#im dramatic but a genius

[daydrinking75]

fuck off i just wana get high of prescription medication so my back stops hurting and not participate in society. cant i just DO things? without the weight of having a future and fighting for to keep it. its not that im being forced to, but its my only option. i dont think its worth dying yet, theres nothing to die over really; the cumulative experience of 20 years really is nothing in the grand scheme of things. i have an idea of who i could be, and id like to see that person and be that person, but i can only do so if i keep living. and living means work. it takes a lot of work to live. and that makes me just wana kill myself because why is life--something thats upheld on this stupid pedestal and considered "good"--so damn painful? to me anyway. thats the unfortunate thing, i can only experience the universe through myself. these things are only painful to me, in the sense that without myself present, there wouldn't ve anyone in pain. and the world wold continue to exist. "painful" really just means inconvenient. then again, maybe i just havent felt real pain. im a white girl complaining on the internet with fancy words--i know how it sounds. and even then, pain beyond my understanding is just an extreme inconvenience beyond my understanding. it doesnt devalue it though, what was gained and lost from the pain doesnt go away just because it's a pest. thats the opposite of what they do. some people have wasp nests in their brain. some people clean them out, some let them fester--some people have butterflies (how wonderful that must be), ants, spiders--things of an infestive nature. they accumulate over time, its up to you how to handle it. its a responsibility, to live. to ensure to properly treat the environment of infectents. and ive always struggled to care. to give a fuck. i just dont. for whatever reason, on principle, i couldnt be bothered with responsibility. but i am by the suffering it brings. and the eventual suffocation--forget falling figs, i feel like im watching termites devour my future because of my conscious neglect. i cant stand it. and im sure this is a common occurrence. but i dont have a "will to live" i have a will to become, and the only way to do that is to stay alive long enough for me to understand and grow myself into someone worth dying next to. because im unable to become something when i die, thats all i am, dead. and all the blood and tears and trauma that comes with that concept. but in my experience life is full of that anyway, and the only thing that sets apart the "big sleep" is the act of ending life. it just stops. its a given that im agnostic--i wish i believed in a god that loved me, people often seem happier when they have divine love, even if it hurts others--and for me heaven isnt a place i'll find after i die. hell might be, but that doesnt change the fact that the afterlife remains provably defined as a variable. an entity of limitless possibilities, including nothing at all. the only thing thats known for sure is that its not this, its not life. otherwise it wouldn't end so abruptly. so life and death are antithetical and interchangeable; just two different states of existence. its not by any fault of its own that death is so painful; its a function, a process, it will execute its purpose regardless of if it hurts someone or not. unfortunately all things living, including people, are those who deal with the hurt. no one finds the things that hurt them appealing. well, thats a lie. if you know you know. lets say its at the very least impractical; if you want to live, why would you be attracted towards death? what a wonderful question. its a shame i dont have the answer. i have speculations, educated guesses, impulsive thoughts, but its about time i circle back to the point im trying, flimsily, to make; its impossible to live without thinking. without engaging in life. in society. in people. its those things that give us substance; reality is precious because its uncontrollable, daydreams wont ever compare. so maybe the unknown isnt so scary. its different.

[thekenobee]

BURN GORMAN in The Witch's Daughter

[citrine-elephant]

slams dick on the table

i will not stop headcanoning leon s kennedy as a fuckin loresponge nerd who will infodump on you if you so much as breathe curiosity in his direction

[wildandmoody]

Sometimes i cant believe Michael wrote, composed, arranged harmonies for this song by himself AT AGE TWENTY-ONE ohhhh fatherrr.........

[jrueships]

being right about gup acting all petty that jalen got to go to France during the summer while he was stuck in stupid summer league fighting to get fed scraps for the regular season feels so good

[thetrinitytest]

apologies for derailing your post but every time i hear someone use the phrase “dry wine” something snaps in me and i just.

SHUT UP. SHUT UPSHUT THE FUCK UP

>wine enjoyers be like 'this one is so very dry'

>taste it

>it's wet

[miraeism]

omg submitted the wrong file for one part of one of my homeworks and got a 60 with a side of a lil breakdown because of it BUT my ta is letting me resubmit the right file and he just checked the timestamps to make sure i didn’t work on it after the due date which i didnt and AH THANK YOU JESUS life is good again

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[scoupsakakitty]

hi!! im so glad youre back, i hope you had a good rest~ can i request a woozi fic where reader accompanies him whenever she realises woozi is overworking himself again, always there to give him support in the quiet studio as he writes his songs, eats his meals, etc!

Mr. Producer | idol!woozi x Reader | fluff

Woozis eyes were glued to the screen, brows slightly furrowed, lips pursed in thought. The dim lighting cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the sharp angles that softened whenever he blinked away exhaustion.

Y/N leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him in silence. She had been there long enough to recognize the telltale signs—sleeves rolled up, an untouched meal pushed to the side, and that persistent crease between his brows. Woozi was deep in his zone again.

With a quiet sigh, she pushed off the doorframe and made her way inside. "I brought food," she announced, holding up the takeout bag.

Woozi barely acknowledged her, still focused on his screen. Y/N rolled her eyes before walking up behind him. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin lightly on the top of his head.

"Take a break, genius," she murmured. "Show me how far you've gotten?"

Woozi exhaled, leaning back slightly against her. "You’re really persistent."

"And you’re really stubborn. We balance each other out," she teased, squeezing him gently. "C’mon, just a quick pause. Eat with me."

He sighed but didn't argue. Instead, he reached for a water bottle and took a sip, pretending that was enough to appease her.

She wasn't buying it.

"And no, you don’t get to say you’re not hungry. I know you haven't eaten in hours."

Woozi glanced at the bag, then at her. "What if I say I'm too busy?"

Y/N smirked. "Then I say I'm too stubborn. And I'm not leaving until you take at least five bites."

He chuckled again, this time shaking his head as he spun his chair to face her. "Five bites, huh? What do I get in return?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Your sanity, probably."

"Mmm, tempting." He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as he pretended to consider her offer. "But what if I want something else?"

Y/N tilted her head. "Like what?"

Woozi studied her for a moment, eyes glinting with something unreadable yet warm. "Like a deal. If I eat, you have to stay and keep me company."

She scoffed, amused. "You say that like I was planning on leaving."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Just making sure."

Rolling her eyes, she grabbed the bag and handed him a container. "Eat first, then we'll talk deals."

He took it with a dramatic sigh, opening the lid and picking up the chopsticks. "Fine, but only because I know you'd probably feed me yourself if I refused."

She grinned. "Oh, absolutely."

As Woozi took the first bite, he hummed in appreciation. "Okay, this is actually really good."

"Told you," Y/N said smugly, resting her chin in her palm as she watched him eat. There was something oddly satisfying about seeing him take a break, even if it was just for a few minutes.

He glanced at her between bites. "You really do take care of me a lot."

She shrugged. "Someone has to."

Woozi's expression softened, a quiet fondness settling in his eyes. "I don’t say it enough, but… thank you."

Y/N felt a warmth spread in her chest at his words. "Well, you can repay me by writing me a song one day."

He smirked. "Who says I haven’t already?"

Her breath hitched slightly, but she masked it with a laugh. "Flirt."

Woozi simply grinned, reaching for another bite. "Only for you."

As they continued eating, Y/N suddenly lit up. "Oh, I saw the prettiest bag today—this Miu Miu bag. It's ridiculously expensive, though. Like, stupidly, shamelessly expensive."

Woozi barely hesitated, setting his chopsticks down and holding out his hand. "Show me."

She blinked. "Huh?"

"Show me the bag," he repeated, casually taking another bite. "I'll get it for you."

Y/N stared at him. "You—you can’t just say things like that so easily."

He smirked, leaning his elbow on the table. "Why not? You take care of me, I take care of you. Seems fair."

Her heart did an embarrassing little flip, but she huffed, waving him off. "Eat your food, Mr. Producer."

He chuckled. "Only if you promise to send me the link later."

She groaned. "Unbelievable."

But she was smiling, and he knew he had won.

[stoppostingforeverandever]

LUFFY U ABSOLUTE GREMLIN CHILD^^^^

And i might as well bust out the flower meanings now since ur so humbly providing us with one

In the Chinese culture, the magnolia tree symbolizes purity and nobility. The tree was also known for its healing powers because in Traditional Chinese Medicine, magnolia bark was used as a sleep aid.

It's also associated with yin, or female energy, so it's often given to honor a strong woman.

YEAHHH MAGGIE IS OUR STRONG WAMANNN LEZGOOOO

Water is Thicker Than Blood Chapter 34

Act like a creep, get your car keys stolen. Such are the luffy rules.

{Start} {Prev Next(coming soon)}

im baackkkk~~~~ ive been a very busy bee , but hopefully i should be good now 👍

To give you a full idea of Maggie's job here, she is a baby sitter who volunteers at her church to help with weddings! Usually her sitting demographic is much younger than Luffy though...

I enjoyed putting Giolla into this chapter, i like her design a lot shes really fun :D

Also, Maggie’s full name is Magnolia.

[emmyrosee]

Im begging for some Akaashi moments PLEASEE😭😭😨😭

THIS TOOK FAR TOO LONG IM SORRY I HOPE YOU ENJOY 🥺

——-

“Okay, keiji, pay attention.”

“Why are my keys-“

“Shush.”

Immediately, Keiji closes his mouth, looking at you curiously, blue eyes flicking between you and the three clear cups before him on the table. Under the left cup, are his car keys, trapped under the glass. The small cat keychain you got him smiles back innocently up at him, and he makes a move to open the cup and free the tiny friend from its confines. You gently bat his hand to still his movements, which he does. “Okay. Keep going,” he says patiently.

“Under these three cups, are your car keys,” you begin to explain, and instinctively, keiji’s eyes flick to the cup containing his keys; he says nothing, waiting for you to continue to explain. “I’m going to turn around, and when I do, I want you to mix up the cups a bunch of times. If I can find the cup with your keys under it, we go get a sweet treat.”

Finally, Keiji smiles in realization, chuckling and shaking his head at your antics. “Can’t I just go get you a sweet treat?” He asks.

You shrug, “I wanted to leave it up to the universe.”

He looks back down at the crystal clear cups, “the universe seems to be rigged.”

“The universe will provide for your spouse if it desires.” You press a kiss to his cheek and spin around, “okay! Mix them up.”

Keiji looks down at the cups in front of him, and there’s a though, just a thought, of taking the keys from under the cup and hiding them, but the idea of you pouting has his heart squeezing. Even if you do deserve to be messed with a little.

He grabs the left cup and slides it to the middle, moving the middle to the left. “Okay. Mixed them.”

“You mixed them enough?” You ask. “I didn’t hear a lot of shuffling.”

“You’ll just have to pick a cup and see,” he assures.

You spin back around and hum in thought, mockingly patting your chin as if to truly be thinking about which crystal clear cup his keys are under. Your hand hovers over one of the empty glasses, then the other one, before curiously grabbing the key-glass. You cheer happily and clap, and Keiji chuckles and claps with you.

“How ever did you figure it out?” He asks.

“You have a genius living under your roof,” you sigh dramatically. “You’re welcome. I’ll be sure to use my big brain for good, rather than evil.”

“Sounds good,” he hums. “Go get shoes on, you’ve earned a sweet treat, I suppose.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice as you barrel down the hallway, leaving him to scrub his face with his hands, looking to the sky in amusement.

[bloomstream]

⋆˚࿔ nerd status

the mha boys with their nerdy s/o!

— includes: kirishima, kaminari, sero, shinsou (in that order)

contains: gn!reader, established relationship, fluff

authors note: everyone thank ari for the awesome idea!! i just made a nerd someone who’s super interested in a topic (varies but i try to be broad) and smart!

⋆˚࿔ e.kirishima

eijiro tries his very best to keep up with your rambling but most of the time just ends up smiling and nodding. when he does understand a topic he asks you a lot of questions about it, encouraging you to keep talking. “okay i didn’t quite understand it that time… but explain it again and i’m sure i’ll get it eventually!”

eiji unironically calls you smartypants, bookworm, and his genius while cupping your face and sprinkling you with kisses. if you even say that you feel ‘too nerdy’ he immediately reassures you. (with more kisses)

comic book store trips with you are his favorite thing ever! he will buy you any comic you want while he stares at the action figures in complete awe; it’s a win-win situation.

if you find yourself correcting his pronunciation of a word— which is pretty often —he’ll gladly thank you. “woah babe, i would’ve never caught that! you’re so smart.” will never shut up about how knowledgeable you are. 

eijiro asks you what sources are reliable so he can learn more about your interest! he takes notes on your past and current interest for future references. he just adores seeing you beaming with happiness.

eiji makes sure to pick up on whatever your fixates on before holidays and events so he knows he’s gifting you according!

he isn’t the best at studying but when you’re the one making flash cards he somehow can understand things way better. “you’re like the best teacher!” he says after a tiring hour of studying. 

if anyone tries to make fun of you he’s ON that. “excuse me, what did you just say?” and then he gives a passionate speech about how awesome you are to whoever was making comments about you. it definitely scares them off. 

when you fall asleep on your desk, reading an article about one of your favorite documentaries, eiji makes sure to take your reading glasses off— kissing the lenses first —and slipping a pillow under your head, wishing you a goodnight.

⋆˚࿔ d.kaminari

you two spend hours talking about your interest; well it’s more of you spending hours attempting to explain them while denki keeps muttering, “what?” “how is that even possible?” “no way that’s a real word!”

denki pretends to not understand something so you can keep talking. he’ll ask you to repeat yourself, zone out to the sound of your voice when you do, and then ask you to explain again. 

although denki is super into it when you talk about conspiracy theories and paradoxes, “how could the cat be dead and alive?? this literally doesn’t make any sense.”

tried to mock once by saying “well actually 🤓☝️” and cried after when you give him the silent treatment.

denki acts like you're his own personal tutor, “babe, help me study please! my brain is smooth and yours is— probably super wrinkly!” he will be super dramatic if you tutor someone else before him, like will look you dead in the eye and ask if you hate him after. 

will buy you crappy matching polyester hoodies. “you look so good in that!” he coos, then takes a dozen pictures of you. you burn the hoodie after.

if you occasionally wear glasses he is so obsessed with seeing you in them. will (desperately) coax you two into studying just so he can see you push the frame back up the bridge of your nose and squint your eyes. 

if you’re trying to study something he’ll be by your side scrolling through tiktok and sing along to the songs. he does this a couple of times before realizing it’s messing with your focus, “im sorry baby, how about i make it up to you with some kisses?” he grins. the worst study buddy. 

denki will tell everyone you’re the smartest person on earth and fully believes it. 

if you’re interested in animals he’ll bring you to zoos/aquariums and listen to you as you explain how their nervous systems’ work. 

⋆˚࿔ h.sero

hanta will buy you stickers, keychains, and little trinkets of whatever you’re fixated on. he’ll help you decide how to decorate with them too. by the months end you'll find your shelf full of favorite things!

hanta encourages you to randomly pop quiz him on what you’ve been talking to for the past week. he passes most of the time!

pretends like he’s jotting down notes during your study dates but he’s really just doodling a poorly drawn portrait of you. he’ll show you after and begs you to hang it up in your dorm room (you do).

will place his chin on your shoulder and hover over your laptop while you browse your favorite topics. “are we sure this is more interesting than me?” he’d whine. 

hanta will google one thing about your current fixated topic and randomly drop it into conversation to try and impress you. “did you know octopuses have three hearts? oh you did! well— me too!”

your nerdiness catches up to hanta when it comes to dates. dates where he lets you ramble about books while holding your hand, walks in the park where he asks dumb questions just to make you laugh, and deep conversations at a coffee shop where he’s hanging onto every word you say.

museum trips; you both put on really cool outfits and hanta makes sure to compliment you a lot! you'll explain and geek out every exhibit and hanta will just go, “hold still for me mi alma?” and take more pictures.

hanta LOVES documentary nights. will break down every scene with you; the cinematography, the metaphors, the costume design. 

comic store browsing is a big thing for you two as well. you will spend hours sitting on the store's carpet floor with hanta beside you. you take turns reading out loud and only leave after the librarian complains about your loud laughing for the fifth time.

if he catches you overworking yourself with work he’ll insist on taking care of you. he’ll put your stuff away, help you with your skincare routine, and tuck you into bed. “leave some of those brain juices for tomorrow my love,” he says as he kisses your forehead.

⋆˚࿔ h.shinsou

hitoshi is a chronic nod and smiler, though he does has some sort of understanding of what you say. he actually loves intellectual conversations. if you start talking about philosophy, psychology, or just some deep nerdy topic, he’s fully engaged. “damn… never thought about it like that.”

hitoshi won’t straight up admit he started watching your favorite show or reading your favorite book, instead he starts asking questions about characters or shares his theories …. turned out he’s very hooked.

hitoshi likes to observe your face when your focused, picks up on all your little habits like mumbling to yourself and repetitive tapping on the desk. 

he’s a night owl so if you stay up late working on a passion project he’ll keep you company.

hitoshi will ensure that you get enough rest for the next day no matter what, even if it takes him dragging you into bed. “come on, your eyebags are gonna be worse than mines if you keep this up.”

his nerdy pickup lines are a joke.. at first. after a long day of studying the periodic table hitoshi will say “are you made of copper and tellurium? because you’re cu-te.” if you don’t immediately laugh he’d add “okay so that was cringy i’ll just die then.”

you and hitoshi spend a lot of time in the library, both of you thriving on the silence and an opportunity to focus.

you can not degrade yourself when hitoshi is around. he’ll hold you by both shoulders and say, ”you literally just explained all of human evolution to me like it was nothing. you’re a genius, shut up.” gentle tough love.

hitoshi’s favorite fixations of yours is anything related to history. he wants to learn about the edo period, meiji restoration, the death of emperors and you are the perfect learning outlet.

he is genuinely is fascinated by how well you take in and understand information like it’s nothing. 

[rotthepoet]

can you write somenthing about bsf!theo helping the reader relax because she's been freaking out over an important test????? (and his way of helping is fingering and eating out his girl so that there is nothing else in her head besides him <3333

Jehdishskw heyyyyyy👁️👄👁️ uhm! IM BACK! Im so sorry you had to wait. Like. Forever. But uhhhh! No excuse!!!! Im so sorry to you guys had to like forever, like really im so sorry, but im checking my inboxes now :) forgive me, im rusty🫠

Imagine this. A month full of reviews, and practice exams, and late nights shrimped over a book. The back pain, the constant headache, the ever increasing desire to dramatically throw yourself from the astronomy tower. And fuck. Youre tired. Youre so tired all the time. Your eyes, already accessorized with heavy, dark bags, now strain in the harsh sunlight and eyelids sag when the professors lecture drones on for too long. God. You are but the shell of a man.

And your best friend, ever the sweetest, notices how stressed you are. :(. It’s not Theodore’s fault he’s a genius, acing practice tests without hunching over textbooks, retaining information like a sponge. So he has time to help. And help he does try, tutoring you after class, body doubling you while you write another page of notes with tears in your eyes. Fuck, seeing you in such distress makes him ache :(

He knows you’re aching too.

Its only natural you ended up like this. With your head resting against his shoulder, arching into his touch as cold fingers circle your clit. Breathy moans escape parted lips when his fingers dip into your sopping, gushing hole. You’re melting in his arms, staining the green satin sheets below you. His other hand holds your thigh open, his thumb tracing absent circles into your soft skin. He loves to watch the soft skin mold beneath his touch when you squirm, tightening his hold ever so slightly. Just to remind you he’s in charge, and you’re not going anywhere until he thinks you’re fully de-stressed.

[nameless-jamie]

WE'RE NOT CALLING IT THOR

Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader

Masterlist

TW: cursing

By the time Georgie and Simon arrived at the hospital, Y/N had barely managed to brush her hair. She was still propped up in bed, cradling the baby against her chest while Jamie sat beside her, half-asleep with his head resting on the mattress.

A gentle knock at the door startled them both. Jamie blinked awake as Georgie peeked her head in, her eyes instantly lighting up.

“Oh, love!” she gasped, stepping into the room with her hands clasped over her heart. Simon followed closely, holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a teddy bear.

Y/N offered a tired smile. “Hi, Georgie. Hi, Simon.”

“Oh, look at ‘im,” Georgie cooed, her eyes welling up as she approached the bed. “He’s beautiful. Absolutely perfect.”

Simon nodded in agreement, placing the flowers on the side table. “Congratulations, both of you. He’s a proper little Tartt.”

Jamie straightened up, puffing his chest out with pride. “Yeah, he is, innit?”

Georgie leaned closer, her smile warm. “So… what’s his name?”

Silence.

Y/N froze, eyes widening slightly. She glanced at Jamie, who blinked as if the question had short-circuited his brain.

“Shit,” Jamie muttered under his breath. “We forgot to name ‘im.”

“You what?” Georgie’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oi, it’s been a busy day, yesterday!” Jamie defended. “Didn’t exactly have time to scroll baby names while she was pushin’ him out and I had a match!”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I can’t believe we forgot to give him a name…” She looked down at the baby, who squirmed against her chest, completely unaware of the identity crisis unfolding around him.

“Well, you better get on with it,” Simon said with a chuckle. “Can’t have the lad goin’ home as Baby Tartt forever.”

Jamie jumped up suddenly, eyes lighting up. “Right—hang on. I got an idea.”

Before anyone could stop him, he darted out of the room. Georgie tilted her head. “What’s he up to now?”

Y/N could only shrug.

Ten minutes later, Jamie returned, triumphantly rolling a whiteboard into the hospital room.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Y/N asked, incredulous.

“Borrowed it from some nurse down the hall,” Jamie said casually. “Said it was for ‘educational purposes.’”

Georgie bit back a laugh as Jamie grabbed a marker and scribbled BABY NAME BRAINSTORM across the top.

“Alright,” Jamie declared, clapping his hands together. “We’re gonna sort this out today. No one leaves till this baby’s got a proper name.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Okay, fine. I’ll start. What about… Andrew?”

Jamie grimaced like she’d just suggested naming the baby Voldemort. “Nah. Sounds like the kinda name kids take the piss out of in school.”

“Oh, and your suggestions won’t get him bullied?” Y/N shot back. “Go on then, hit me with your genius ideas.”

Without hesitation, Jamie uncapped the marker and wrote:

Thor

Ronaldo

Ace

Zidane

Rocky

“Are you serious?” Y/N stared at him. “You want our son to sound like either a Marvel superhero or a footballer?”

“Oi, Thor’s cool as fuck!” Jamie protested. “And Ronaldo’s a legend!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not shouting ‘Thor Tartt’ across the playground.”

Georgie covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Simon shook his head, amused.

“Fine, fine,” Jamie grumbled. “Your turn again.”

Y/N tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Okay… Jasper?”

Jamie groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Babe, c’mon! Jasper sounds like a posh kid who collects stamps or somethin’.”

“Hey! Jasper’s cute!”

“Yeah, too cute. Our kid needs a name with a bit of edge, y’know?”

Georgie raised her hand like she was in school. “How about Oliver?”

“Sounds like he belongs in a Dickens novel,” Jamie muttered, scribbling it down anyway.

Simon chimed in. “What about Jack? Strong, classic name.”

“Bit too common,” Y/N said apologetically.

Jamie groaned dramatically. “We’re never gonna pick one. Might as well call ‘im Baby Tartt forever.”

“Let’s ask the team,” Y/N suggested, half-joking.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s gonna help,” Jamie muttered, already pulling out his phone.

An hour later, the whiteboard was chaos, and Georgie and Simon decided to leave the new parents to their own mess. The team did come up with a bunch of names, though.

Sam: Elijah (It's very sophisticated, he insisted.)

Dani: Diego (or preferably Dani after himself, typical.)

Isaac: Maximus (because it sounded like a warrior’s name)

Colin: Finn (simple, but cool)

Jan: Wolfgang (no explanation given)

Roy: Didn’t offer a name, just grunted and said, “Don’t name him somethin’ stupid.”

Keeley: Leo or Apple (because his name would be leotard and apple tart, hehe iykyk)

By evening, the whiteboard was full, but nothing felt right. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the baby while Jamie paced the room, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. The only person they were waiting for, for a name suggestion, was Ted.

“This is impossible,” he muttered. “How’d people even do this?”

Y/N chuckled softly. “We’ll figure it out. He’s only been here a day. We’ve got time.”

Jamie sighed, walking over to her and leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. For a moment, they both just looked at the baby—their baby—sleeping peacefully in Y/N’s arms. Then Y/N's phone lit up with a message from Ted.

Ted: You should name him Jesse Tartt. Or Jamie Jr. just puttin' it out there folks.

Silence stretched between them as Jamie and Y/N looked at the text message. Then, almost at the same time—

“Jesse,” Y/N whispered.

“Jesseh,” Jamie echoed with his Manc accent.

Their eyes met.

“That… actually works,” Y/N said, surprised.

Jamie grinned. “Yeah. Jesse Tartt. Sounds proper, don’t it?”

“It’s strong, but still sweet,” Y/N agreed, smiling down at their son. “And it fits him.” And Y/N loved how Jamie said this name in his cute accent...

Jamie leaned closer, gently brushing his finger against Jesse’s tiny hand. “Oi, little man. You’re Jesse now, alright?”

The baby stirred slightly, as if acknowledging his name.

“Guess he approves,” Y/N chuckled.

“Damn right he does,” Jamie said proudly. Then, with a smirk, he added, “Jesseh Tartt. Future football legend. Gotta tell Ted that he just named our fuckin' baby boy. Roy's goin' to be so mad!”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, leaning against Jamie’s shoulder. “Let’s just get him home first, yeah?”

Discharge day arrived, and Jamie was determined to execute the mission: The First Drive Home with military precision.

“Alright,” he muttered as he carefully buckled Jesse into the car seat, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Not too tight, not too loose… perfect.”

Y/N stood beside him, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “You know babies are sturdier than they look, right?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not takin’ any chances,” Jamie replied, lifting the car seat with both hands like he was cradling a bomb.

“Jamie, you can carry it normally—”

“Nope. Nope. This is the safest way.”

He shuffled toward the hospital exit, holding the seat awkwardly in front of him with both hands. When they reached the car, Jamie inspected the base attachment three times before snapping the seat into place with a loud click.

“Alright, baby boy. You’re all secure,” he announced proudly. Then, turning to Y/N with uncharacteristic seriousness, he added, “I’m gonna drive slow as fuck.”

“Jamie—”

“Slow as fuck, Y/N.”

And true to his word, Jamie crept out of the parking lot like he was chauffeuring royalty, eyes glued to the road, hands locked at ten and two.

“Jamie, you can go faster than 15 miles per hour—”

“Oi, you want me speedin’ with our kid in the car?”

“We’re gonna get overtaken by a bicycle at this rate!”

“Don’t care.” Jamie’s jaw was set with determination. “I got precious cargo now.”

Y/N just laughed, shaking her head as Jamie continued his cautious, glacial journey home.

And as ridiculous as it all was…

She wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

[verysium]

PLEASE DO BLUE LOCK ICKS IM BEGGING🙏😭🌹

😏 coming right up anon. gonna channel my inner critic and not hold back on any of these.

RIN

brother complex. not much else to say except that he needs to get a life. not everything is about metaphorically crushing your older brother's dreams and brooding in the dark hate of retribution.

competitive but only because he is a desperate whore for external validation. ignores everyone but craves the attention of a sole person named sae itoshi. was defeated by isagi once and has never let go of it since. has a one-track mind that is impossible to derail. stubborn when he wants to be.

probably a virgin and will continue to be one until his late 30s.

has not known a single day of peace ever since sae ditched him for the popular girlies. as a result, he has developed a very concerning case of social awkwardness. his idea of a conversation involves a brick wall and thirty minutes of you staring at his resting bitch face. constantly looks like that one grumpy cat meme. judges you for your poor decisions but then gets aggressively defensive when you point out his own mistakes.

reeks of so much teen angst that even metallica can't save him. the problem is that he has nothing to back up his emo persona. his insults lack creativity and, unfortunately for him, phrases like "lukewarm" and "half-baked" and "hell" do not make his words carry more weight. uses the f-word but in the most embarrassing context that it makes you facepalm and internally cringe.

SAE

zero social awareness. this boy's head is empty. the lights are not on up there. there are no picture frames or furniture. the curtains are drawn, and there is not a sliver of clouds or sunshine. cannot read body language and does not know what a filter is.

the source of all of rin's stress. he is the original trauma projector, creator of generational cycles. not even subtle about it. "turns out i was wrong. i thought japan was incapable of ever giving birth to decent forwards." sir....with the way you worded that, you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave rin false hope.

swears but it's even worse than his brother. literally called his elders a "fatso and bob cut duo" and "insect turd." i mean....there is a line between what is considered a legitimate burn and what is a first grader making up insults in his coloring book.

has a horrible haircut and no fashion taste. i already talked about this previously, but it was so bad it deserved a second mention.

a freak but tries to justify it rationally. like what do you mean you can tell a person's athletic ability from their buttock size? just admit you have a kinky fetish already.

somewhat of a coward but i'm gonna give him some leniency due to his tragic child genius backstory. tbh he's just an eighteen-year-old boy who needs a goddamn break.

KAISER

alexa please play clown music. this man sets himself for failure and then wallows in self-pity when he actually fails. like what did you expect? you knew what was going to happen the moment you challenged isagi like that. it was most definitely your fault you got violently humbled.

has a borderline god complex (currently calls himself an emperor but has not evolved into a deity yet.) unfortunately, he does not stand on business. cue the dramatic meltdowns when he realizes there is an actual gap between his ability and his reputation. if you're going to lie, at least make it believable.

insecure and mentally unstable. he probably cuts and re-dyes his hair every single time shit happens. no wonder his locks get shorter every time.

lazy when it comes to anything that is not football and expects others to do it for him. demands princess treatment wherever he goes. unfortunately, not all of us have servants with no self-respect like ness.

"it is not enough that i should succeed, others should fail" type of person.

does not wear shoes and even if he does, it's sandals. put them grippers away.

NAGI

a literal sloth who has so much potential but uses none of it. has no intrinsic motivation of his own, so if he's going to do anything, it has to be you behind the wheel, making sure he gets put to work.

does not have a close relationship with his parents, and so he has no sense of community, holidays, or traditions. no fun at all if you want him to do things like christmas shopping or birthday celebrations.

rots in bed all day and then has to nerve to ask you to carry him around. your back better be strong because his 190 cm body is not going to be light.

not loyal (need i say more.)

REO

second male lead syndrome. also known as that one popular guy who's always picked last.

acts like a victim but then when you realistically tell him to how to change his situation he refuses to do so. you cannot ask for advice and then take none of it to heart. no wonder you're still not over your ex.

"i can fix him" mentality. no, you can't. you are a seventeen-year-old child, not a licensed therapist and nagi isn't even all that.

NESS

touch-starved to the point he will stay in a toxic and abusive relationship in order to gain some scrap of affection. just because you were the black sheep of your family does not mean you can lose all sense of personal dignity.

probably stalks all the people he hates. has a burn book like regina george from mean girls. cuts out and glues little pictures of kaiser all over his bedroom. doodles hearts all over it with glittery gel pen. isagi's face and name are scratched out of every team photo.

delusional and prone to mood swings. medicated but at this point, he is beyond saving.

ISAGI

a home wrecker. has ruined more relationships than he can count on ten fingers yet still manages to smile like he's some angelic saint.

solves jigsaw puzzles for a living (not very cool if you ask me.)

has some unresolved anger management issues. probably repressed all his negative feelings when he was younger, so it all comes out when he's on the field. unfortunately, his twilight-sparkle-friendship-is-magic agenda is not going to work if he keeps cussing out his teammates like that. but then again, he is the main character, so i guess his plot armor makes up for his pitfalls.

says that he's a good guy but then holds personal vendettas against rivals he doesn't like. boy was so ready to throw hands when #kaisagi was trending on the internet. but when you actually think about, he's similar to kaiser in more ways than he'd like to admit.

BAROU

has the worst case of high and mighty "holier-than-thou" attitude. isagi put his ego in check, but it still peeks out from time to time.

he was the ugliest baby when he was born. i am not going to hold back on the child barou slander because it is true. no, he was not a cute and lovable bundle of joy. he looked like a demonic gremlin.

he needs to take more risks in life and try cross-dressing. simply imagining him in a maid uniform will not suffice. it needs to be made into a reality.

with how nit-picky he is, i doubt people can realistically stay within a 1-meter radius around him. unless you are a clean freak yourself, his constant complaints will start to get annoying after a time. even if he does have good intentions, he needs to let people have a little breathing room sometimes. a messy room is not going to kill you.

BACHIRA

this boy's brain is smooth. no folds. no gray matter. no intelligence either. his pencil and eraser have been left untouched since day one. if he wasn't crazily good at football, he would be unemployed and homeless in the future. not even a mcdonald's wants him.

one of those people who will do the literal opposite of whatever you say. you want him to stop talking? well, now he's never going to shut up. you tell him not to step on a pile of dog shit? well, now he's going to walk right into it. you want him to quit running around and act normal? well, now it's his life's mission to make you as annoyed as possible. please pray for your hair follicles because at the end of the day, you're not going to have many left with how much he makes you want to tear your hair out.

has the cerebral capacity of a toddler. if he thinks monsters are real, he's going to think anything is real. super gullible when it comes to any form of scam, ploy, or trickery. the only way he would not be fooled is if he's also played the same prank before.

SHIDOU

a brazen pervert. says the most out-of-pocket things and refuses to apologize for them. sometimes it comes out a little too sleazy for your liking.

"to me a goal is fertilization! a shot is the seed and the goal is the egg!! and the birth of that joy i call an explosion!! my genes are gonna knock you up!" let us give ourselves a moment of silence to digest this quote. only shidou ryusei would come up with a sperm and egg metaphor to describe football. (i guess protection means nothing to him.)

has no empathy. if you dislike him or cannot keep up with him, you're a literal nobody in his books. no sportsmanship. no compassion. no self-awareness.

you cannot say "balls" to him in a serious tone without him misinterpreting it as something dirty. that alone should tell you enough. stay the hell away from him.

where do men get the audacity? right here. from this little bastard. he invented the term "shameless slut." boy was getting off during the u-20 arc and on live TV too. no wonder sae said he was disgusting.

and finally, he comes from a long line of cockroaches. he's even got the antennae to prove it.

i think this might have been a little excessive, but i have no regrets about it. you're welcome anon ♡

[kenziesimsblog]

STRUCK BY LOVE (SIMS 3 VERSION)

STRUCK BY LOVE SIMS 3 VERSION

ORIGINAL BY @fruitysimsy and @hellohopesims

(thank you so much for giving me permission to make a sims 3 version fruitysimsy <3)

ORIGINAL LEGACY LINK FOR THE RULES FOR THE SIMS 4 VERSION: https://www.tumblr.com/fruitysimsy/754868387871621120/im-like-hey-whats-up-hello-were?source=share

AND BLURBS FOR EACH GEN

3 traits are required each gen the others you can pick yourself since sims 4 only has 3 traits!

GEN 1 : AGE GAP

colors: brown and red

lifetime wish: professional author career: self employed writer traits: bookworm, over-emotional, hopeless romantic skills: charisma, handiness, and writing

goals: complete professional writer lifetime wish complete self-employed writer career max charisma , handiness and writing skills start dating + get pregnant by a sim 0-3 days after aging up into a young adult get married as an adult have at least one more child catch spouse cheating and move into an apartment fall in love with your young adult next door neighbor

GEN 2: GRUMPY X SUNSHINE

colors: green and neutral

lifetime wish: heartbreaker career: music (any branch) traits : commitment issues, grumpy, perfectionist skills: instruments and guitar

goals: complete heartbreaker lifetime wish complete music career max instruments and guitar skills travel to 3 different worlds before beginning career woohoo with a sim each night you are gone have a self discovery and lose your "commitment issues" trait marry a previous one night stand (must have excitable trait) have at least 2 kids

GEN 3: SINGLE PARENT AND THE NANNY

colors: blue and pink

lifetime wish: celebrated five star chef career: culinary traits: diva, natural cook, perfectionist skills: cooking, charisma and mixology

goals: complete celebrated five star chef lifetime wish complete cooking, charisma and mixology skills go to uni and get a degree in fine arts before starting career move in with single parent and become a full time caregiver for there child fall in love and marry the single parent complete culinary career have 2 more kids

GEN 4: BEST FRIENDS BROTHER

colors: purple and green

lifetime wish: the perfect garden career: self-employed gardener traits: green thumb, hopeless romantic, loves the outdoors skills: gardening and nectar making (optional get the flower arranging mod)

goals: complete the perfect garden lifetime wish complete gardener career max gardening and nectar making skills secretly date your best friends elder brother accidentally get pregnant before announcing your relationship have one set of multiples have the same best friend your whole life

GEN 5: ENEMIES TO LOVERS

colors: blue and maroon

lifetime wish: CEO of mega cooperation career: business traits: athletic, genius , hopeless romantic skills: charisma, logic and athletic

goals: complete CEO lifetime wish complete business career complete athletic, logic and charisma skills have a get together once a week with friends fall in love and marry your workplace rival have at least 3 kids

GEN 6: LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

colors: orange and yellow

lifetime wish: physical perfection career: professional sports traits: athletic, adventurous, snob skills: athletic, logic and martial arts

goals: complete physical perfection lifetime wish complete professional sports career complete skills go to uni for physical education and marry a fellow jock go to spa twice a week and jog everyday before work have a self discovery and lose snob trait have at least one set of multiples

GEN 7: SIBLING RIVALRY

colors: lime green and pink

lifetime wish: swimming in cash career: none or a self employed traits: adventurous, disciplined, dramatic skills: athletic, social networking and collecting

goals: complete lifetime wish complete career if chosen complete skills after graduation move in with sibling fight with sibling over the same sim marry that sim have at least one child

GEN 8: FRIENDS W/ BENEFITS

colors: gold and navy

lifetime wish: the tinkerer career: real estate (according to carls guide its a career) traits : schmoozer, dramatic, ambitious skills: charisma, handiness, and inventing

goals: complete lifetime wish complete skills become friends w benefits with a tenant from purchased apartment complex fall in love with FWB and get married move to riverview or appaloosa plains to start family own at least one horse have at least 3 kids

GEN 9: CHILDHOOD SWEETHEARTS

colors: orange and cream

lifetime wish: surrounded by family career: stay at home mom traits: animal lover, family oriented, irresistible skills: riding , gardening and painting

goals: complete lifetime wish complete skills win at least 3 horse competitions have at least one horse (if possible get cows and chickens from sims 3 store or for free) marry childhood best friend have as many children as possible barely use electronics

GEN 10: SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE

colors: red and purple

lifetime wish: surrounded by family career: education career traits: family oriented , hopeless romantic , genius skills: athletic , logic, and charisma

goals: complete lifetime wish complete education career complete skills have one partner during high school have a pregnancy scare before going to uni and break up marry someone you meet a uni lose your spouse run into your ex and give them a second chance