to make it all work with you. He owes that much to himself.

“Does it bother you?”

“Hmm? You being older?” You ask innocently.

Johnny only nods, still admiring your beautiful face, his girl.

You shake your head no, not daring to look away from his gaze.

“I think it’s sexy, Sergeant John MacTavish.” You quip teasingly.

A groan escapes his lips, his pants straining against him almost painfully at this point. He needed you now or he might combust.

“This room or mine?” Johnny whispers, bringing his knee in between your legs and his mouth to your ear.

“And it’s Captain now, bonnie. Make a decision or I’ll make one for ya. Put on a show.” He glances to the two-way mirror and a nervous giggle leaves your lips.

Your husband most certainly would do such a thing.

-

Johnny was sure to make you use his proper title as he properly had you in bed, as well as used yours.

And with your volume and his reach, everyone on the base now knew he had a wife.

Things were complicated, sure, but you two would figure it out. He knew you both wanted to give it a try and were both willing despite it all.

And after a few weeks, he decides that all there’s left to do is buy a ring of his own that’ll match yours.

[the-ancient-dragons]

Feast your eyes upon this Overcomplicated MudWing! (Or as it's known in my computer files, MudWung)

You know the drill. Joy Ang and Tui are awesome and don't need me touching their stuff, but I was curious and did it anyway!

Details and explanation below.

Otherwise, next week are SandWings! See you then!

More overcomplicated dragons.

I was, obviously, highly inspired by crocodiles. I hope it's readable. I tried to emulate their colours, patterns, and awesome toothy grins. I wanted the MudWing to be slightly scary to look at. Imagine trying to travel through the swamp at night only to realize you're not standing on a log, and instead a sleeping dragon... Yikes!

Speaking of logs, I attempted to carve their horns into something vaguely branch-like. If real crocodiles try to look like floating logs, I figured a MudWing's horns poking out of the mud/water would benefit from this disguise as well. I suppose their spines could have this alteration as well, but I felt that would stray too far and they might be hidden anyway. I actually had a previous version where the horns were longer and more blunt like broken/rotting branches, but decided it didn't look right and instead blended them into the usual curved tip.

When I get into exploring the full-body skeleton and musculature, I'll include the process and behind-the-scenes for some of the tribes. Hopefully you'll like it!

[reidology13]

we don't talk about it

Spencer Reid x fem victim!reader

cw: fluff, angst, attempted murder, drug use, drug addiction, hospitals, badly written withdrawal, bad parenting mention, gambling mention, set around season 4, that's it I think wc: 2.6k a/n: this is the first part of a fairly short series I have planned for the next while, hope you enjoy!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You registered the blood before you felt the pain. The beat of the music pumped the blood through your veins, sweat hanging in the air alongside the cloying scent of perfume.

You popped a pill into your mouth, unsure what it was or where it had come from, stumbling over to the bar for a shot of vodka to wash it down. You’d just made it to the bar when a man shoved past you, hitting you roughly in the torso. You could tell something was off by the way that the pressure lingered after he had walked away. Your hand reached for the feeling, trying to figure out what was causing it, and found an odd, slightly sticky liquid soaking your dress.

You cringed, pulling your hand back to look at it, expecting to see nothing, the clear remnants of a sugary cocktail spilt on your dress. Instead, you were faced with a darkness painting your palms, and even then it took you a moment to realise what it was, the coloured lights altering its appearance. When you did recognise it, the pain still lagged, and you wondered if the plethora of drugs in your system were acting as an anaesthetic. 

You stumbled outside, growing lightheaded from the blood loss, holding your hand over the wound to stifle the seemingly endless stream of blood that flowed between your fingers. You flipped open your phone, about to call 911, when, finally, the pain hit. Something between the blood loss, the drugs, and the excruciating pain you were in sent your head spinning towards the ground, and the last thing you remembered before you passed out was the thought that you were never going to wake up.

.*☆¸•

You did, however, and when you regained consciousness, you were lying down in a hospital bed, the sharp, sanitised smell instantly recognisable. You had spent enough early mornings recovering from exceptionally dangerous highs to know your way around most of the hospitals in the Upper East Side with your eyes closed. Which, at the time, they were. When you did open them, you regretted it immediately, squinting against the blinding whiteness of the room in an attempt to see your surroundings. There was someone sitting next to your bed, a blurry figure that you were sure you had never seen before. You blinked repeatedly until your vision cleared slightly, and you were faced with a greasy mop of hair, underneath which might have been a man.

“You’re awake.” He sounded too relieved to be a stranger, and you momentarily questioned if you were suffering from amnesia. Then you saw the badge attached to his belt, which made a lot more sense as a reason to be invested in your wellbeing.

“What happened?” You rubbed at your eyes with a shaking hand, trying to ward off the headache that was already forming in the harsh light. You were surprised by how fine you felt, given the fact that your most recent memory was of being covered in blood. 

“Well, you were stabbed two days ago by a serial killer. You’re lucky, he’d been shooting his victims until now. He needed to be closer to his victims, and he made a mistake.” The man leaned towards you, his features growing clearer with proximity.

“Oh. Who are you?” You weren't quite prepared to process just how close to death you had really been just yet. Changing the topic seemed to be the only way to postpone the impending interview that would force you to face it.

“Doctor Spencer Reid, I’m with the FBI.” The way his voice went up as he spoke was a little bit annoying, and wasn’t doing anything to help the steady throbbing in your skull. Scratch your original plan of postponing the serious talk, you wanted to get everything over and done with as fast as possible so that you could get some rest.

“Well, I didn’t really notice at first, he knocked into me. I didn’t feel any pain ‘cause, fuck-” You groaned, a painful shiver running down your spine.

“Yes, they found GHB, cocaine, methamphetamines, and alcohol in your system. That pain you're feeling right now is withdrawal, something I’m guessing you haven’t felt before.” Despite his words, his voice carried none of the sympathy or disgust you would have suspected from someone like him. It didn’t feel like a judgement, but an acknowledgement of how hard it was: it was understanding.

“That… that makes sense.” Your thoughts were foggy, stopping just before they were fully formed, leaving incomplete puzzles with a single piece missing, words without any vowels. Enough that everything you said or felt was left wanting.

“Since you’re the only person so far to survive him, you’re the best witness we have. You’re also the most at risk.” He paused, and you took the chance to butt in, asking the question that seemed the most pertinent before you could forget it.

“What do you mean, ‘at risk’?” You grumbled, the roughness of your voice doing its best to cover up the genuine curiosity in your tone. This was a negotiation, no matter what he said, and you knew negotiations. If your father had taught you one good thing, it was that you never showed anyone your hand. Technically, at the time that hadn’t been metaphorical, he had been teaching you how to play poker at the ripe age of six.

“There’s a fairly significant chance that he’ll come back, try and finish the job. If he finds out you’re still alive, that is.” He said it like it wasn’t anything at all, like it wasn’t the most terrifying thing you had ever been told, just common sense. To him, you supposed it was.

“He’s going to try and kill me again?” There went keeping your cards to your chest. Whose voice was going up now, huh? To be fair, he hadn’t just been told that he was the target of a serial killer who had just landed him in the hospital by stabbing him.

“If you’re willing to do exactly what I say, then no.” His tone had gained a seriousness that it had been lacking before, and maybe that was what had been annoying you, because it was suddenly mostly bearable.

“And so, your plan is for us to…” You trailed off, painfully aware of your loss of footing in the conversation. Again, only one of you was coming down from a high while also healing from a stab wound, and you felt that it was deeply unfair of him to use your circumstances to his advantage.

“You and I would stay in an FBI safe house, working on the case and reporting any breakthroughs back to my team until they find and arrest him.”

“Safe house?” You baulked, “Like, stuck inside with you all of the time, no going out, no fun? That kind of safe house?” The thought of it sent a shiver of anxiety and apprehension through you. For one, you didn’t know this man, and you would be locked in a small space with him for who knew how long, you could only imagine all of the gross habits he had. He probably didn’t wash his hands after going to the toilet.

To be completely fair, you had snorted coke off of a public toilet roll holder before, so you couldn’t really judge him when it came to hygiene. That brought you to your second problem with the propositioned arrangement: any time spent in the safe house was time where you would be fully, stone-cold, sober. It wasn’t a feeling you were particularly accustomed with, nor was it one you wanted to be.

“If by ‘fun,’ you mean what I think you mean, then yes. Personally, I’m sure that we, if you agree to help, will have plenty of fun while we’re there. More importantly, I’m sure we will solve the case.” He spoke like he was trying to sell you something, like you really had a choice at all in the matter. Death or time in a house with some guy. The answer was pretty straight forward.

“Okay, fine, I’ll be your witness.” You conceded, hoping that your agreement would be enough to make him go away for a while. If you were going to spend the next however long with him, you would like to take the short span of time you had as a free woman and keep it to yourself.

He did, standing up and silently leaving the room, as well as you to your own thoughts. You hoped that they would report you as dead on the news, that they wouldn’t tell your parents what was going on. A little bit because you wanted to scare them, make them care about you for a moment. Mostly because it sounded fucking hilarious.

.*☆¸•

You didn’t have to wait long for your answer, depending on what we’re going to consider a long period of time. It was only a few days that you spent in the hospital, but they were painful, and to be completely honest, fucking terrifying. It was like a four day fever, but with added muscle spasms, constant paranoia, and anxiety unlike anything you’d ever felt before. No matter how stretched out those days felt, the moment the time came to leave, it felt as though you’d only been given a few minutes to prepare yourself mentally. Spencer walked into your room on the third day, bringing with him two other people, one was a man you had never seen before, while the other was a woman you’d seen outside your room on your first day at the hospital. Well, technically, your third. Spencer introduced you, although you were sure they both already knew your name, and probably all of your darkest secrets. Then he turned back to you, gesturing to the duo as he introduced them.

“This is Aaron Hotchner and Jennifer Jareau. They’ll be our point of contact while we work on your case.” Aaron nodded simply, and Jennifer offered a wave alongside a short greeting.

“Hi.” You waved back weakly, your arm aching with the movement. Jennifer gave you a kind, if not slightly pitying, smile as you dropped your arm with a wince. She seemed nice, but you were glad that it wasn’t her you were sharing the safe house with.

“Call me JJ, I’m the media liaison with the BAU, so I’ll be in charge of keeping the media from endangering you by reporting your survival.” She took a few steps forward, standing directly in front of you, and you could tell she was expecting you to ask questions. Luckily for her, you actually had one.

“What will my parents get told?” You tried not to sound too anxious for an answer, knowing that she would assume you wanted them told the truth of your circumstances.

“Due to the fact that you're not a minor, we have no legal reason to tell them. So unless there are any extenuating circumstances we’re unaware of, they will be told that you are dead. I know that might be hard for-” You cut her off before she could continue to believe that either party cared about the situation.

“Good, I don’t want them to know.” You spoke bluntly, a clear statement, leaving no room for questions or misunderstandings. JJ stepped back, taking your words as her sign to leave.

The man didn’t speak, simply standing beside Spencer as the number of people in the room dropped from four to three. There was silence for a while, none of you willing to speak and break it. Eventually, Spencer must have decided it had been long enough, clearing his throat in that pointed way people think is subtle, and glanced over at the man – Agent Hotchner, you reminded yourself. 

“We’ll check in on you via phone calls regularly, so that you can update us on the case and tell us what you need delivered to the safe house.” Spencer had already told you that, but you didn’t say anything, just nodding and thanking him, “Please write down a list of things you want to be moved to the safe house from your apartment.” He handed you a notepad, along with a pencil, and you wrote down all of the basics you could think of, as well as a few less necessary items—well, that depends on the definition of ‘necessary’ we’re using, you value your sanity—including makeup, your violin, books, and a few other hobbies. You gave him the notepad back, before grabbing it again, scribbling down to include your iPod and your headphones. He looked over it, nodded, and walked out of the room without another word. You liked him.

When it was just Spencer and you left in the room, he came and sat on the edge of the bed, smiling at you softly.

“How are you? You look a bit better than you have for the past few days.” He was being ridiculously nice and understanding, just like he had been since you’d woken up in the hospital. It made you feel even more guilty for yelling at him the day before when he had come into your room and asked how you were doing. You’d thought it was pretty obvious that the answer was ‘not good’ and made sure to tell him just that, in probably the meanest way possible.

“Yeah, I feel better.” You gave him your weak attempt at a grin, accompanied by a small wince because your whole body ached, that muscle deep ache that sinks its claws into your soul just to ruin your day.

“Good.” He smiled, tight-lipped and stilted, the kind that never appeared on a red carpet or magazine cover, but now that you’d seen it, you decided it definitely needed to.

“When are we going to the safe house?” You kept your eyes on him, waiting for an answer as you pushed yourself up in the bed, sitting with a soft grunt. 

“It should be fully set up by now.” He tapped his fingers against the paper thin sheets as he spoke, the constant movement slightly distracting. “Hopefully we’ll be able to go tomorrow after your personal items are moved in.”

“Perfect, this hospital is so not hot.”

“They do have a very good air conditioning system.” You tried—and miserably failed—to hold back a very ungraceful laugh at his words, deciding quite quickly that this was going to be an entertaining few weeks, if nothing else.

“That’s not what I meant.” You winced at the soft pain that reverberated through you alongside your laughter.

“Oh, um, what did you mean?” He was completely oblivious, and seemed rather embarrassed about the fact, you couldn’t help but attempt to comfort him.

“It means, like, something is bad. ‘Hot’ means it’s cool.” You figured any mentions of Paris Hilton would only further confuse him, given how pop culture blind he clearly was.

“Um, okay.” He gave you that awkward smile, waving as he stumbled towards the exit of the room. He looked like he was fairly used to not being in the know, and like that was something he was judged for fairly frequently. You felt a little bad, but more than anything you wanted to be alone, the headache from the previous days creeping back in. So you settled for just being as nice to him as you could, and letting him leave.

“See you tomorrow?” You smiled softly at the sweet face he made, halting on his way out the door to speak again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“See you.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

tysm for reading!!

Tags: @reidmoony-toast - Comment to be added <3

[obriengf]

yeah this got 18+ real quick - smut warning!

imagine MITCH RAPP during a time when he is allowed peace; a life away from correcting the world of its crimes, waking up in the same bed every day with the absence of worry, contentment riddled so deep in his bones that he can draw a deep breath and finally feel tranquillity. he can sit in his designated armchair each morning, drinking his stupid imported coffee from the ugly mug you got him last christmas. he can sit at the dining table, across from you, sharing a meal and discussing your days, every day. he can lead a life with a promised future, and not one where he was unsure whether he'd make it out alive. just imagine it.

now, imagine him feeling so settled and fulfilled in his life, that he kneels down on one knee. he knows that there is that promised future, and those lazy sunday mornings, and more christmases with more ugly mugs. he knows that you'll crawl on his lap as he sat in that armchair, snuggled up watching movies into the darkness of the night. he knows that you will make him meals, and he would make you some too, before you share them across the table for the rest of your lives. mitch on his knee, a ring held so carefully between his fingers as they slightly shook. he had hope filling his beautiful brown eyes - a golden tone to match the colour of the band. he had felt loss so strongly in his past that it provoked him to be an empty shell. until he met you, until he learnt to love you unconditionally. and you love him too, despite his demons.

"it would be the greatest honour to have you by my side for the rest of our lives. i love you so fucking much. marry me."

to which you would reply with a teary, "of course."

imagine that months had passed. and that the love only grew stronger. imagine standing at the end of the alter with him, as he insisted that he held your hands throughout the entire ceremony, even through his vowels, which he had been memorising for months. his eyes unable to leave yours for a mere second as he stood mesmerised by your beauty on this special day. mitch would feel so lucky that he could call you his forever. flash forward to your first dance, and you both have two left feet. it was a mess, so you stuck to rocking side-to-side, giggling like school kids, impressed when he managed to twirl and dip you without fail. you both decided to feed each other your first slice of wedding cake, but you got his nose instead. on purpose. he knew that it was coming, call it assassin instincts. but he could only laugh before smashing his lips against yours, frosting decorating your cheeks in utter joviality.

now imagine a few hours later, and mitch had you pressing hands and knees into the mattress of your hotel room. your stature was wobbly, his fault, of course, after he priorly had his head between your thighs for what felt like forever. and he ate you out so fucking good, too. his blunted nails leaving crescent marks embedded in the flesh of your thighs, your hips, your stomach. the tip of his nose was dragging over your clit with such force as he tried to bury his tongue so deep inside your cunt. relishing in how you'd constrict around the muscle. and the moans that'd draw from your lips was a fucking symphony if he'd ever heard one. his lips sucked and swallowed as you writhed and panted. you were so close that you could reach out to the stars and touch them as they dizzied your view. but he stopped abruptly. teasing you. and mitch couldn't hold back the smirk that had tugged at his sopping glistening lips as you protested.

he was aiming for an orgasm that would take you to the edge and over. mitch was grasping your hips, pulling you back to him when you started to buckle and lose your strength. skin on skin slapping, reverberating off the four walls. your ass was red from his large hands as they fondled and slapped, only to be soothed by gentle rubs from calloused fingers. you were painted on different marks as your body filled with sensation, as mitch admired them proudly as his eyes lazily dragged down from your purple splotchy neck. your head dropped to the side as your cheek grazed the bedsheet, his name slipping past your lips like a prayer, begging for him. you were close, again.

mitch had a soft side, as you learnt quickly after meeting him. he was generous and sweet. incredibly kind-hearted when he wanted to be. which is why he treated you with such fragility as he slowed his thrusts, the plummeting now nothing but an idle wait. as much as it hurt his throbbing cock, he pulled out from you and wrapped his arms under your frame, gentle as he turned you over. with your back now pressed to the bed, mitch kissed over your eyes as they remained closed, still floating in your upcoming orgasm. waiting.

"let me see you, baby. open 'em for me." his voice was soothing but you still whined, lost in euphoria. mitch chuckled, his breath heavy before his lips kissed over your own, "i want to see your face when you cum for the first time as mrs rapp..."

tears brimmed your waterline but you had never smiled so wide as when you saw the love that exuded from this man, before he was lining himself up again. the tip of his cock tapped against your clit as you cried, pushing yourself up to indicate that you needed him. as your walls incased him completely, mitch's body lowered, his chest sweaty as it stuck against yours, one hand tangled in your own as the other braced itself, white-knuckled, beside your head. his hips drove deep into your core. tapping your inner walls, and you continued to cry out his name as he attempted to soothe you with sloppy bruising kisses on your collarbone, and up toward your ear. you were so tight. it felt dangerous, daring, the way you were squeezing and milking this man for everything he had. and yet he was so utterly addicted to you.

the moment before the release was always one that he cherished. the adrenaline rush was one unmatched, how you both reeked with desperation, how sighs and pants and moans grew louder and louder. the way you would beg one another for more, the 'pleases' and 'thank yous' mixed among the cussing and chanting of 'fuck fuck fuck' over and over again until the explosion. he loved these moments. but when you came? the second you arched so high off the bed that he used all his force to hold you down? when he came himself the second you pulled at his hair in absolute pleasure?

that was his crowning glory moment.

that's when mitch rapp knew that he finally found peace.

[grimm-writings]

I really like how you write. Can I have some Tall-man Chilchuck crumbs?🙏

don’t see, don’t think

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, reader is having a crisis, reader’s race and race change is left ambiguous (but implied to NOT be a half foot)

…wc! 571

…notes! JUST IN TIME BEFORE THE EPISODE ITSELF GRAGGGGHH!!!! apologies for the wait anon!!! enjoy your crumbs

Don’t see it, don’t think it, don’t see it, don’t think it, don’t see it—

“Why are you staring at the wall?”

The deeper voice is so unfamiliar that it leaves you nearly leaping into the air like a cat.  You know it to be Chilchuck, and yet you can’t bring yourself to turn away from said wall you were fixating your eyes on.

“...Just coming to terms with this new form is all,” you awkwardly excuse yourself.  More like you’re trying to come to terms with Chilchuck’s new form.

You were close with the lockpick, more than you were with anyone else in the party.  Never in your life did you really come to think of Chilchuck as attractive.  Maybe it’s the difference in race?

Those damn changelings, if it weren’t for this new perspective on the man you would have been fine.  You wouldn’t find yourself thinking about how he has a stubble, slightly darker than his reddish-brown hair.  You wouldn’t notice the fact he’s definitely taller than Laios was as a tall man.  You wouldn’t be melting at how his voice altered, and you absolutely wouldn’t be trying your best not to be a complete mess around him.

Chilchuck doesn’t seem to notice, though.  At least with this sudden change, his senses dulled.  So seems to be the case with how observant he is.  “Figures,” he sighs, folding his arms.  “It’s definitely a lot to get used to.”

As his sentence draws close to a murmur, Chilchuck’s voice lowers a bit more in pitch.  You had to stop yourself from facing the wall and banging your head against it.

Good God, why did this have to happen to you?!

“Mhm!” You agree with a hum.  If you don’t open your mouth, there isn’t a way for you to say something you’ll regret.

That doesn’t stop Chilchuck from going, “hey,” and you find that he’s adjusting your bodies around in a way that you can be eye level, face to face with one another.

Don’t see it, don’t think it, don’t see it, don’t think it, don’t see it— 

His eyes are still that familiar colour, a dark brown with a slight shine to them.  The lines underneath them crease as he sends you a fond smile.

“Don’t let this freak you out too much, yeah?”  Chilchuck reassures you, but you’re hardly listening as you note now at the short distance he has a dimple on his chin.  How cute.  “We’ll find some way to get rid of the, uh, ailment, ok?”

He laughs a little at his own choice of words, and you try to do so too.  It comes out awkward and forced, but Chilchuck just gives your shoulder a squeeze to show that it’s alright.

He walks ahead, leaving you at your wit’s end.  This truly is the death of you.

Izutsumi doggedly (quite literally) reaches your side, if only to give you a judgemental sidelong glance.

“Didn’t think you’d have a thing for rugged guys you’d usually find in a back alley.”

You turn around and wrap your hands around Izutsumi’s snout, keeping her mouth shut as she flails in anger.  This definitely needed to be fixed soon, and quickly too, lest you lose your senses entirely.

Trying not to look at Chilchuck definitely isn’t doing you any favours anymore either; his face is etched into your mind permanently (and will be for days after.)

[dixons-sunshine]

Bloody | Vamp!Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, sexual content, blood, accidental injuries.

A/N: Requested by @holdmytesseract. For week two of @lazyneonrabbitt’s Halloween challenge.

With a carefully practiced precession to ensure that he did not accidentally hurt you with his inhuman strength, Daryl lowered you onto the bed in your shared room, his lips never leaving yours. His hands clutched the hem of your shirt in a manner that bordered on desperate. The man’s usually slow beating heart beat faster than normal under the palm of your hand that rested on his chest, and his skin was flushed with a heat that far surpassed his usual body heat, which was slightly colder than the average person’s, but not entirely cold to the touch.

It was clear that your current predicament had begun to alter your partner’s mind, his movements turning more frantic, more fast-paced. Instead of merely removing the shirt over your head, he ripped it to shreds instead, his hands finally being able to feel the smoothness of your soft skin. The feeling of your flesh against his hands, paired with the delectably overwhelming smell of your amazing scent had his mind drifting off into the ether. So much so that he failed to notice his accidental slip up until a drop of blood found its way into his mouth.

The moment the taste of the delicious crimson he relied on for his survival infiltrated his senses, his eyes shot open and he instantly pulled himself away from you, scrambling off of the bed to put some distance between you both. He furiously wiped at his mouth, a futile attempt to rid himself of the mouthwatering taste of your blood. It was not been the first time that he had tasted your blood, but it was the first time where he had lost control of himself to the point where he accidentally hurt you like that.

“Dar, what’s wrong?” you asked him, still breathless from your mind altering make out session with your partner, moving yourself to sit up on the bed.

The sound of your angelic voice snapped Daryl out of his thoughts. His ocean-coloured eyes—now painted with specks of red in them—peered at you from behind his hair. His breathing was ragged, both from your prior activities and the fact that he was attempting to hold himself at bay and control his slowly growing hunger.

“Fuck. M’so goddamn sorry, Sweetheart,” Daryl apologized to you, his eyes showing sincere remorse at the accident. He had not realized that his fangs had elongated. That was the reason your lip had been nicked, and was now bleeding. Because of him. “I swear, I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’d never take yer blood without yer permission. M’not like that.”

You were confused at his words. However, when you brought your hand up to your lip, you winced as your finger made contact with your busted lip, and you knew what he was talking about. And you did not blame him in the slightest. If anything, the minor accident kind of turned you on even more. Daryl’s fangs only ever made an appearance during sex when he was getting drunk on your scent. More often than not, he would lightly scrape his fangs over your body as he went down, but never hard enough to leave an injury.

This was the first time that had happened.

After a moment of silence, you let out a small giggle, confusing Daryl entirely. “What?” he inquired gruffly.

You shook your head, your laugh dying down into a small smile. “Nothing. You’re just so adorable.” Before he could protest, you stood up from the bed, shaking off the last remnants of your destroyed shirt, and walked over to him. You looped your arms around his neck and pressed your body against his, your lower half making contact with his hard erection. You successfully elicited a small groan from him, making you smirk slightly.

“You have nothing to apologize for. It was an accident. I didn’t even realize it happened until you pointed it out.” You leaned forward to whisper in his ear, your tone low and seductive. “Besides, you know I don’t mind if you take some of my blood. I was gonna suggest you do that, anyway. But not on my lip. I was gonna say somewhere more…” You took one of his hands in yours and guided it down, letting it hover right above the clothed skin of your cunt. “...enjoyable for us both.”

Your words barely had time to sit in the air. You were hoisted off of your feet and practically flung back onto the bed. A light laugh escaped your chest, and you smiled at the sight of Daryl clambering back to hover over you, his hands clumsily but eagerly working to free you of your jeans.

When you were left in nothing but your bra, Daryl moved up to slant his mouth across yours for a gentle kiss. His tongue swiped over your bottom lip a few times, his spit coating your mouth. When he was satisfied, he pulled back and stared down at you, a small, lopsided smile on his face.

“S’gon’ make sure yer lip heals faster,” he explained, although it was unnecessary. You were well aware of the healing attributes his saliva held.

“Daryl, please stop worrying about a small cut on my lip and just fuck me already.”

Daryl chuckled at your impatient tone. He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling away again. “Yes, ma’am.”

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Rise August: Couch Potato

Alt version with my own style-ish design changes for the characters

I've seen a few artists do their own iterations of TMNT so I guess this would be mine? My iteration based off the Rise designs? I suppose?? Idk I do too much stuff anyway so let's move on — but I did draw this version first and then got too in my head about whether or not people would like it so I uh redrew it because I'm a coward so here's the secret version:

I made Splinter have a more similar colour scheme to the 2012 Splinter, a brown rat with some pale marks and stubble on his face and tail.

The boys have slightly altered green tones — slightly darker shades than usual. They all also have facial marks, and I gave Raph his own birthmarks!! Their shell designs and stuff have simplified, no outlines, just solid colour (same with Leo's banana marks).

Raph is probably the biggest change — he has birthmarks, extra spiky scales, and tons of red in his skin!

I put in my own art style bits for this as well: I try to draw Rise as close to the actual style as I can, but for this I wanted to go for more of my style traits. The knees have swirls and the limbs are a bit more loose. There's some more detail and strands in the hair for Splinter. Raph's toes are claw-like. The boys' hands are rounded out, a lil' pudgy. I prefer drawing rounder edges, so I included a lot of those. I also (on occasion) do this style thing with my lineart where I add some shades and tones to it so it has multicolour... things? I dunno what to call it, but it looks dope as heck. Only issue with the art choice is it takes a while to draw so I don't do it a lot, only for special art pieces (like this one)!

@sariphantom

[badathumanemotions]

Feelings of Ecstasy

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Master List Category: Smut CW: Spiked Drinks, Sex Pollen, DubCon, Drugged Sex, Vaginal Sex, Sort of Dominate Spencer, Breeding Kink WC:2,195 Summery: Spencer and reader go out for a drink after work. Their drinks are spiked with a sex pollen like drug. (Not Proof Read) You know what, Spence?" Y/N said, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a tired smile, "I think we've earned this." She held up two cold beer bottles, the condensation beading like tiny diamonds in the neon light of the bar.

Spencer chuckled, his eyes lighting up with a hint of relief. "Agreed, Y/N," he said, taking the bottle she offered. "Cheers to another successful case."

Their clinking bottles echoed through the bustling bar, mingling with the chatter of the patrons and the jukebox playing an old rock song in the corner. The scent of stale beer and faint whiff of greasy food filled the air, but to them, it was the sweet smell of victory and a well-deserved break. They were off the clock, and the weight of their jobs at the BAU had been temporarily lifted.

In the midst of their celebration, a sudden crash jolted them out of their conversation. A group of rowdy patrons had knocked over a chair, sending it skidding across the sticky floor. The commotion drew their eyes, and in that split second, an unseen hand reached out from the shadows. It was swift, almost ghostly in its precision, and by the time their gazes returned to their drinks, their beers had been adulterated with a clear, odourless liquid.

Y/N took a sip of her beer, unaware of the potent concoction now swirling within it. The first few moments were unchanged—the cool, bitter taste of the ale sliding down her throat, the bubbles tickling her nose. But then, it hit her—a warm, tingling sensation that spread from her fingertips to her toes. She looked at Spencer, his cheeks slightly flushed, and realized he was feeling it too.

"Do you feel… strange?" she asked, setting her bottle down with a shaky hand. Spencer nodded, his gaze unfocused. "Yeah, I… I don't know what's happening."

Within minutes, the bar swirled around them like a kaleidoscope, the colors bleeding into one another, the faces of the patrons distorting into a blur of smiles. The music grew louder, the lights brighter, until the only clear thought was escape. They stumbled out, the cool night air slapping them in the face, sobering them just enough to realize they needed to get away from the there.

Somehow, through the fog of their minds, they managed to make it to Y/N's apartment. The journey was a series of disjointed moments—a cab ride, Spencer fumbling with his wallet, the sound of her keys jingling in the lock.

Inside, the safety of the familiar surroundings did little to abate the confusion. Spencer's thoughts swam in a haze of doubt and need, his instincts telling him that he should be concerned about their compromised drinks, but the drug whispered seductively, pushing those worries aside. The room was a whirlwind of sensation—colours more vivid than ever, the fabric of the couch feeling like the softest velvet under their fingertips, the scent of Y/N's perfume intoxicatingly potent.

Spencer's body felt hot, his heart racing in his chest. He looked up at Y/N, her eyes meeting his with a sudden intensity that made him feel like he was drowning. The fire grew stronger, and with it, an overwhelming need to touch her, to claim her in a way that was both primal and utterly consuming.

Y/N's cheeks flushed, her breaths shallow. She licked her lips, and Spencer could see the desire reflected in her gaze. The atmosphere in the room shifted, charged with something neither of them could ignore. They both knew what was happening, but neither spoke of the sex pollen like drug that they had been dosed with. It was as if the very fabric of their reality had been altered, and all that remained was the raw, unbridled lust that now ruled them. Finally able to give in and act on their mutual desire.

He took a step closer to her, and she didn't back away. Instead, she leaned into him, her breasts pressing against his chest. He groaned, his hands instinctively reaching for her hips, pulling her closer. The friction of their clothes was unbearable, the need to feel her bare skin against his own driving him to the brink of madness. He kissed her, hard and deep, his tongue invading her mouth as if he could taste the very essence of her soul.

Their kiss grew more frantic, more desperate. Spencer's hand found its way under her shirt, his rough touch sending electric shocks through her body. Y/N moaned into his mouth, her own hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. They stumbled backward, knocking over a chair in their haste to be closer, to feel more of each other. When they reached the bed, Spencer pushed her down, his hands already working at the fastening of her pants. He needed to be inside her, to feel her warmth enveloping him, to fill her completely with his desire.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as he pushed her legs apart, his gaze never leaving hers. He lowered himself onto her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. The need to have him was like a living thing inside her, demanding to be satiated. She reached down, her hand wrapping around his erection, guiding him to her entrance. He paused for a moment, savouring the anticipation, before plunging into her with a force that made them both gasp.

Their bodies moved together in a dance as old as time itself, driven by the potent pollen that had taken over their senses. Spencer's thrusts grew harder, more demanding, as if he was trying to reach a place deep within her that no one else had ever touched. Y/N's nails dug into his back, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. The world outside the room ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the friction between their bodies, the sounds of their passion filling the space.

Their climax was explosive, a crescendo of pleasure that seemed to shake the very foundation of the building. But even as they rode the waves of their release, the hunger for more didn't abate. Spencer pulled out of her, only to push back in again, his movements relentless. He was going to fill her with his seed, mark her as his own, no matter how much she begged for mercy.

Their moans grew louder, echoing through the room, their bodies slick with sweat. They were lost in a world of pure, unadulterated lust, and neither wanted it to end. Every stroke brought them closer to the edge, only to pull them back, prolonging the sweet agony. It was a battle of wills, a struggle for dominance, and yet, they were both equally enslaved to the desire that consumed them.

The room spun around them, the air thick with the scent of arousal. They were a tangled mess of limbs and passion, each movement a declaration of war against the invisible force that had taken control of their bodies. And as they reached their peak once more, their eyes locked, the intensity of their connection reaching a new level, they both knew that the night was far from over. The sex pollen had only just begun to do its work, and they were both powerless to resist its siren call.

Spencer pulled out, his cock glistening with their combined juices, and rolled Y/N onto her stomach. He grabbed her hips and slammed into her from behind, his hands digging into her flesh as he claimed her with renewed vigor. She screamed his name, her voice hoarse from the moans and pleas that had already spilled from her lips. The bed frame creaked under their weight, a testament to the frenzied pace they had set.

Her pussy tightened around him, squeezing him in a vice-like grip that had him seeing stars. He knew he was close again, his balls tightening with every thrust. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it mercilessly. Y/N's back arched, her body responding to his touch like it was programmed to do so. He could feel her walls fluttering around him, her orgasm building.

He didn't let up, pushing deeper, harder, until she was on the brink. With one final, brutal thrust, he sent her over the edge, her pussy convulsing around him. He roared his release, filling her up with hot spurts of cum, his hips jerking with the force of it. They collapsed onto the bed, their bodies spent, but the lust still pulsing through their veins like a drug.

For a moment, they lay there, panting, trying to catch their breath. But the respite was short-lived. The pollen's grip on them was unrelenting, and soon, their hands were roaming again, their kisses growing more urgent. They had become addicted to the feeling of each other, unable to get enough, as if every touch was a lifeline to sanity in a world gone mad with desire. And as the night grew darker, their cries grew louder, their bodies moving in a symphony of passion that neither of them could ever forget.

Spencer's mind was a haze of need, his thoughts consumed by the single goal of impregnating Y/N. He rolled her onto her back, his eyes burning with a fierce possessiveness. He had to see her stomach swollen with his child, her breasts heavy with milk, her body forever changed by the life they would create together. It was a primal urge that overrode any rational thought, reducing him to his most basic instincts.

He kissed her again, his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth as his hands moved over her curves, memorizing every inch of her. His cock was already hard again, demanding more, eager to fill her once more. He positioned himself between her legs, his eyes never leaving hers as he slid back inside her. The heat of her body was like a brand, searing him with the knowledge that she was his, and always would be.

Her hips bucked up to meet him, her nails scoring his back, urging him deeper. He knew she felt it too, the all-consuming need to be one, to create something new and beautiful together. They moved together, their bodies in perfect sync, their hearts racing in time with the rhythm of their lovemaking. The room was a blur of sweat and heat, the only reality the feeling of skin on skin, the sound of their breaths mingling in the stillness of the night.

And as they reached their climax once more, their eyes locked, Spencer knew that nothing would ever be the same again. They had crossed a line, succumbed to a desire so intense it had stripped them bare of all their defences. He continued to thrust, his seed spilling into her, marking her as his in the most primal way possible. He whispered her name over and over, a mantra that echoed through the room, a declaration of ownership that was as fierce as it was tender.

Their bodies shuddered with the power of their release, the force of it leaving them trembling and gasping. But even as the intensity began to wane, the need didn't. They were trapped in a cycle of passion, driven by the sex pollen that had taken over their senses. They had become slaves to their desires, and there was no escape.

The night stretched on, a never-ending tapestry of pleasure and pain, of love and obsession. They didn't speak of the future, didn't whisper sweet nothings into the darkness. They didn't need to. The bond that had formed between them was stronger than words, stronger than anything they had ever known. And as they lay there, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one, they knew that no matter what the morning brought, they would never be the same again. The pollen had changed them, bound them together in a way that no one else could ever understand.

Spencer brushed the hair from Y/N's face, his eyes filled with a mix of wonder and possession. He wanted to see her grow round with his child, the thought made him hard again, his body responding to the idea of claiming her so completely, so utterly. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that spoke of forever, of a bond that could never be broken.

The pollen had done its work, and now they were truly one. And as the first light of dawn began to creep into the room, they both knew that the night had only just begun. They had so much more to explore, so much more to experience together. The world outside had ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the here and now, the passion that burned between them like an eternal flame. They were bound by lust, by love, by the promise of new life growing within her. And as they drifted off to sleep, their bodies still intertwined, they were already planning for the next round, eager to see if the next time would be the one that made their deepest desires come true.

[hungermakesmonsters]

(It Is) What It Is

Sneak Peek

Plot Summary : When Billy Russo realises that there is a certain class of wealthy clients who refuse to contract with Anvil because of his playboy reputation, he decides to alter their perception of him. You’re just a down on your luck PA, just trying to get by so when Billy offers to pay you to pretend to date him, you can’t refuse. But the last thing you expect is for Billy to pull you into his secret world of lust and debauchery.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R 

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] There will be smutty themes throughout the story. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

A/N : Here's the first little sneak peek at my next Billy fic. I'm going with something slightly different for the reader character this time, so I hope you like what I've got planned. The first chapter will be posted on the 31st of January, and I'll be updating weekly. If you've already asked to be tagged, I'll tag you in the first chapter!

Sneak Peek

“Good morning, Mr Russo,” you said, heading towards his desk. “I’ve got your morning coffee and a couple of bear claws, and Mr Castle is waiting outside for your morning meeting.”

“Thank you,” he said, lingering at the window a moment longer before finally turning towards you. “Can you send Frank in and grab the files I asked you to prepare yesterday?”

“Of course, sir.”

You did as you were asked, sending Mr Castle in while you got the files from your desk. By the time you made it back into Mr Russo’s office, both men were perched on his desk, drinking their coffees and eating bear claws.

“However much he’s payin’ you, it’s not enough,” Mr Castle grinned at you, and that had the forced smile on your lips becoming something far more genuine.

It wasn’t so much that Mr Russo didn’t appreciate what you did for him - you knew that he did - it was more that he wasn’t particularly vocal about it. But you’d heard the horror stories of the PAs who’d come before you, the ones who’d quit mere weeks into working for him. At first you’d feared that it was him, that he was impossible to work for, but you’d quickly figured out that he wasn’t impossible, just... difficult. 

There was a lot of reading between the lines when it came to Billy Russo, and a lot of your time was spent trying to anticipate what he might want or need at any given time; when he was in a bad mood you’d found that food often helped, and frustration was usually mitigated by redirecting him towards smaller, easier to deal with tasks to distract him.

It wasn’t easy but you’d figured him out and, now, things ran pretty smoothly.

“Here you go,” you said, placing the files on his desk beside him. “I took the liberty of colour coding them; the green tabs are the ones most likely to want to engage Anvil’s services based on the research, orange means they could be convinced, and -”

“And what about red?” Mr Russo asked, pulling a file from the bottom of the stack.

The only file with a red tab.

“Red means it’s extremely unlikely that they would choose to offer Anvil a contract and that they’re probably not worth the money and resources that it might take to change their mind,” you explained, trying to sound as clinical as possible.

“And why do you think the Van Der Koy family wouldn’t be interested in contracting with Anvil?” He asked.

Immediately your cheeks started to heat as you tried to find the easiest (read: safest) way to explain it.

The Van Der Koy’s were old money, with dozens of high end resorts, hotels and casinos across North America. They were a literal goldmine for anyone who got to work with them. Landing a security contract with them would be worth millions of dollars, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that that was the file that Mr Russo wanted to concentrate on.

But how were you supposed to tell him that he was the reason the Van Der Koy’s would never work with Anvil?

“Well, the Van Der Koy’s have very old fashioned family values - it’s not about the money, it’s all about appearances and reputation...” you said.

“And what’s wrong with Anvil’s reputation?” Mr Russo prompted.

“It’s not Anvil...” you tried to explain, your voice turning quiet.

“Then what?” He asked, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone.

“Jesus, Bill,” Frank said through a mouthful of pastry. “She’s tryin’ to be polite.”

There was a silence for a few moments before Mr Russo finally seemed to realise what was being said.

“You’re saying that they won’t contract with Anvil because of my reputation?” He asked, and you gave the smallest of nods. “What’s wrong with my reputation?”

“Sir, I really don’t think -”

“You can’t expect her to answer that,” Frank said, speaking at the same time as you.

He looked from you to Mr Castle and back again, as if he really had no clue what you could possibly mean.

“I won’t get angry or blame you,” Mr Russo said. “I just want to know what you know.”

You didn’t want to answer, but you knew that you had to.

“Well, from what I was able to learn, it’s... it’s everything,” you said, unable to even look him in the eye as you explained. “The parties, the women - it sends a certain, uh... message...”

It felt like his gaze was burning into you as you fixed your eyes on his desk and the stack of files.

“What message?” He asked.

“She’s sayin’ the uptight, old money folks don’t like that you’re a fuck-boy who spends all his time with bimbos, Bill,” Mr Castle answered for you. “Now, could you stop makin’ her feel uncomfortable about it and let her do her damned job?”

[ellewritesalright]

Nine Long Years - Part 1

Nikolai Lantsov x Rietveld!reader, Kaz Brekker x sister!Rietveld!reader (platonic)

Masterlist --- Part 2

Synopsis: After watching your brothers die, you found yourself working on the Volkvolny. In the many years since then, you somehow became the queen of Ravka while your brother somehow survived firepox and life in the Barrel, rising through its ranks. In disguise during a diplomatic trip with your husband Nikolai, you meet Kaz Brekker for what you think is the first time, only to find out that he is your long-thought-dead little brother.

Author's Notes: Hi Hello Hi! This is my first time publishing my writings so here goes nothing. I wrote this with the books in mind, though you could still imagine the characters from the show. In my head, this story takes place sometime between Crooked Kingdom and King of Scars. I have much more of this story written including more fluffy Nikolai content than the scraps in this chapter so I will post it if y'all want it (I'm talking about there's-only-one-bed content, mutual-pining-in-silence content, Nikolai being a sophisticated dumbass at times content; it's all great I assure you).

Warnings: Minimal Fluff, Much Angst, Jordie and Kaz's (not really tho) deaths in the past, mentions of panic attacks, mentions of firepox and the Hertzoon con, reader oscillating between super excited and absolutely devastated.

Word Count: 2,800

..........

NINTH YEAR

The Crow Club was a new establishment since you had last walked the streets of the Barrel many years ago. You could remember going past the front of the building on your way to the exchange, but you couldn't recall it being anything but vacant. Back then there were no tourists and gamblers crawling about the place like there were now. It was just as empty as the coffee shop where a dreadful man conned you and your brothers.

You tapped your fingers against the table. In your glass of kvas, you could see your false reflection. This voyage aboard the Volkvolny was the first time your face was tailored to appear unlike your own. At first, Tolya did not make the drastic differences that he employed with your husband; he made more subtle differences with you. Shifts in the eyebrows and the cheekbones, the reshaping of your jaw. Nikolai hadn't been convinced that you looked different enough to be safe, though, so the colour of your eyes and hair were changed and your nose was just slightly offset for extra measure.

Nikolai was staring at you now with the green eyes of Sturmhond. His appearance as the privateer did not make you uneasy, not in the way you assumed your altered appearance was making him, and you smiled as he squeezed your knee beneath the table.

You had met him first as Sturmhond, so you were used to the red hair and crooked nose. After many months at sea on an assortment of ships, you got a permanent spot on the crew of the Volkvolny. It was the ship's first time docked in the Ketterdam harbours, and its captain was a young scoundrel, or so your coworkers had said during the first week at sea.

"He looks too young to be captain of a ship. How did he get his money, eh?" A crewmate bristled as you stood on the deck. This man looked as weathered as some of the sails on the boats in the shabby fifth harbour.

"Heard he stole his wealth off a Zemeni gunsmith," another crewmate said.

"Yeah? Well, I heard he was a Ravkan mercenary who did contract killings for their king." The older one turned to you. "What do you think, kid?"

"I think that I don't care where he made his money as long as he pays my wages." You drew your eyes up from your knot. "Besides, you shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"A very wise sentiment, Rietveld," Sturmhond boomed from behind you.

He snuck up without a word, and now your crewmates stood wide-eyed as they stared at their captain. You turned to see him watching the others, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"You might have heard I made my money in magical deer shit, but that doesn't mean it's true."

Then he peered at you with a smirk, called on the others to get back to work, and walked away.

Nikolai gave you that same look now, his gloved hand secure on your thigh. You knew the raised brow and quirked lips all too well. More often than not, the combination spelled trouble. Yet you supposed trouble wasn’t difficult to find in the Barrel. 

A bouncer approached your table and spoke only briefly, “Brekker will see you now,” before escorting your group across the floor of the gambling den.

Sturmhond entered first with you second and Tamar behind you. Your husband smiled as he looked towards a figure seated behind a desk. He approached diplomats, noblemen, and criminals in the same way, with charm, eloquence, and a warm smile. You held back your amusement at that thought, suppressing a smile of your own as you glanced around the room. The paintings and decor looked expensive, and you had to wonder how much of it was stolen. 

“The guy’s a ruthless thief and con,” Nikolai had said when he got home after meeting Brekker for the first time.

You were stuck in Ravka planning your wedding during his trip; it was a dreadful time, and you guilted Nikolai into explaining every little detail of his little journey across the True Sea.

“You might like him, though. He’s got more honour than the merchant council and the rest of those Barrel bosses combined.”

And now you were here in his office. The figure at the desk got out of his chair, and the movement caught your eye. The cheery expression on Sturmhond had not rubbed off on the man, and he stood with his features as hard as a rock. You examined his face, noted the scars that no doubt came from street fights and brawls in the dead of night, and then you looked at his eyes. There was something about them. The dark brown was something you had seen before, perhaps when you were first here in Ketterdam. You met so many people during that time.

When his stare fell on you your throat felt dry. He had the eyes of a calculating lynx, a predator about to ensnare his prey. You knew he was aware of Sturmhond’s true identity, but you weren’t sure if he would correctly assume your position in Ravka. You had only been the queen for a few months, and bills with your likeness had not yet been printed. Few people outside of Ravka could identify you, and fewer still could when you were tailored to fit your new sea-faring alias.

Still, his eyes made you uneasy. You knew them somehow, you just had to know them; but how?

“Tamar, Bos,” Sturmhond said, springing you from the trappings of Brekker’s eyes, “meet my associate, Kaz Brekker.”

There it was, and it hurt as much as being attacked by a volcra. You had taken blows to the gut that didn’t make you as sick as you felt now.

The pain was twofold. Firstly, when either of your dead brother’s names was mentioned you always felt a bitter pain in the pit of your stomach, an acidic burning that twisted your insides like a poison you would quickly succumb to. Your littlest brother was named Kaz, same as the Kaz before you. Seven years your junior, Kaz was too sweet for the cutthroat world around him. Back at the farm, you used to tuck him under your arm and read him stories so he would fall asleep. He was a bright and enthusiastic boy who always made sure to share his sweets with you, even if Da rarely bought them.

But the pain of hearing Kaz’s name was nothing compared to the crushing realization that this was him standing in front of you, all grown up, and very much alive. 

His birthday was last week, and you celebrated it alone with a moment of silence below deck of the Volkvolny. At that moment you thought to yourself how he would have been eighteen by now, how he could have attended the university and gotten a better education than anyone in your family ever had, how he could have had a full life if he didn’t succumb to the pox.

Yet here he was; eighteen and looking worn beyond his years, his life in the barrel undoubtedly having treated him with the cruelty it kept in vast supply. 

“Bos?” Sturmhond patted your shoulder. “Are you listening?”

You turned your attention to him. “I might have missed what you last said, could you repeat yourself?”

“Perhaps your friend should wait outside if she can’t pay attention,” Kaz suggested with a scowl. Was it really him? You had never seen Kaz make such a face at you.

“No,” you rushed to say. After almost nine years of thinking he was dead, you needed every second you could get with your brother. “It was only a momentary lapse. Please, continue.”

They did, and you tried your hardest to listen. You caught snippets of what they were saying, enough to piece things together if your mind strayed, but you were only giving half of your attention. Your eyes kept wandering off course, studying the boy you thought to be dead.

He stepped up to a map on his wall as he spoke with your husband, and you didn't miss the limp in his step. Was that something he got a long time ago or was it new? Did he sustain it when he was taken by the reaper's barge? And how had he survived? You held him and Jordie as they died, but if Kaz was here before you, was Jordie alive too?

No, you shouldn't get your hopes up. And you shouldn't let your mind race with questions like these. Surely you could approach him, ask him whatever you could think of. But you were frozen as you took in the revelation. There was no way you could approach him with it now--you would be incoherent.

Still, as you sat there you had no other thought in your head besides the boy you'd played parent to after Da died.

It was a miracle that Kaz was standing in front of you, breathing and with the flush of life in his healthy–if a little pale–skin. It was a miracle, and a miracle was more than you thought your family could ever have after all the misfortune you'd suffered. But if there was anyone who deserved a miracle, it was sweet little Kaz.

..........

The meeting finished, Kaz dismissed you from his office, and you felt the disappointment sink in. There was no reason for Kaz to recognize you while you were tailored, but you still hoped he would somehow know anyways. He was your brother, and he knew you better than many. Though perhaps, like him, you had changed as well. It had been almost nine years, after all.

Either way, you followed Nikolai back to the Volkvolny, elation in your step, and nervous dread splashing in your stomach. Nikolai was a few paces ahead--busily engaged in conversation with Tolya--while Tamar kept step beside you, seemingly in silent argument with herself every time you glanced at her. As you reached the harbour, she finally spoke up.

"Bos," she started, maintaining your identity despite the absence of witnesses around you. "Your heartbeat has been erratic since you saw Brekker."

You gulped, a move you regrettably realized the heartrender would know of.

"It keeps speeding up like a racehorse then lulling below your usual beats per minute. In the meeting, I kept thinking you might pass out."

"I'm alright, Tamar," you assured her, though you felt your heart speed up a bit as you kept away the truth. "I feel better than I have in a while, actually."

"Is that so?" Her eyes were skeptical.

"It is."

She dropped the topic as you reached the Volkvolny. 

You went right to the captain's cabin, eager to have Nikolai to yourself so you could share the exciting–if not bizarre–news. You wasted no time stripping off your heavy coat and tugging off your boots. Nikolai would take his time as captain of the ship, checking with the crew to make sure everything was in shape before he joined you, so you sat down on the bed, face in your hands as you considered your evening at the Crow Club. 

"He's alive," you grinned into your palms. "My baby brother is alive."

The thought was all you could think of, and even as you heard Nikolai's boots coming down the hall, everything besides Kaz was so distant to you.

"The meeting went rather well, I think," Nikolai said as he shut the door behind him. He came to sit with you. "But you were very quiet all night. Are you alright, my love?"

"Better than alright."

"I'm glad to hear that. It didn't seem like that earlier; you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

You looked at Nikolai. "That's because I did." You played with the most ornate of his rings, bringing his hand to rest between yours. "I’ve told you about my brothers, Nikolai. Do you remember their names?"

"Yes, Jordie and… Kaz." He looked at you, realization dawning in his eyes. "You don't think–"

"I don't think, I know. It’s him, I just know it. He’s my baby brother, Niko." You grinned and flopped back onto the bed. It was firmer than the one in your palace suite, but you’d grown accustomed to the roughness again on this voyage after a few years away from this cabin. "Saints, I need to see him again."

Nikolai glanced away from you, silent for a moment as if in debate with himself. "My love, I don't think that’s a very good idea. I know Brekker, and he’s nothing like the stories you’ve told me of your brother. I think seeing him again--seeing how he’s changed--would only upset you."

You sat up again, staring directly into Nikolai’s eyes.

"What upsets me is that my husband doesn’t think I should reunite with the only family I have left," you scoffed.

"I know you want to see him, I'm just afraid you'll be disappointed."

"I thought he was dead, but now he's alive. There is no way he could disappoint me.” You grabbed your husband's hands, squeezing them gently as you faced your body towards him.  “He's alive, Nikolai."

He sighed. "People can die in many different ways, not only when they stop living."

"You think he's so vicious of a criminal that I would rather he be dead?"

"Well, no, I just…"

"You just what, Nikolai?"

"I don't want you to get hurt." He brushed his thumb over your knuckles. "I know the nightmares you used to get about your brothers, I know how helpless they made you feel. I’d hate for you to feel that way ever again.”

Your stare fell to his most gaudy ring. It sat in place of his usual wedding ring, which was safely tucked on a chain beneath his shirt just as your wedding ring rested on a chain beneath yours.

He wasn’t wrong about your nightmares. He’d seen you on your worst nights, held you close as you sobbed into his chest. He watched you in the depths of agony, your lungs on fire and your stomach knotted so tightly you probably wouldn’t feel a bullet tearing into your flesh. And although the nightmares weren’t as frequent or debilitating as they once were, you sometimes still woke up crying from a dream of two boys that deserved more from their short lives.

But there was nothing that would make you want to abandon Kaz again. This meeting was a chance to redeem yourself. You could make amends for not protecting Kaz or Jordie as you should have. You could hold Kaz and never part with him unlike when you let the bargemen roll your brothers’ bodies away. This was a second chance you wouldn’t give up.

“Nikolai,” you began, sturdy in your words, “I know you’re concerned for me, and I understand why, but this is something I have to do. I can’t walk away from this trip without as much as a word to my brother when I’ve thought him dead all this time. Even if it turns out that he isn't what I remember, at least I’ll get to speak with him again, to tell him I love him and that I’m sorry I couldn’t protect him.”

“The firepox wasn’t your fault,” he murmured. Nikolai often repeated this to you whenever you felt guilty or woke up trembling in the night.

“I know.” You rested your head against his shoulder. “I know, but I was still supposed to be the big sister; I was still supposed to keep them safe.” Peering up at him, you said, “I just hope he can forgive me.”

“Why would he need to forgive you?”

“Because I left him for dead in a place crawling with liars and cheats. Saints know what he went through without anyone around to care about him.”

You said this as though the saints deigned to look after anyone in the barrel. No higher power was seeing Kaz through his years here, you were sure of that.

“We can go to him again tomorrow,” Nikolai said. “But for now, we should rest.”

There was no way of knowing how Kaz would react when he learned who you were, but you stayed optimistic as you readied for bed. You imagined hugging him, holding him in your arms again for the first time in so many years. You’d exchange stories of your lives without each other. Perhaps he would be amused that you had somehow gone from a farmer’s daughter to a pirate to the queen of Ravka in your time apart; saints knew you were still a bit bewildered by it all.

You tossed and turned quite a bit, and you knew you were keeping Nikolai awake too, but you couldn’t help your excited mind. Eventually, you sidled up to your husband–who was ready to wrap his arms around you in an attempt to keep you still–put your head on his chest, and listened to the familiar pumping of his heartbeat.

Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

..........

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment if you want to read more! Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

Part 2

[chiorisgf]

❕ nsfw sethos x f!reader

summary : sethos “poisoning” his rival but accidentally giving her an aphrodisiac.. ( idea creds : @writing-genshin-obsession )

“sethos.” you’d smile bitterly at the man, watching him sit down on the barstool beside you for.. whatever reason. on the outside, he was friendly and sociable; ready to help out whoever asked.

but you knew what he was really like.. a conniving, evil, selfish, and arrogant man whom you’ve grown to despise.

that look in his bright green eyes that he gives you the moment you catch his gaze could almost be terrifying, but you know better than to cower away and bow down to the likes of him.

when he turns to the side and smiles at you — as if you were just another woman in the bar, you had to admit it was a surprise. not a very good one, but a surprise nonetheless.

“name, hello.” he’d smile brightly at you, keeping that stupidly sweet facade. “want a drink?” he asks, giving you a closed eye smile as his slender hand slides a glass towards you.

you grimace, staring down at the drink in front of you. it didn’t seem disgusting, or altered… the colour was bright and beautiful, and if you had to guess it was sunsettia flavoured. not bad.

“hm, alright.” you mutter, eyeing him suspiciously before holding the glass up to your pretty lips and taking a small sip. your eyebrows shoot up for a moment, it tasted good — really good!

you take another sip, a content smile finding it’s way onto your features. while you hated sethos more than anything — this was quite nice of him.

but why was he staring at you with that bewildered expression on his face?

“what is it?” you stare back at him, tilting your head to the side as the same hand he used to give you the drink snatches it right back.

he frowns down at the drink, and you can barley make sense of the situation before he drinks the rest of the liquid you left behind.

your eyes are wide as he stares back at you, and you can’t help but feel yourself growing hot. the sounds of people laughing and chattering drunkenly in the bar seem to fade out as he holds eye contact with you.

no no no, this can’t be — you think, a fire being lit in your lower abdomen as he inches closer. are you really aroused by him? no way!

but, when his lips find yours, you find it hard to resist. his hand finds it’s way onto your cheek, the other on your waist as he claims your lips with his own in a hot kiss.

as he pulls away, you notice his bright eyes have darkened a little, his breath growing heavier as his hand squeezes slightly at the flesh of your hip. “i- must’ve given you the wrong drug.” he grits his teeth, before leaning in once again and kissing you.

“excuse me?” you huff as his lips part from yours, your eyebrows furrowing. “what even is this—? get off me.” you turn your head away from sethos, an annoyed frown settling on your pretty features. what were you doing, kissing your rival — your enemy, of all people!

yes, that’s right, he’s your enemy. not to be trusted; so why is he so damn hot?!

“we’re not done here, name. i can tell you’re in.. the same predicament, as me.” he leans closer, his warm breath fanning against your neck. “it would be oh so mean of me to just leave you alone, wouldn’t it?” he purrs, his cat-like eyes glinting as he takes note of your state.

he’s onto something — you’re hot and you’re bothered, but it’s all his fault! you’ll have to get him back some time…

but for now, all you can think about is the way he places a hand on your lower back, leaving you out of the tavern.

in only a few minutes, he’s got you pinned to the wall of an alleyway, his lips on yours as his hands work on removing every piece of clothing you’re wearing.

his movements are desperate, needy, even — and the look in his eyes is just, so, so attractive. the voices of merchants and other civilians from sumeru are still heard as sethos’ slim fingers snake down between your thighs, tapping them gently.

you do nothing but part them obediently, looking at the man with a defiant look. what else are you supposed to look at him like? he’s your enemy — but it’s so hard to ignore the heat you feel around him suddenly. your vision is almost pink, and your e/c eyes roll into the back of your skull as the tip of his finger prods at your entrance. he pulls his hand up, stuffing his middle and ring finger past your lips and into your mouth.

“suck.” he says, a desperate undertone in his voice as he leans closer, smiling as you listen to his little command.

before you knew it, he was already pushing a finger into your little hole, his free hand patting gently at your hair. this side of him almost came as a surprise, but you had no time to comment on it as he inserted another finger.

with two of his fingers inside of you, you already felt so full — but you couldn’t help but yearn for more, your hands finding refuge in his shoulder as he pumped his fingers into you, each thrust pulling out a sweet, strained moan from your lips.

you were trying so hard to be quiet, you really were, but he’s just so good. he curled his fingers perfectly, hitting that spot that nobody could ever reach — not even your last boyfriend.

sethos knew that. sethos has always known you’ve been needing this — a good fuck, but he wishes it could’ve happened in a more.. romantic setting.

why did he have to fuck up?! did he really have to slip an aphrodisiac into your drink?

you could’ve been dead, if he wasn’t so careless.

but the way you’re moaning so quiet and breathlessly into his ear, he can’t feel regret. in fact, he doesn’t want to — you’re just so good, and he can’t wait to hear how you’ll sound when he impales you on his dick.

his cock is aching for you, it has been since he took a sip of that damn drink.

“s-sethos!” you whine, your voice growing higher in pitch as you squirm against him, your walks tightening around his fingers as he reaches even deeper, taking you to a higher you never even knew you could reach.

he swears he can see stars in your eyes as he leans in and presses a wet kiss to the soft skin beneath your ear. “go on,” he urges you, his hand trailing down your body to your waist. “cum, cum for me.”

it makes you so angry that he’s basically commanding you — acting as if he’s doing you a favour! but his voice was the last thing you needed before you came, another whine leaving your lips as his fingers thrust into you continuously, guiding you through your first orgasm of many.

you barley opened your eyes again when you felt the tip of his dick push slightly against your entrance, just how far was he willing to go ?!

edit: i wrote this before his release so sorry if he’s ooc

[rizzyu]

hey there! could i request luxiem reacting to their s/o cosplaying as them or one of their alter egos? :) thanks!♡♡

When You Cosplay As Them

Pairing: Vox, Mysta, Luca, Ike, Shu x gn! reader

Category: Fluff, slightly suggestive if you squint hard enough

Warning: Uhhhh slight cursing in Mysta’s, mentions of exposed chests and smol waists, pet names

Summary: If you’re braindead and didn’t understand the title, this is how the Luxiem members react to you cosplaying as them stoopid :)

A/N: thx for the requeeeeeeeeeeeeeest I wanna cosplay as shuey shu :3

Vox Akuma

As you step out of the changing room, Vox’s eyes widened at the sight of you in the white suit and red shirt identical to his own. And just like his, your black and red hair was sprayed over your shoulders. You looked away from him, blushing, as you were worried about what his reaction would be. “Darling, don’t be shy, look at me.” Your beloved demon walked over and lifted your chin, making you face him. Your red eyeliners and golden lenses were displayed clearly for him to see. “Holy Riku Tazumi, you look so hot.” You felt your face heat up at his comments. Vox chuckled at your reaction and leaned in to peck you on your lips. “See? No need to be shy, you look stunning. I’ll have to take a photo later.”

Mysta Rias

“HOLY SHIT-” Mysta’s lips were left agape, and his eyes got so wide when you walked into you and his shared bedroom wearing a cosplay of him. You were dressed in the orange patterned shirt, white pants, and the fox beret similar to his. You had one hand on your waist, the other lowering your orange sunglasses, showing him your turquoise lenses while slightly sticking your tongue out. Your cleavage was also slightly revealed by the orange shirt. Mysta was ready to just cross his arms over his chest and pass out right there. Why do you look so beautiful?? “So, what do you think?” Your question snapped Mysta out of his thoughts. Mysta lifted your taupe coloured hair to peck your forehead. “Absolutely perfect.”

Luca Kaneshiro

What’s a cleavage? Your entire chest was exposed at this point. Luca’s face immediately heated up at the sight of you in the similar looking white striped suit, dark grey shirt, and fur coat. To be honest, both of you were way too flustered right now. Luca had never seen you wear such exposed clothes, and you never had worn any. “So uhhh… do you like it..?” Luca tried to keep his composure and lifted two thumbs up. “You look so poggers babe.” You chuckled “And you were so adorable just now” You walked over to him to squish his cheeks, causing him to become a blushing mess (not that he wasn’t already). “My cute golden retriever boy” Oh man what did you do to him?

Ike Eveland

Ike leaned forward on his seat when you came out all cute looking in his cosplay. He felt like in heaven when he saw you in heels, fishnet gloves and the golden rimmed glasses. You even held a book and a quill pen by your side as props. You tucked away some of your grey-to-blue coloured hair while slightly blushing. “Heheh, your cosplay was kinda hard to put on. At least it looks good.” Dammit, how could you speak in such a sugar-coated voice while cosplaying as him? You were going to make Ike ascend. Ike walked over to you, and like the gentleman that he is, he took your hand and tenderly placed a peck on the knuckles while keeping eye contact with your golden lenses. “You look way more than good.”

Shu Yamino

“EYYYYYYYYYYYYYY” And that was the hardest Shu had ever eyy-ed before, just from looking at you in his sorcerer cosplay. As soon as you showed Shu your cosplay, it was visible that Shu was looking at your small waist bound in the black corset. “Shuey, it’s not nice to stare~” You chuckled as you managed to snap your banana boi back to reality. “O-oh! S-sorry…” Shu could only sheepishly look away blushing upon getting caught staring at your waist. You pulled him closer by the arm, close enough for you to whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry pretty boy, I often stare at your snatched waist too.” Well if that did not bring the true flustered Shu out. Broski was standing there stuttering and everything. He’s too cute you couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction. “H-hey! Not funny! You’ll be paying back later when I get to hold your snatched waist all to myself!”

[keyleth-clay]

I'm really curious about your Kryn dynasty hair headcanons 💜💜

Okay so like, full disclosure, the vast majority of this comes from the brilliant minds of @quinn-of-aebradore and her fic What is left behind, and hanap (who I don't think is on tumblr?) and their fic Unbinding. Bullet points for simplicity's sake:

The only headcanon on this list that isn't directly inspired by a fanfic lol. Elves in fantasy media are so frequently portrayed with long, flowing hair - just take your pick of any elven character from Lord of the Rings, for example. As such, whenever elves show up in any other fictional media, I always just assume that they have the same long, elegant hair (unless described otherwise). At some indeterminate point in the past, I ended up learning how the Han Chinese had (at least for a very long time, if not in present day) traditionally stopped cutting their hair once they reached adulthood - @ziseviolet has a great post about that over here - and the two points of information neatly dovetailed into a headcanon for the Kryn Dynasty.

With one slight alteration, that is - in addition to new souls and unconsecuted souls no longer cutting their hair upon reaching adulthood, consecuted souls would stop cutting their hair once the returning soul becomes apparent and anamnesis is completed, as a signifier of the once-adult soul returning to the world. The long, uncut hair represents the long life they've lived, and the even longer succession of experiences of the soul.

Building off of the idea that not cutting your hair would leave it fairly unwieldy in the day-to-day, and the incredibly detailed elven-inspired braid hairstyles you can find all over social media (especially Pinterest), the idea of braids being the main traditional hairstyle(s) of the Kryn Dynasty sprung up. This would predominantly apply to the Drow of the Dynasty, along with any other consecuted souls who ended up in non-Drow bodies, with more freedom of hairstyle choice being afforded to non-consecuted citizens.

Inspired by What is left behind: the idea of different styles of braids being worn for different occasions. Like, there's a difference between their everyday braids, their standard ceremonial braids, braids for weddings, braids for funerals, etc. I am also totally in love with the idea of having ribbons or other similar materials woven into the braids, and especially with the Den colours that @quinn-of-aebradore came up with (Den Thelyss teal and silver, my beloved 💙🤍). Wearing the wrong style of braid to the wrong occasion would be a major social faux pas, and the correct colours and the right amounts of each colour are also important, though perhaps slightly less so than the braids style itself.

Also inspired by What is left behind: the idea of a mourning braid, which must be worn for a certain amount of time. Quinn made the period of mourning be a week in their fic, but I could easily see some people choosing to wear theirs longer, especially if the deceased was someone they were particularly close to, or if they were an unconsecuted soul, and as such the mourner would not be able to reunite with them.

Last one from What is left behind: building off of the Den colours woven into the braid, ceremonial braids will also use specific combinations of the Den's colours to mark the relationship the wearer has with the person the ceremony is for. For example, in the fic, Verin wears a mourning braid with "one silver, two teal, marking the deceased as his sibling." Deirta wears one silver and one teal, for her child. Further extrapolation should be pretty simple from there.

Inspired by Unbinding: the number of braids. I adore the idea of an additional braid being added for each major accomplishment and milestone of a person's life, because it already merges so well with the spiritual ideas of the unbroken strand of hair representing the long life and rebirth of the soul, and the cultural/societal significance to the style of braids and the colours woven into them. Now, the hair becomes a status symbol - the more braids, the more intricate the patterns and more impressive the person looks, as a direct reflection of what they've accomplished in their lives. The Umavi's , for example, would have incredibly complicated patterns of braids, while lower-ranked members of the Dens would probably only have one to three braids.

Inspired by Unbinding - and by "inspired", I mean that's straight up what happens in the fic: Essek cutting his hair off. That's a big deal, and by that I mean an enormous social taboo to the point of scandal. Hair signifies the Den, the soul's accomplishments, the journey of the soul through many lives as guided by the Luxon. Cutting that off could easily represent cutting the life short (which isn't totally inaccurate in this case, given that Essek isn't consecuted), could represent spurning the Den (again, not necessarily inaccurate in Essek's case), so on and so forth.

That being said, I think it's quite thematically appropriate for the Shadowhand (which according to Matt Mercer, is "those who focus on the dark mysteries of Exandria for the Bright Queen") to keep his hair cut short - it prevents people from learning too much about him at a glance, without Den colours or length or number of braids to tell them what he's done or who he's associated with. That being said, I don't imagine Essek cut his hair with any of that in mind - instead, it was one of the few, small ways that he could quietly rebel against a culture that he never fully believed in.

With all of that, I genuinely cannot picture Essek with longer hair. That's not a knock to Matt's depiction of him - he's his character, after all. And that's not a knock to the fanartists, either. My brain just refuses to make the mental connection of "Drow with shoulder length hair = Essek Thelyss". But, of course, none of this is canon anyways and I just like playing in this sandbox.

[randomness-is-my-order]

i was watching the founder of diabolism animation with my cousin (for the first time!) today and it just made me extremely emotional about this story once again. i’ve already talked about alot of motifs in mdzs which are close to my heart but one thing the animation reiterates so well is this whole seeming dichotomy between wei wuxian and lan zhan.

now, i have my gripes with the show, as is the case for all adaptations of canon but the way the colours, effects and even the opening lyrics are used to maximise the differences between wwx and lwj is very fascinating. i’m not one to really buy into the “oh they’re not black and white, but they’re grey” when it comes to the wwx-black and lwj-white representation because morally speaking, i don’t find that the “greyness” tracks.

the dichotomy is moreso appealing to me for what the story inevitably delivers: appearances are deceptive, rumours are deceptive, the surface hides the true depth underneath. you go into this animated show with your protagonist surrounded by a clear narrative of some kind of fall from grace, while the deuteragonist is painted in a virtuous light from the get-go. you don’t know how it’s going to happen but the narrative so far wants you to perceive the characters a certain way while still giving you just enough to make you doubt yourself. but here’s the thing: you do doubt yourself but not to the extent that you should. wei wuxian does become some sort of heretic path cultivator, apparently, but you know he’s a nice, chirpy teen and helpful in the future but surely, he embraces the darkness when his hand is forced. and surely, lan zhan only goes against him because his morals and rules demand it. surely, lan zhan’s hand is forced as well.

and while there is some truth to it, you don’t realise that morally, very objectively, and very harshly speaking, the fall from grace doesn’t happen from wei wuxian’s end but lan wangji’s and here the whole white/black, good/evil motifs become completely secondary because who exactly is devolving here? it never was wei wuxian and realising that in it of itself is a major part of mdzs’s storytelling.

i mostly bring this up because my cousin noticed something that i, as a novel reader & cql watcher can’t pick up–that during the punishment scene in cloud recesses, wwx internally muses about how he couldn’t have lwj’s resolve during his silence endurance of punishment and later he tells jc that he won’t try to dabble into demonic cultivation ever again. setting aside the fact that this doesn’t clarify the misnomer and that these are scenes which are slightly altered or completely new when compared to canonical material, it still maintains the essence of the earlier chapters, imo. in that, my cousin remarked that wwx himself says he doesn’t have the resolve and so he might end up practicing demonic cultivation anyway. (i was sorely tempted to reply with a thesis on why that is... wrong but what’s the fun in spoiling this journey for her?)

it’s just masterful how certain story beats paint this dilemma across the two characters, where you would think wwx is likely to have acted in a certain morally questionable way while putting more faith into lan zhan but as the past unfolds and you see beneath the surface of this young guy called wei wuxian, you realise just how much of his inner strength you have glossed over and that lan zhan’s resolve was always rooted in conflict with his rules vs his morals.

and i don’t mean this to be a way of propping wwx above lwj in some arbitrary moral olympics. it’s to simply to show how falsifying paragons and making the audience doubt wei wuxian is fundamental to experiencing mdzs in ANY format. the thoughts you have when you read/watch the first few chapters will have inevitably done a one-eighty after reading/seeing the conclusion. infact, the true black/white, good/evil, wrong/right debates aren’t even centred around wei wuxian and lan zhan but wei wuxian and the cultivation society as a whole.

and if i had to give an analogy for wei wuxian’s moral representation, then it wouldn’t be grey but––and all gay puns aside––it would be a ‘rainbow’ wherein the ‘white’ morality is very much a spectrum and leaves room for more questionable methods to ultimately reach an unequivocally good goal, without defaulting to the ‘grey’ area that is more often than not used as a backhanded way of representing wei wuxian’s moral complexity.

[crustaceousfaggot]

So... Idk maybe this was obvious to everyone and there's no point in me bringing it up. But can we talk about Ballister's armor?

The plate that the knights wear is standardized. It's their uniform. All the knights we see in the film are wearing the same armor and use the same swords. They're standard issue. With a couple exceptions.

Ambrosius gets much flashier armor, with the obvious gold and white colour scheme and the lion (?) design on his chest plate. He also has large lions on the sides of his pauldrons with embedded sapphire eyes, which - wow, talk about ostentatious. This is presumably because of his connections to Gloreth - his blood is special enough that he gets an entirely different and considerably flashier set of armor. Is it a family heirloom? Was it commissioned specifically for him? We'll never know. But the Institute designated this little boy Special enough to be exempt from the dress code in order to demonstrate his status as the Specialist Boy.

Todd gets a slightly altered version of the uniform, with black bottoms instead of grey, and larger pauldrons. If we assume Ambrosius gets fancy armour because of his family connections, then that seems to imply Todd also has some ancestry notable enough to set him aside slightly from the rest of the knights. Not anywhere near as famed as Gloreth of course, but maybe a notable general or war hero or something along those lines. That would explain some of the ego. Whatever.

Both of them seem to still be using the standardized swords though.

And then there's Ballister. With his black armor.

In the book I just sort of assumed he chose that armor in order to compliment the whole aesthetic he's got going on. But in the movie that is explicitly not true. They gave him that armor, to signify in the most literal and inconspicuous way possible that he is the black sheep. He does not belong and he never will, no matter how hard he tries, because the Institute will make sure everyone who sees him immediately recognizes him as other. Street trash who has been graciously permitted into their ranks, but will never be allowed to wear the untainted, pure colours of their order, the divine white and gold. It was decided for him, before he even became a knight, that no matter what he did he would never escape that shadow. That he was let in, not born in. Allowed to exist. Always on their terms.

He doesn't even get to use their swords. He gets a black sword to match his armor, one which (by the looks of it) is significantly lower-tech than the standard issue swords, at least until it was tampered with.

The Queen could have stopped this, but she didn't, which indicates to me more than ever that, to her, Ballister was first and foremost a token. A gesture meant to inspire loyalty and goodwill from her subjects, to prove that she was willing to change. Slowly. And only so long as people remembered who really had the power. Am I saying she was evil or whatever? No. We haven't seen enough of her as a ruler to make those kinds of judgements. But to me she represents a very milquetoast, left-of-center, "Equal-rights-for-everyone-so-long-as-it-doesn't-negatively-affect-me-or-my-standing-in-any-way" kind of leader.

There was no way he could have ever been one of them. Never. And they made sure knew it.