#it was an impossibility for me. and now its so near. so terribly near

[snazzi-strawberri]

AAAA college applications AAAA college entrance exams AAAAAA COLLEGE AAAAAAAAAA IM NOT READY FOR COLLEGE AAAAUUUUUUUUGHHHHGGGGGGG

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[snowballseal]

hihiiii I adoreee your writing, it’s so good! genuinely so fun to read. if it’s not too much trouble, could I possibly request some sylus fluff?

maybe something along the lines of MC craving lots of affection/being a bit clingy towards him and just wanting to be near him after a while of being apart?

absolutely no rush or obligations if this doesn’t exactly pique your interest!! have a lovely day ❤️

Soft

Sylus X Reader (LaDS)

Summary: Just a little fic of you and Sylus reuniting after a while apart. You doesn't want to be apart from him and he obliges.

Word Count: 818

Note: Hi anon! I know this isn't super long, but I hope you like it! I love describing how soft Sylus can be for MC, and it felt like a cute, simple piece. I can write something longer if you'd like, just let me know!

---

“Sylus!”

The man lets out a low chuckle as you practically throw yourself at him. He catches you with practiced ease, arms wrapping securely around your waist as he spins you around. It’s like one of those cheesy romance flicks, other travelers rushing around you to greet their own waiting families, a bubbly yet tired kind of mirth warming the frigid, fall air.

It had been a month since you’d seen Sylus. A long, grueling, horrible month. While you love your job, you hate the extended training camps you have to attend every few years. Always in the middle of nowhere. Always with limited contact with the outside world. Limited contact with Sylus.

You don’t know how many nights you spent staring at the blank walls of your tiny dorm room, sleep nowhere to be found when all you could think about was how much you missed his touch, his warmth, him. It was like being terribly homesick, and all you wanted was to be back in his arms.

And now you are.

Even when your feet touch the ground again, you don’t want to let go. And neither does Sylus. His arms stay curled around your waist, face tucked against your hair as he pulls you impossibly closer, just breathing you in. You all but melt into his warmth, nuzzling against his chest with a happy, content noise.

“My, my, it seems my little kitten missed me,” he murmurs, low and teasing against your ear. You can practically hear the smirk curling his lips.

“Can you blame me?” You draw back a fraction to pout up at him. Those vermillion eyes glint down at you with a smug amusement, but you don’t mind fanning his ego a little right now. “We barely even got the chance to talk on the phone. It was awful and cold and exhausting. I don’t know why they wanted us training in the north, we were all just a bunch of sad popsicles.”

“Mm, sounds quite tragic,” Sylus hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. Your theatrics are endearing, and who is he to not play along? Hands tracing slowly up and down your waist, Sylus gives you a look of teasing sympathy, “Poor kitten. Perhaps I should take you home and find a way to warm you up, hm?”

Home. God, you love the sound of that. You’re home. With him. The thought fills your chest with a fluttering sort of excitement.

“Home sounds perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling back into him with an absolutely giddy smile. “Just, don’t let me go, mkay?”

The man softens and for a moment, he’s not Sylus the leader of Onychinus. He’s just Sylus. Your Sylus.

You make him different. You turn him into something soft, something tender, with your love. Like a balm soothing his sharp edges, his harsh nature. He never thought himself capable of such gentleness until he held you, until he felt the plushness of your body in his hands. Even though you are one of Linkon’s most capable hunters, something in him desires to treat you like porcelain, something otherwise vicious and bloody. Like a feral dog, licking your chin, body curved to be small and nonthreatening despite the sharpness of its fangs pressed against your skin.

And you never once flinched. Never once pulled away from his hands, even when his grip would edge on painful, even when his teeth would sink into your skin with a sinful need to possess something so soft, so sweet.

Though, he’ll play nice tonight, seeing as your body curls so tiredly into his, practically all your weight in his arms.

“Alright, sweetie,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I accept your conditions. You won’t have to worry about anything tonight, I’ll take good care of you.”

You hum your approval, though it sounds more like a purr. A smirk dancing across his lips, Sylus leans down and curls an arm under you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. He grabs your bag with his other hand, and starts back towards his motorcycle.

You forget all about the cold that night. Even the soreness in your muscles seems to fade away as you lay curled against Sylus’ side on his couch, a large, fluffy blanket thrown over the both of you, some movie humming quietly in the background.

And Sylus keeps his word. Not once does he let you go. Even when you start to yawn, eyelids heavy with sleep, Sylus simply lays out across the couch and drags you over his body, until you can stretch out like a cat over his chest. He keeps an arm locked around your waist, making sure you won’t fall as you finally, finally give in to the sleep your body so desperately needs.

It’s perfect.

He’s perfect.

And you hope you never have to go on another blasted training mission again.

---

I'll be real, I think my personal headcannon is that Sylus is like a feral yet loyal dog. I use the comparison a lot, I feel. Like, he can be vicious and wild, but he'd bow for you, he'd get himself killed for you (if he could lol). He would have a loyalty so unwavering, and that's terrifying in a way. But also? Kinda sexy 👀

[thewritetofreespeech]

Nowhere is Safe

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: you are awoken in the middle of the night to find out your nephew-in-law is dead and Aemond is trying to throw you out.

----------------------------⚔️--------------------------------

It was the dead of night. Which seemed to be when the most horrible, cruel, inconceivable things tended to happen.

You were fast asleep when the commotion woke you. The feeling like a dream. To the point that you try to ignore it and follow the path of more pleasant dreams fading off into your mind’s distance. The door flinging open, nearly off its hinges, was what fully woke you. “Bleeding hells!!”

“Thank the Gods you’re alright.”

You had seen wild looks in Aemond’s eye before. His schemes. His dark thoughts. His cunning designs. But this wild look was not something you were familiar with. Fear. Enough to invoke the Gods? Something you were fairly certain he didn’t even believe in. “What’s going on?”

The prince said nothing as he rushed across the room with all the speed & grace those years of fighting had afforded him and took you in his arms. Aemond was nowhere near as cruel as Aegon, but he wasn’t one for overly affectionate displays. The closest he would come were peaceful, tender moments after your most intimate times. Now you were starting to sprout fear. “Jaehaerys is dead.”

You pulled back from Aemond to look at him in disbelief. His expression smooth and calm like always. Impossible to read for most, but you knew he was telling the truth. “What?! How?!”

“He was murdered by an assassin in our walls.”

The words are so impossible to believe that you think you might still be dreaming. Yes. Dreaming. This was all a bad nightmare. A terrible nightmare. Who would murder a child?! Who would murder someone within the castle walls? Yes, this was war, but deep down you thought none of them really meant to hurt one another. A child….

“You need to pack.”

Startled from your thoughts and swelling grief at Aemond’s words as he moved away, already helping himself to one of your trunks, you manage to ask, “What…? Why? Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He was already throwing all manner things into your trunk. Books, trinkets, some sheer manner of clothing that was more decorative than clothing. All of it going into the trunk with reckless abandon. “Aemond. Aemond stop. Aemond look at me!” He eventually stopped when you grabbed his arm. Ready to throw a vase, flowers, water, and all, in with the rest. “I’m not going anywhere. Alright. I’m not.”

“You have to.” He insisted. “The palace isn’t safe. We must get you somewhere—“If the Keep isn’t safe, then nowhere is safe.”

Aemond seemed to want to argue, but his jaw shut and closed tight. Those sharp lines in his face looking like daggers in his anger. Because he knew you were right. If they could get in here, they could get in anywhere. And more the fools they, but the point was that nowhere was safe now.

“You can’t stay here. I…I cannot protect you here.”

That’s why he was afraid, you realize. Not that you might be dead, though he would torrent the skies if that had been true, but he was scared he couldn’t protect you.

You wrap your arms around Aemond and hold him tight. Who would be next in this ridiculous feud? Aegon’s other children? Rhaenyra other sons? Helaena? Aemond himself?

You feel your grief mounting as you think on it. Who would be next, and who was now lost. Of Jaehaerys sweet face and how you would comment often that you hoped your future children were half as sweet as him. He’d make a fine king, as long as he spent less time with his father. He..would…have made a fine king.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Aemond lifted your head from his chest. “You need to leave.” He brushed the tears from your cheeks, but they all scatter again as you shook your head furiously.

“No. Never.” How could you leave him here, alone, in this place. Where nothing and no one was safe. If you were to die it would be with Aemond. It was the promise you made after all.

The prince let out a sigh. More heaving of shoulder than want of sound. Then he pulled you into his arms again. “You’re a damned fool.” Still, he doesn’t ask you again.

part II III IIII

[hungharrington]

okay steve definitely wouldn’t care about body hair, but i just know that man goes feral over your freshly shaved, smoooooth legs

i took this to make him a sillay boyfriend 🫶 sorry if u wanted HAWTNESS this is just silly LUV…. forgive me

The sheets feel cool against your bare legs.

You can feel the scratch of your hair tucked against your neck but you’re too content, all but sinking into the mattress, to be bothered to move it. Your legs are tucked up, your arms splayed wide across the bed. You’ve just done the hard job of an everything-shower and lying down is your well-earned reward.

Across the room, Steve pulls the curtains to cover the window. Shadow falls across the room, banished after a moment when Steve pads to the bed, turning on the lamp. Amber coats the ceiling.

It’s balmy tonight. You feel warm without even being under the covers. Dozing off sounds like a pretty amazing idea right now.

“Not falling asleep with me, are ya?”

You smile at the sound of Steve’s voice, lifting your heavy eyelids to gaze at him.

He looks scruffy the same way he always does at the end of the day. His hair has lost some of its magnificent volume and he’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt from high school. You can see the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow on his jawline. He’s gorgeous.

And you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. The thought makes you smile wider.

“Mm,” you hum, definitely giving away your sleepiness. “Nope.”

A warm hand touches your knee, Steve’s hand reaching out and rubbing it tenderly. He tsks playfully. “You’re not fooling anyone, baby.”

You huff a quiet laugh and let your eyes fall back closed. Steve’s touch has always had a magnetic property, drawn to you whenever he’s near. It has a similar effect on your heart, which always feels like it’s surging forward in your chest to reach him.

The touch shifts, skimming down your shinbone. You expect him to maybe begin a half-hearted massage on your calves— he’s prone to giving them to you— but then, unexpectedly there’s another touch added to your legs.

You lift your head, peering down at him with squinted eyes. He’s crouched down beside the bed and he’s rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin of your legs.

When he knows he’s been spotted, he only grins, shifting his cheek again. “You’re so… smooooth.”

There’s definitely awe in his voice. You laugh, a real laugh this time, and shake your head. You should really stop being surprised when Steve’s a dork — he’s proven to be one time and time again. If you didn’t know different, you might assume this was his first ever relationship.

“Mhmm,” You hum. “That’s part of the appeal, handsome.”

Something glitters in Steve’s eyes at your pet name for him and his grin melts into something softer. His hand on your shin moves again, stroking softly up your calf. His face shows his bewilderment at your supremely smooth skin— and then betrays the look of mischief that crosses his face.

Your brows furrow instinctively. “Steve—” You warn.

He does it anyway, turning and licking one big stroke up your knee. You squeal, surprised at the sensation, and jerk your leg away from him.

“Steve!”

“What!” He mimics your tone, finally getting up onto the bed and crawling up to meet you. He’s smirking, looking terribly proud of himself. He plops himself down, half of his weight pressing into your shoulder as he nuzzles himself into your neck.

“S’just wanna a little taste, that a crime?”

His breath is hot and almost tickles against your neck. It’s impossible not to dissolve into quiet giggles, leaning into him. He snakes an arm around your waist, pulling the two of you closer.

“You’re a dork.”

You can feel the little puff of air he lets out in a laugh as well as the smile that spreads on his mouth. He pokes his tongue out, a minuscule touch against your neck that has you shrieking again— except this time, Steve’s holding you too tight to squirm away.

“Mmhm,” He says. “Your dork.”

You grin, turning to nose against his temple and make a noise of agreement. “Absolutely.”

[silkjade]

alhaitham x mermaid!reader (3)

⤀ warnings: fem!reader, no pronouns mentioned, reader has hair long enough to be pinned a/n: recommended to read the previous parts first, since this is a direct continuation next ﾉ series masterlist ﾉ bonus (18+) ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓇼

When you first step foot into Sumeru City’s grand bazaar, you're immediately taken aback by the atmosphere. It's too loud, feels too stifling — a far cry from the vast and silent depths of the ocean, or the peaceful serenity of the forest. Even port ormos, had at least a lovely sea breeze. But you've come so far, it'd be a waste not to experience this lively city to its fullest.

“This necklace should only be worn by someone as beautiful as you!”

“Ditch those drab clothes and come see this new fabric from Liyue!”

“I guarantee these sunsettias are sweet like you!”

"Can I buy you a drink tonight?"

It's already a little dizzying to be so far inland, but the way all these humans vie for your attention, on top of the musicians and screaming children in the background… it’s a lot to take in so suddenly. Covering your ears helps a little, but not nearly enough to drown out the cacophony. You don’t even care to react when a strong arm wraps around your waist and leads you away.

Alhaitham guides you towards an isolated corner nearby, shooting a glare at any who dares look your way. He speaks to you in your native tongue; his pronunciation has become near flawless with your help.

“Are you alright?”

Both your head and your heart seem to settle a bit at the familiarity.

"It's a little much is all... just need some time to adjust."

To play it safe, Alhaitham removes his soundproof earpieces, placing them on you instead, and switches it on to the lowest setting. He's no fan of the noise either, but he's used to it; he'll be fine.

"Oh isn't this beautiful? And i'm sure it'll look even better on me!"

Alhaitham rolls his eyes. You're gushing over a hairpin while he stands beside you, arms full carrying assorted jewelry, trinkets large and small, a carpet, and a basketful of zaytum peaches. Mermaids and their vanity and their affinity for pretty things… at least you’re helping the local economy.

However, there’s currently only one issue and it isn’t the mora — it's the merchant who has him blacklisted.

"That'll be two million mora for the hairpin."

Now that he cannot justify. It's well crafted and beautifully embedded with crystal ore, but definitely not worth even half of what dori is asking for; only a fool would pay that price. Underhanded as it may be, he manages to swipe a similar hairpin that peaks out from under the large pile of accessories. Besides, all the times lord sangemah bay has overcharged him on information sales is far from a mere two million mora.

Dinner at Lambad’s is interrupted by a trio of colorfully clad men who seem to be on familiar terms with Alhaitham. You had always read him as more of a loner, and had seemed to be correct in your assumptions until now.

"I have some business to attend to, but I'll be back shortly. In the meantime, these are my... acquaintances. You can trust them."

“Would it kill you to call us your friends?” says the intimidating, purple one.

The blonde one laughs into oblivion when he sees Alhaitham leave with his arms full of your many purchases in tow.

…

“Ah, so you’re a diver. There’s a specific deep sea coral I’ve been dying to study, but it’s been impossible to get a sample. Would you be interested in working together? I'll be sure to compensate you well.”

You agree to Tighnari’s proposal; it would be no trouble as the dragon bone coral he speaks of is easy to find if you know where to look. Across the table, Cyno let's out a chuckle.

“You sea…,” a pause for dramatic effect, “you said ‘sure’ which can also be construed as ‘shore.’ As in, the land along the edge of the sea.”

Kaveh orders a round of firewater shots to drown out the pain of cyno’s terrible sense of humor. Unfortunately, alhaitham returns to find out you’re quite the lightweight.

…

He carries you on his back all the way home, listening to your drunken rambles along the way. You seemed to have had fun with his friends, but there’s a corner of his mind that can’t help but wonder if you now find him boring in comparison.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“Wanna know a secret?” you slur, giggling. “I enjoy the time I spend with you the most.”

With that said, you nuzzle closer into the crook of his neck and Alhaitham feels his face heat up all the way to the tips of ears. Mermaids are proud and rarely ever reveal their true feelings, so he counts himself lucky to have heard yours. Your soft breathing tickles his skin. He’s glad you’re asleep now, knowing that you would’ve teased him again otherwise.

Once home, Alhaitham sets you on the living room divan before leaving to prepare the bath. The aforementioned business he had to attend to, was purchasing salt. In bulk. He figured you’d need saltwater to rehydrate, as it’s been a few days since you’ve last been in any water. And a saltwater bath would surely be less of a hassle to deal with than a shriveled up mermaid.

The way your legs meld back into a tail is mesmerizing, especially with how your scales shimmer to life in the water. It quickly sobers you up. He’s about to leave but…

“Not even going to keep me company? I stayed with you all night at the cove you know.”

There it is. Alhaitham turns back around just in time to see the little grin on your face, as you rest your arms along the edge of the tub while your long tail hangs over the other end. He doesn’t know much of mermaid physiology but it’s enough to assume the saltwater, makeshift as it may be, has successfully sobered you up.

“I’m going to bed. You should get some sleep as well.”

“But I’m not tired.”

“I am. Goodnight.” And he leaves. Though eventually, he does return with a stack of books and papers.

“These are old studies I pulled from the Akademiya regarding the dark sea. Since you’ve got the energy, mind fact checking? Just be careful not to get them wet.”

He sets them down on a nearby stool before a splash of water hits him right in the face.

“How about with some compensation then?” he says, pulling out the hairpin he had swiped from dori.

It’s similar to the one you had previously fawned over, though it’s laid with nagadus emerald instead, which he thought suited you much better than plain crystal ore. Unbeknownst to him, you had liked the first because its cyan stones reminded you of those he would toss in the water upon arriving at the cove. However, you adore this one for the way the emerald gems seem to match the very one sitting on his chest. You think you’ll cherish it forever.

“Will you put it on for me?”

His touch is surprisingly gentle, careful not to accidentally tug too hard. Alhaitham’s seen Kaveh put up his hair enough times to replicate a simple style. Easier said than done as it turns out to be less than stellar, sitting slant and loose. At least he tried.

“Well? How does it look?”

Light reflects off the gems in your hair and into the water, casting an iridescent glow that bounces across the room, dancing onto your skin. Anyone could say that even the brightest of jewels dull in the face of your otherworldly beauty. Only he can say that in this moment, in his bathroom, you look more perfect than the moon shining through the window behind you.

“I think it’d look even more flattering if you were reading,” he glances down, “Enigmatic Depths: An Empirical Study of the Ocean and Beyond.”

Another splash of water hits his face.

next (4) ﾉ bonus (3.5) n’sfw

a/n2: If you're already on the taglist, you'll be tagged for any future parts (just lmk if you'd like to be added/removed) ^^ I also kind of want to do an 18+ bonus part in the future, but no taglist for that since I don't want to jumpscare anyone lmao (unless you guys want one idk but have your age in bio pls) Anyways, thank you for reading ♡

© silkjade — do not steal, plagiarize, translate or repost any content onto any other platform

[vinjinssunglasses]

—————————————————————————

character: kim gitae

summary: him in a relationship w u <33

start: 23 aug

end: 25 aug

a/n: we don’t know much ab him yet, so this definitely had me thinking but he is definitely a red flag 🙏

—————————————————————————

✮ Not the type of guy to chase after people, but he was thrown off balance after you left him a bitter taste in his mouth. It stirred a yearning within that was hard to ignore. That’s when he found himself having a tendency to shadow your every move, unable to overcome the need to be near you, even if it meant watching at a distance.

✮ Gitae wouldn’t outright ask for your affection; instead he’d either catch you off guard or simply command you. Softly whispering, ‘Kiss me,’ into your ear as he’d edge his face closer to yours. You respond with a quick peck on the lips, the sudden close proximity and his soft breath against your ear sending shivers down your spine, all getting you flustered. Even after you fulfilled what his request, he’d still give you an intense, expecting look. That’s when it hits you — he’s craving more than just a small peck, he has an appetite for something that’ll leave you both breathless.

✮ Gitae takes you out in the most expensive and extravagant of dates, preferring a candlelit table and a glass of the finest wine. In his mind, a girl like you deserves nothing but the best, so he effortlessly swipes his card on whatever you ask for, ensuring you have whatever your heart desires.

✮ Gitae’s a ruthless guy who’s never shown affection properly, until you came and taught him how be loved properly. He hates how you tug his strings and push his boundaries, yet loves how you gently coax him to confide in you, bit by bit. It’s a long, slow process that’ll make any impatient person want to pull their hair out, but seeing how docile and cute he is in your arms, you remain determined.

✮ His love language is definitely verbal (as well as physical). Words like “I love you” don’t come out of his mouth easily, he only reserves them to the most intimate of moments, which is why he holds it in such high regard. But Gitae’s undeniably weak in the knees for praises like: “you’re perfect”, “I’m so lucky to have you”. These words have their own way of lifting his spirits for the rest of the day, leaving him unusually distracted as he savours their impact.

✮ Gitae struggles with emotional intimacy; telling all his deepest thoughts to another is almost impossible. Yet when you ruffle your fingers through his hair and whisper endearing words in his ear, Gitae finds himself accidentally spilling some of the emotions he’s been desperately bottling up.

✮ Gitae lacks the ability to express himself correctly, when he pushes you away suddenly you don’t even know what to think. What went wrong? You replay the events that took place in your head —second-guessing yourself and this relationship— but nothing adds up. Then, when you awake the next morning after a late night, you notice a handwritten note with a bouquet of flowers resting on your nightstand. A simple gesture like this speaks volumes louder than anyones words could — his way of expressing the words that he can’t verbalise, attempting to make things right again after he realised his own mistake.

✮ He’s terrible at cooking. After the waking up, you stumble to the kitchen, drawn the smell of eggs and bacon — but you can’t help but notice something about the smell seems off.

“Good morning.” Gitae calls out as he flips an egg, yet you just can’t take your eyes off his muscular, scarred body which was unexpectedly softened by your pastel pink apron tied around his waist. At first, you despised that apron for its childish design, but now you can’t help but love it. Putting the pan aside, he dishes the plate in front of you and leans over the counter, proud and eager to hear your thoughts. As you stare at the plate with a forced smile, a mixture of disgust and guilt churning in your stomach. Gitae’s your boyfriend, and the last thing you want is to disappoint him, however you can’t even imagine having that anywhere near your mouth, let alone near you.

✮ He can come off as controlling, especially when the grip on your waist tightens as you talk to another man, masking his sour expression with a strained smile.

ׂ╰┈➤ On that note, he’s easily jealous and possessive, and successfully hides it under his composed exterior. If he feels that another man is flirting with you, he’ll subtly assert dominance to let him now that your his —and only his. He doesn’t share, and he ensures it obvious.

✮ When he gets close to you, he starts to relax and become clingy, a stark contrast to his usual, unapproachable demeanour. He typically dislikes being in such close contact with others, keeping others at an arms length. But when it comes to you, it’s different. He finds warmth in your touch, when you run your fingers through his hair and rub his back. It’s as if his hands have a mind of their own, wandering all over your body as though possessed. He can’t help but let his lips brush against yours, pulling you in closer for a deeper embrace. ׂ╰┈➤ Despite everything, he’s still the same guy. After a night spent cuddling you wake up with an unfamiliar chill in the air, you impulsively reach out for Gitae for warmth — only to find the space beside you is empty..?

What is he even afraid of? is it getting too attached to you? Being to vulnerable around someone? Getting too attached to you? Or having you as his weakness? He disappears for a day or two, but when he returns, you can see the internal struggle written over his face as he eagerly clings to you. The familiar blend of cigarettes, alcohol and men’s cologne, a bittersweet reminder of what it felt like to have his arms around you again. Rightfully, you were angry, distraught and confused, but the relief took over as you cuddle him for what felt like hours.

Having been subjected to a live of crime, money and harsh realities, he’s learned to put walls up around him to learn how to survive in a world of deception and bloodshed. He yearns to let you in, to show you the world he’s confined himself in, yet, the walls only grow thicker and higher than before despite his hardest efforts.

[emma23]

One jail sentence at a time:

Poe dameron x reader

————————————————————————

The Resistance base was alive with its usual hum of activity—pilots running drills, mechanics working on X-wings, and droids zipping by with messages and supplies. In the middle of it all was Poe Dameron, leaning casually against his beloved Black One, his dark curls tousled by the breeze as he talked with Finn.

From across the hangar, Y/N watched them, arms crossed, debating whether or not to approach. Her track record with Poe was... complicated. Every conversation between them seemed to veer into a snark-off, with him coming out the charming victor each time. She, on the other hand, just managed to embarrass herself—repeatedly.

“Alright, Y/N,” she muttered under her breath, “it’s just Poe. He’s human. He can bleed... probably.”

She stepped forward, mustering her confidence. Finn noticed her first and flashed her a bright smile.

“Hey, Y/N!” he called, “we were just talking about you.”

“Oh, great,” she deadpanned, “nothing terrifying about that at all.”

Finn chuckled, but Poe’s smirk was unmistakable as he turned to face her. “Y/N, there you are. Finally ready to admit I’m the better pilot?”

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms tighter. “If by ‘better’ you mean ‘reckless,’ then sure.”

He grinned wider. “Reckless gets the job done.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. Damn it, he was impossible to hate.

“So, what’s new with you?” Poe asked, and for a moment, there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his gaze. Y/N could sense this was one of those rare moments where they weren't just sparring.

“Not much,” she shrugged, leaning against the wall near him. “Got myself into a bit of trouble the other day. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “Trouble? Now I’m interested.”

Y/N sighed dramatically, “Well, I’ll tell you this much: jail is no fun.”

Poe blinked, his smirk replaced with an expression of surprise. “Wait, you’ve been in jail?”

She grinned at him mischievously. “Once... in a game.”

Poe laughed—actually laughed—and Y/N felt a small surge of victory. His laughter was contagious, and soon Finn was chuckling too.

“You had me for a second there,” Poe said, shaking his head. “Almost believed it.”

“Almost?” she teased. “You totally bought it.”

Finn, sensing the moment between them, cleared his throat. “I’ll just... go check on Rey.” He waved, walking off, leaving Y/N and Poe standing in the emptying hangar.

The silence between them stretched out, but it wasn’t awkward. For once, Y/N didn’t feel like she had to constantly prove herself around him.

“So, what’s it really like?” Poe asked, leaning a little closer, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “This... ‘jail’ you speak of.”

“Terrifying,” she said, playing along. “The guards are relentless, the food’s terrible, and don’t even get me started on the droids.”

Poe’s lips twitched. “Sounds like a real nightmare.”

“Oh, it was,” she replied, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “But don’t worry, I’m a survivor.”

His gaze shifted, landing on her lips for just a second too long. “Yeah, you are.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. Damn it, why did he have to be so smooth? She looked away, trying to focus on literally anything else.

Poe took a step closer, his voice lowering. “You know, you’re kind of a mystery, Y/N.”

She raised an eyebrow, forcing herself to meet his gaze again. “A mystery? How so?”

“Well, one minute you’re giving me grief,” he said, his tone playful but with an edge, “and the next... you’re in ‘jail.’ You’ve got layers.”

Y/N huffed, rolling her eyes. “I’m not that complicated.”

He grinned. “No? I don’t know... I’m still figuring you out.”

She felt the tension between them shift, something unspoken passing in the air. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “You’re not exactly easy to read either, Dameron.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s confusing about me?”

Y/N swallowed. This was it. The moment where she should make an excuse, laugh it off, and leave before she said something dumb. But instead, she found herself stepping closer, her heart racing.

“Everything,” she said softly. “You’re... complicated too.”

For a split second, Poe’s charming bravado dropped. He looked at her, really looked at her, and something softened in his expression. “Maybe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe you just haven’t been paying close enough attention.”

Y/N blinked, her breath catching. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Poe’s lips were on hers, gentle at first but quickly deepening as she responded.

Her mind spun. She was kissing Poe Dameron. Poe Dameron. And, holy stars, he was good at this.

They broke apart for a moment, both slightly breathless.

“So...” she whispered, trying to sound casual, “was that part of the jail interrogation process?”

Poe chuckled, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Nah, that was just for fun.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “I’ve had worse punishments.”

He grinned. “And I can think of worse places to be stuck with you.”

They both laughed, the tension melting into something more comfortable. But before either of them could say more, Poe added with a teasing smirk, “Besides... you do smell like vanilla. And I love vanilla.”

Y/N burst out laughing, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. She kissed him again, softer this time, her laughter mingling with his.

“And you,” she whispered against his lips, “are ridiculous.”

He grinned, pulling her close. “Yeah, but you like it.”

[cu7ie]

𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝. | kaveh, al haitham

˚✦ ៸៸ ₊˚ cw: HARD NON-CON. fear, manhandling. no penetrative sex. oral (pussy-licking). hybrid!kaveh and al haitham. my first time writing for GI. yandere themes. trusting reader. reader has a vagina. reader is referred to as an 'it' (by Al Haitham) and 'they' (Kaveh). forgive me for ooc-ness. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

˚✦ ៸៸ ₊˚ an: @187-mg i told you about this and i was just like fuck it let me uhhh write it first! listen at first this was a fun horny moment then i got too analytical i need critique 💀 i kinda love it though

You happen upon these wolves, who don't seem interested in you at first pass. You're just a passerby looking to spend time with your grandma, a little ways off in the woods, nothing terribly interesting to the likes of them,

but then they start trailing slowly behind

asking more questions (Kaveh), demanding answers (Al Haitham).

They are talking among themselves in whispers you can t discern, too busy making sure the soup inside your basket doesn't spill and that mud doesn't clump up on your nice shoes !

It's getting dark quicker than you thought it would though. 

And you don't think you're anywhere near your grandmother's house (Kaveh, so gracious to offer help with directions) and when you think to call their names, you turn around and

You see the moonlight reflected in their eyes. They look solid. Alhaitham has extended to his full height, and only in the absence of light does it feel ominous. 

Kaveh's warm smile has faded away in the dark, but you can see the glint of Al Haitham's fangs and -

What's going on? The wind howls faintly and you clam up all the sudden, sweaty palms clasping tightly on your wicker basket as your boot squishes in mud.

"Ah… Well, thank- uh- thank you sirs. I think I can find my own way… now." And you immediately dart off into the woods. Your basket clinks a little noisily, and you're already impossible to miss because whatever's in there smells so good.

Not as good as you though, Al Haitham is sure to point out to Kaveh, so maybe that's why when you dart off, Al Haitham is already at your heels.

Kaveh was trying to tell him to be patient. Humans are afraid of things like thunder, sudden snapping twigs, so he can just imagine your reaction to hulking behemoths such as them, able to break you with the flick of a wrist-

"But that's what we're going to do. Break them. So I don't see why we should pretend we won't." Kaveh's ears flattened against his head and he didn't speak on it further, watching Alhaitham size you up in anticipation of your escape

and when you do, Alhaitham's just a blur on the edge of Kaveh's vision.

Kaveh is quicker to follow. You're yelling out his name in desperate fear, and he catches the tail end of Alhaitham flipping your skirt up and clawing your panties off, grazing your flesh and getting taken over by your delicious terror. The tip of his claw etches a reminder into your thigh, tears dripping down the side of your face.

Your basket is tossed on its side, contents carelessly spilled along the forest floor.

Your struggle renews somewhat as Kaveh comes close enough for you to see - he's behind Al haitham’s mass so for a second you don't - and you cry out for help again.

Kaveh has his own qualms about this - you're terrified and he's tired of feeling like a monster - but Al haitham operating on animal impulse makes him feel a distinct shame as well as a trickle of jealousy

Kaveh was willing to wait. He's known of you for longer, made it a habit to see you around the woods, tending to your garden, humming along with songbirds, your bubble of reality utterly endearing. He mentioned it once. Let it slip to Al Haitham. Telling him was a distinct inevitability. Also the biggest mistake of his life.

And he couldn’t have expected Al Haitham to take to you at all - what with his inclination to contentedness, Kaveh imagined you’d be a blip on his radar.

But he ends up just as taken by you. He starts asking for what Kaveh knows; and when that well of information goes dry, he makes plans to go straight to its source.

Not to say Kaveh didn't intend to - but there's the way humans do things and the way they do things. A right and wrong. Mating rituals dictate that upon breeding, a bond has been made. Bonds further strengthened by a mark.

Humans court, and give gifts, and have long talks, spend time together ...

Kaveh was willing to try. Al Haitham is too stubborn.

Al Haitham doesn’t understand pretending to be something he is not. Human tradition is just meandering fluff.

He'll breed you so good you'll never think about anything else. If Kaveh wants out, so be it.

But he can't leave you there, begging and pleading and crying for him as the head of Al Haitham’s cock prods at your folds. You're so small. Al Haitham might kill you if he's not careful - and then what? Kaveh steps forward again,

"Al Haitham. Don't be so rough, you're scaring them." Hunched over you like a vulture over carrion, Al Haitham eyes Kaveh, furiously ablaze and downright feral. "Don't tell me what to do. You’re anxious to act, and stall when opportunity reveals itself.

“If you don’t want any-” “No!”

Kaveh’s snarl doesn’t intimidate Al Haitham, but maybe the fangs poised at his neck make him hesitate. The gap between them is closed in but a moment, and Al Haitham jerks his head upwards to dislodge his friend’s grip in one firm shake. He is unsuccessful.

Kaveh’s intervention only seemed to exacerbate Al Haitham’s irritation, before his expression wanes into something more reasonable. Less blood lusty and more level headed, eyes darting off to something more pressing.

"Kaveh." Al Haitham huffs, relatively calmer as Kaveh withdraws from his neck. 

"It’s getting away."

You might have twisted your ankle when Al Haitham tackled you to the floor but you're able to make some distance when they squabble, desperately clawing bald patches of grass and getting dirt under your nails.

they are much faster, and they can make up proper after they figure out what to do with you.

"They're so small..." Kaveh chimes, his pupils dilated as his expression seems to glow.

They talk about you as if you're not right in front of them, trembling and terrified.

"Is that a problem? I thought you liked it tight."

Kaveh shoots him an irritated glare. "Al Haitham. Please." You're crying again.

"You have a nice mouth." When he's not being utterly insufferable. "Maybe show them what that's like?"

Al Haitham snorts like Kaveh’s said something funny. "I'm serious! Let's just do it right this time, okay?"

He blinks once at Kaveh, looking down at where he has your legs spread, moves his clawed hands slowly. Al Haitham huffs harshly, looking down at you with those predator eyes, like you offended his senses.

"Ass up, pup." His tail thumps against the floor, betraying the anger writ over his face. "P-please no! I -"

Whenever you don't move as fast as he wants you to, Al Haitham moves for you. You learn that quick as he flips you over, your tear streaked face now looking at the other, 'kinder' wolf. Kaveh is the worst.

He's trying to make it easier for you, yes. He cradles your face in his clawed hands and coos at you about how beautiful he thinks you are, and how Al Haitham’s not that bad once you get to meet him,

he's paying careful attention to every dip and divot, the taste of your cunt and clit, slow sensuality degrading into frantic wet slurping.

Then he stops suddenly. You feel pin-pricks dig into the flesh of your ass as he spreads it with his thumbs, your dripping cunt throbbing in anticipation, your heart pounding out of your chest.

Kaveh rolls your soft face in his hands, can feel your skin burn hot with every moan or whine Al Haitham urges out of you. You seem embarrassed. He finds human shame so .. intriguing. He licks some of the tears off your cheek. 

He mulls you over, the salt seeming sweet on his tongue.

"I think..." He makes a noise of surprise as you grab at his wrists tighter, pleading with your eyes for them to let you go. 

"I think they're ready."

[orphanedsource]

Elden Ring Tabletop RPG Fan Translation

But only for Varré :)! It adds so much to the dynamic between the tarnished and varré 😳 I can't believe this is official.

jpn to eng translation is thanks to my friend, I edited for wording/ clarity

-----

Leaning against the church wall, Varré seemed to be humming some tune. The PC could see that he was in a very good mood.

"Ahh, my lambkin. You've completed your final trial. Uhuhu… The oath cloth has been dyed a beautiful red!"

Taking the crimson cloth from the PC and laying his eyes upon it, the white mask radiated joy, as if he was a young girl in love.

Keep reading for the entire quest line:

Elden Ring Official TRPG - Varré

[B009 - Rose Church]

There was an island nestled in the lake, and atop it stood a church adorned with blooming roses. In this desolate place, the vivid red of the roses left a lasting impression.

<EVENT: Varré ①>

There was a church known as the Rose Church. As the name suggests, the vicinity of the church was adorned with deep red roses, as if they had absorbed the very essence of blood.

"Oh, Tarnished, are we? Come to the Lands Between for the Elden Ring? Of course you have. No shame in it. However, there is one shining ray of hope even for the maidenless like you. Me. Varré."

The man wore a white mask and stood near the church wall, before approaching the PC. Varré spoke.

"And it seems you trotted to the Roundtable Hold... My sincerest congratulations. But, how did you find the Roundtable? Oh, you don't have to say it. Before, the Roundtable was chock full of venerated warriors, but now, it's home to puff-chests and has-beens. I fear you've been terribly disappointed. I don't blame you. But still, the Roundtable has its perks. Why not earn a seat? Fly straight and true, so to speak."

He spoke in a provocative manner.

However, despite his degradation of the Round Table members, there was an air of confidence in his words.

"No, that was a foolish question. You have already defeated the Grafted King and claimed a Great Rune. And also, you had your audience with the Two Fingers at the Roundtable Hold. They are the purported masters of the grace that guides your kind, the Tarnished. That's why you should pay them a visit and see for yourself."

Since he was wearing a mask, it was impossible to know his facial expression while he spoke, yet he was remarkably talkative.

"So, I'd like to ask you. You saw the Two Fingers. What was your impression? Were they magnificent? Or did you feel something is not right?"

Varré went around and around, but it seems that this is what he really wanted to ask.

What response will the PC give? Depending on their answer, it may determine the path the PC will take from here on. They should carefully consider their response. Will they affirm the Two Fingers or deny them?

(→ "They were magnificent.")

If the PC answers like this, Varré, with an obviously displeased voice, says, "I see. Well, what a relief that must be. You may go, then. My work here is done. May the wisdom of the two fingers guide you." And went away, disappointed. ((Event Ends))

(→ "They didn't seem right")

"Ah-ha, your intuition serves you well."

Upon hearing those words from the PC, Varré came closer with a delighted expression.

"Actually, I feel the same way. The words of the Two Fingers cannot be trusted. Truly, naught but rambling, senile delusions."

The man with the white mask passionately speaks, criticizing the Two Fingers.

"I believe that, when the Elden Ring was shattered, the Two Fingers were corrupted, their guidance; skewed. Even worse, the Fingers harbor no love for our kind. That's the part that irks the most."

Varré expresses his thoughts with somewhat dramatic gestures. After speaking for a while, Varré spins and turns towards the PC, handing them something.

"Oh, I have a gift for you, something fit for only the wise."

It was a creepy, blood-stained finger. As the PC tries to shake it off, Varré gently encloses the PC's palm with both hands.

[Obtained : Festering Bloody Finger]

"This is a means for circumventing the draw of the Two Fingers. Give it a try, won't you? Oh, and I suggest starting by venturing into the Forest Path (A011), where the guidance begins. That is a place where other Tarnished like you will appear. And if it pleases you, may we meet again. I've high hopes for you. My lambkin."

With those final words, Varré sees the PC off.

—

[A011 - Forest Path(The first sight of grace), Limgrave]

<EVENT: Varré ②>

Even though it was just a short while ago that PC arrived at the Lands Between, it felt more like they had been here for ages.

Varré said they should come here, but …

As the PC looks around, they sense an ominous aura coming from their inventory. They hastily take out that finger. As expected, the "Festering Bloody Finger", given to them by Varré, starts oozing red.

Upon closer inspection, the finger is darkly congested, bearing marks as if it had been cut off. While not entirely certain, the PC starts to feel that if they keep holding onto this finger, they will somehow invade the world of its owner.

What will the PC do?

If they immediately throw away the finger, perhaps everything will be fine. But, if PC has an impulse to KILL someone, the red glow actually feels somewhat pleasant.

Depending on their choice, it may determine the path the PC will take from now on. They should carefully consider their actions.

(→Throw away the fingers)

The PC hurriedly throws away the Festering Bloody Finger. As a result, the impulse gradually subsides into calm. They can no longer bear touching the festering finger[a], and decide to leave the scene. ((Event Ends))

(→Follow the urge)

The crimson impulse grows stronger and starts spreading from the finger and into the PC's palm, permeating the entire body. They then fall into a momentary blackout. When they regain consciousness, they find themselves in a recognizable place, identical to before the event.

They realize that a thirst for violence is coursing through their entire body. In the embodiment of that urge, the PC takes on the form of a red spiritual entity. Their sole purpose is to kill the owner of this finger and rob them of their grace.

There is a person stepping back, watching the PC reveling in the surging desire to kill. It is likely the Tarnished who arrived in this land not long ago—like how the PC was before.

Now, let's take out that weapon and slate your thirst for violence in that newcomer. Take everything he’s got.

〔Simple Battle: The Stout Tarnished〕

After successfully defeating the newcomer Tarnished, continue reading.

Upon killing the newcomer Tarnished, the PC found themselves back in their original world, nearly unaware of their own return.

"Oh, lambkin, so pleased to see you're enjoying the gift. Ah, I knew from the very start. You have a taste for noble blood."

White Mask Varré was there, approaching while clapping his hands, visibly happy.

"I wish to anoint you a proper inductee. A knight to serve Luminary Mohg, the Lord of Blood, and establish a new dynasty. Luminary Mohg has strength, vision, and of course, love. So, what do you say, my lambkin?"

The blood-soaked PC, who had already killed the newcomer, would not reject such a suggestion. They pledge to become a knight, to Varré.

"Huhuhuhu, yes, indeed. Now, take this."

Varré said, handing the PC a length of beautiful, pure white cloth.

[Obtained : Lord of Blood's Favor]

"This is your final trial. Soak the cloth with a maiden's blood. Normally, this ritual would involve killing one's own maiden, and recanting the wisdom of the Two Fingers. ...But since you are maidenless, the blood of anyone's maiden will do."

The PC recalls the memory of the finger maidens. Was there someone like that close by?

They have to search for her. It is the trial to become the knight of the Lord of Blood.

"By the way... I remember that there was a woman with the potential to be a maiden, on a hill facing the lake(B012). If you don't know any other maidens, she would suffice, don't you think?"

As Varré spoke, he went away. 'When you are ready, please come back to the Rose Church again.' And left those words.

—

[B012 - Lake-Facing Cliffs]

<EVENT: Varré ③>

As Varré had suggested, the PC hurried to the cliff facing the lake. There, they found a girl they had seen somewhere before.

"Hello? Is someone there? My name is Hyetta, and I'm journeying in search of the distant light. If I might be so bold as to ask... would you donate any Shabriri grapes in your possession to me? My eyesight has been weak since birth, you see. But when I eat one of those grapes, I can feel a distant light in the back of my eyes. It will lead me, to my true duty, as a Finger Maiden."

(Offers grapes, tells her it's a human eye, blah blah)

"Haa... haa... Sorry, I'm alright now. I apologize. You told me for my own sake. I'll be fine. Think no more of it."

Saying that, Hyetta stood up, appearing lost in thought. Then, as if she realized something, she looked startled and spoke to the PC.

"Ah, are you there? I have gleaned something very important indeed, thanks to you. The reason why it was eyes I had to eat. The distant light is far and frail. So faint it can't be seen by the naked eye. But with everyone's eyes together, it appears. Finally, it all makes sense. I am certain now, I will become a finger maiden."

Her face, after saying those words, seemed very happy. Indeed, this blind girl is proclaiming herself to be the "finger maiden".

If that's the case, as Varré said, it seems appropriate to offer her as a blood sacrifice and dye the oath cloth with her blood.

Then let's kill her. Let's kill her, while she is smiling innocently. The PC's heart flutters, and their breath becomes heavy with anticipation for what is about to happen.

"What's the matter?"

Perhaps sensing the PC's untoward gaze, Hyetta smiled with a gentle expression. The state of her smile, unaware of her upcoming death. The PC felt a delightful sense of guilt coursing through their entire body. It was an incredibly pleasant feeling.

"Hello?"

These were the last words of Hyetta, the girl who ate Shabriri grapes in want of becoming a finger maiden.

The PC raised their weapon and struck her head. Again. And again. The splattering of blood and the metallic stench tickled the depths of their nostrils.

It was such a sweet fragrance.

She became motionless, a lifeless thing, the bloodied corpse that was once her. And into the overflowing crimson liquid, the PC soaked the oath cloth. In an instant, the cloth turned its color to a vivid red.

Now, the preparations to become a knight are complete. Let's hurry to the Rose Church where Varré awaits.

—

[B009 - Rose Church]

<EVENT: Varré ④>

Leaning against the church wall, Varré seemed to be humming some tune. The PC could see that he was in a very good mood.

"Ahh, my lambkin. You've completed your final trial. Uhuhu… The oath cloth has been dyed a beautiful red!"

Taking the crimson cloth from the PC and laying his eyes upon it, the white mask radiated joy, as if he was a young girl in love. (*cute girl, virgin girl)

"And with this, you are a formal inductee. A knight who will assist Luminary Mohg, the Lord of Blood, in the establishment of a new dynasty. Now, give me your finger. This noble blood will be an immutable badge of honor, once it settles. Inside of you!"

As instructed, the PC gave their hand. They remove the armor that covered their hand, exposing it completely.

"Uhuhu… it's a beautiful hand. Here we go."

Saying that,Varré takes the PC's hand and sinks a needle-like tool into their finger.

Intense pain strikes the PC. They try to shake it off, but Varré wouldn't release.

"Oh, good heavens. Clench your teeth, or something. Uhuhuhu… Now now, it's over already. You have the sweetest scream, my lambkin."

When they are finally released, the finger is stained red with blood.

"Never forget that feeling of agony. For it is what binds you to Luminary Mohg, to all of us. Uhuhuhu"

Varré was so happy for having completed the ritual, it was quite baffling.

"Oh, another thing. You should have this."

Varré says, moving with a feather’s grace while handing a medal to the PC.

[Obtained : Pureblood Knight's Medal]

"This is a medal granted by the new Mohgwyn dynasty. With the power to grant an audience with Luminary Mohg. I've gone out of my way to provide one to you. But you mustn't use it just yet. The meeting must wait until the Mohgwyn dynasty commences."

And taking the medal from PC, Varré happily attaches it to PC's cloak. The act made as if he was a newly married wife. (*new bride, newly married woman)

"For now, Luminary Mohg yet slumbers beside the Divinity. We must endure a little longer. Ahh, it is trying, but we must be patient. One day, you will be elevated, deservedly, basking in love. Right, my lambkin? Uhuhuhu."

As Varré says this, he leaned his head on the PC's shoulder.

—

[After Lyndell, this event can happen at any time.]

<EVENT: Varré ⑤>

The PC recalls the words gleefully whispered by white mask Varré.

"This is a medal granted by the new Mohgwyn dynasty. With the power to grant an audience with Luminary Mohg. I've gone out of my way to provide one to you. But you mustn't use it just yet. The meeting must wait until the Mohgwyn dynasty commences."

If they take Varré's words literally, it would mean that the PC has already become a knight serving the so-called Mohgwyn dynasty. And by using this medal, they would be guided into that dynasty.

When the PC raises the medal, they are instantly transported to an unfamiliar underground world. The place reeked of blood. Indeed, it seems they have been guided.

They could continue forward from here, but there is too little information about this Mohgwyn dynasty. So, they decide to return to the Round Table and seek answers from Gideon. He had promised to provide information and offer treasure in return, so it would be killing two birds with one stone.

Returning to the Round Table, they visit Gideon's room.

"Oh, Mohgwyn dynasty, is it? Hmm, so that's where the so-called Lord of Blood was hiding himself, eh. A fitting little squat for that deluded maniac to bleat about the revival of his precious dynasty, while he turns our fellow Tarnished into Bloody Fingers. Let him stay there. That way, his delusions will remain as they are - distant and unattainable. But perhaps it's worth looking into... If what I've heard is right, then maybe..."

Sir Gideon appears quite excited by the newly acquired knowledge.

"Ah, my apologies. Lost myself, for a moment there. The information you've shared is of great value. As promised, your reward:"

[Obtained : Throwing Weapons Crafting Manual (S039), Perfume Bottle Crafting Manual (S040), Potion Crafting Manual (S038)]

"You are a true fellow. All I ask is that you remain constant."

Gideon said, and the PC left the Round Table.

They once again arrive at the underground rocky area that claims to be the Mohgwyn dynasty. Based on Gideon's and Varré's words, it appears that this dynasty is not yet complete and is currently in a preparation phase. And they dream of restoring the dynasty. Maybe that's why Varré is obsessed with blood.

Thinking about that, the PC begins to feel a twinge of anger. Had they become too carried away, because of Varré?

And regarding the word 'revival of the dynasty', that Lord-something of this dynasty could be connected to a Demigod.

If the PC's speculation is correct, the ruler of the Morgwyn dynasty might possess a Great Rune. As evidence, grace is here, as always, transforming into a radiant arc that guides them deeper underground.

The PC's mind is made up. They will proceed further, defeat the lord of the dynasty, and seize the Great Rune.

Until now, they have taken the lives of various Tarnisheds and maidens, but it was all in pursuit of obtaining the Great Rune and becoming the King of Elden. It was a necessary sacrifice, that's how the PC thinks of it.

—

[ED07 - Mohgwyn Dynasty]

<EVENT: Varré ⑥>

In the corridor of the Dynasty Mausoleum, a red sign is floating. As the PC approached, they realized it was from the white mask Varré. If they touched it, they would enter Varré's world and be able to kill him. The PC thinks about what it means.

Who wrote this sign? They don't know, but it is clear that touching it would transform them into a red spirit to kill Varré.

It might be a convenient situation. After all, the PC's goal was to defeat the Lord of the Mohgwyn Dynasty and claim the Great Rune. It'd be best if they can eliminate Varré, who is scurrying around, before that. Suppressing a burst of laughter, the PC touched the sign.

In a similar place, at a similar time, Varré was there. He seemed surprised to see the PC's red form for a moment but then shook his head.

"I've made a grave error. You seek violence, heedless of my warning, though you have been raised to a knight of the dynasty?"

Varré seems to understand PC's intentions and held something resembling a bouquet in his hand.

"I'll ensure you regret this, my lambkin. Enjoy your miserable death."

Hysterically shouting, Varré lunged forward.

〔Normal Battle: "White Mask Varré"〕

Upon successfully defeating him, obtain <Varré's Bouquet>, <White Mask>, <War Surgeon's Gown>, and <Random Chest E070>. Then, continue reading.

After killing Varré, the PC returned to their original world. There, on the floor where the sign had been, lies Varré, dying.

"Why must I be... disgraced by this lowborn..."

Varré's murmured words were filled with anger. As his consciousness faded, Varré reached out into the void and cried out.

"O... Luminary... Mohg... Please grant... the strength... you promised! Varré has given... everything... Please... my lord..."

However, no one responded to Varré.

"Please, answer me... Luminary... Mohg. ...Aah…Aahh... ...Bless the Mohgwyn Dynasty, with love! Urghhh..."

Spilling a large amount of blood, Varré turned into light and disappeared.

[notes]

a. Varré is referred to as a man per 男 in introduction, but no gender related pronouns or such are used to describe him following that passage.

[ithinkabouttzu]

I’ll be dreaming of you | Eugene Roe

a/n: Hi @ncr-psyop!! I was your gift maker for @hbowardaily’s Summer Exchange!! I really hope you enjoy!! I had Cardigan by Taylor Swift on REPEAT, also I’ll Be Seeing You By the one and only Billie Holiday!! Both songs reminded me so much of Eugene idrk why but i just love those songs and him so much so yeah!! Enjoy!

synopsis: On late nights when your mind runs wild, or when thunder cracks from outside your room keeping you awake, you can rely on your husband, Gene to keep you safe and sound.

genre: fluff; hurt to comfort :)

warnings: nightmares, mentions of war, insomnia, kissing.

Word count: 2.1k

pairing: Eugene Roe x gn reader

You looked around. The snow surrounding your foxhole looked fresh. Small drops of snow fell silently, you could even call it peaceful.

It was quiet, other than the occasional light gunfire in the background, not enough to make you worry. A fresh breeze passed through the air, making you shiver. You looked around, you could see no one, just trees and snow. You stood up from your crouched position, stepping your way out of the small hole in the ground that you had temporarily called home. You made two steps out of the hole, before the bright morning sky filled with quick flashes of white. “WATCH OUT” You heard a distant voice call out to you, but it was already too late. You were being swarmed by bullets everywhere, you tried to get down, but you couldn’t. You felt as if the cold air left you frozen, leaving you stuck standing in the white blankets of snow that laid beneath you. The sound of shells whistled over your head loudly, making you cover your ears. You pleaded in your head, “Make it stop, please make it stop.” And as if some higher power had been listening, the artillery stopped. It became quiet again. Horrifyingly silent all around you. You still felt your feet stuck in the ground, unable to move. You heard a crisp crack in the air, cutting the cold air into two. You looked up to locate the noise. It was a tree, big with cracked and split bark all around it. It had broken off of its stump, and was now heading straight towards you…

BOOM! The thunder cracked suddenly, waking you up out of your short-lived sleep. You pushed out a deep breath as you woke up, one that felt like it had been held in for too long during your sleep. You regained your breath back once again, still fast paced and quick. You looked around your dark room, gaining full awareness of your surroundings. You took a sigh of relief. You weren’t in the cold foxholes of Bastogne anymore, but at home, in bed.

You took a big exhale, at least you got some sleep. Even when that sleep took you back to the most dreadful places that you swore that you’d never see again. It felt like some nights you didn’t sleep at all. You just closed your eyes and laid still, waiting for something to happen, waiting for your body to finally relax itself into sleep. But that was only some nights, not all of them.

A quick bolt of lightning flashed near the window. Illuminating your dark room for a split second. Storms didn’t help your sleep at all. Made it almost impossible. The loud cracks and booms that came from the terrible weather was a sound you knew all too well. The loud noises still echoing in your mind during the night, mostly nights like these when you couldn’t sleep. The rain quieted down, pattering on the roof of your home softly.

Your thoughts had fully woken you up, and you soon realized that something was different about the bed you were sleeping in. You looked to your side, hoping to find the silhouette of your husband, Gene, sleeping softly in the space next to you. You felt the empty area beside you. He wasn’t there. You didn’t panic though, you knew he was home, just not in bed. When he couldn’t rest, he didn’t wait for sleep to take him like you did, instead he would rather light himself some smokes or read a book. Anything to pass the time. The little bit of warmth left from his side made it obvious that he hadn’t been out of bed for too long.

You thought about it, maybe he was out for a smoke? Or maybe getting a nice glass of something to drink? You hoped he hadn’t felt the same dread when it came to storms or sleeping like you did, or that heavy feeling on your chest that came with the lack of sleep, but you had a small feeling in your gut that you and him shared the same dislike for all three.

You pulled the cozy blanket off of you, the cold air hitting your warm skin brought a refreshing feeling to your body. You turned to the side of your bed and stood up slowly, trying to make little noise, even though both you and him were awake in the house.

You tiptoed through the room carefully, remembering the steps you would take if there were lights on. You weren’t able to see much from the darkness. Just the door of your shared bedroom that was open and leading out to the living room. You walked out to the living room, looking around for him. The lights were off, he wasn’t there. You could see a dim light coming from the kitchen, which was most likely coming from the bulb above the stovetop.

You walked past the living room to the kitchen. There he was. Standing, well more like leaning against the kitchen counter, watching the rain from the outside window that was across from him above the sink. He had a cup of what looked to be tea in his hand, he stared blankly. He didn't look angry or sad, he just observed the rain quietly.

“Found you” You said, slightly above a whisper. He quickly turned his head to you. He set down his drink and gave you a look you could only describe as pitiful. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” He said, replying back to you with the same volume. He exhaled in relief when you shook your head ‘no’ to him. “How long have you been sitting up here for?” You asked him, moving closer to where he was standing. He made a concentrated face, like he was estimating an answer for you. He replied to you before taking a sip of his tea. “Maybe, 10 minutes, I think? The storm woke me up.” He smiled at you, “Can you not sleep? A dream?” He asked you in a soft voice.

It was almost pathetic how well he knew you. The storms, the nightmares, he knew your struggle with them, he had seen it first hand. It’s like he had some sort of magic to him, he could figure out what was wrong with you almost immediately and then fix it all with a warm hug. He could make it all stop. Which is exactly what you've needed here lately.

“Come” He said, motioning for you to come beside him to watch the rain as it fell from outside the window. You joined him, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You okay?” You asked him, looking up at him from his shoulder. “I’m fine, Ma chérie, just listening to the rain.” He wrapped his arm around you, bringing you closer to him. You weren’t really sure if he was lying or telling the truth. Even if he really wasn’t okay, he would never tell you that. It was his one problem. He would rather break every one of his bones before he could ever tell you something was wrong with him, although you’ve gotten better at noticing when something wasn’t right, he still felt the need to push any negative emotions he's ever felt, far away from you.

“Are you okay?” He said in a stern but comforting voice, looking at you with that familiar parental-looking face he made when he thought something was wrong with you. “I’m alright, ‘just had a bad dream.” You said before leaning back onto his shoulder. You sighed telling him. You didn’t want to worry him, but he most likely already knew you had one of your night terrors, you weren’t sure how he might have known, but you also knew his husband intuition was too strong for him not to know something was up.

“I’m sorry, lovey.” His voice softened more this time. His arm tightened around you, as he kissed the top of your head. There it was, that calm feeling he gave you. That peace. You didn’t feel the same anxiousness as you did when you had woke up earlier. You took your arms and wrapped them around his body softly, bringing him into a big hug. He welcomed it in, snaking his other arm around you, holding you tight, as if you could fall from his arms at any moment.

“I missed you when I woke up.” You whispered into his ear, now swaying side to side in the hug which was now almost turning into a slow dance. “Well, I'm here now.” He replied softly in his thick cajun accent. “Want to go to bed?” You whispered into his ear again, hoping he wouldn’t reject your offer. He kissed your forehead before replying “Yes, just let me finish my drink first.”

He backed away from the hug and grabbed his cup, putting the warm drink to his mouth. You watched him as he finished his drink, he looked beautiful in the small stovetop light, you felt lucky to have such a remarkable person as your husband, the man who wiped away your tears and fought off all of your fright and terror, the man who made you feel at home no matter where you were, as long as you were with him.

“What?” He said, putting down the drink he had just finished. He had caught you staring, and was now starting to form a small blush on his cheeks by your gaze towards him. “Is there something on my face?” He asked with some sort of seriousness. He made you chuckle. “No, silly. Can I not watch my husband drink his tea?” You asked him with a coy smile on your face. You sneaked your arms around either of his ribcage, you held him there while waiting for a response.

“Yes, of course you can.” He said with less seriousness now, a smile escaping his lips. You looked up at him from your position, still holding onto his sides. “I love you.” You whispered, an exciting feeling bubbled in your chest whenever you told him that, and it always ten-folded when he said it back to you. “I love you more.” He placed his hands onto either side of your face, looking into your eyes deeply.

You were going to protest that you in fact did love him more, but you didn't have time. You felt his lips melt onto yours almost overwhelmingly. It was as if you could feel all of his love for you pour into that one strong, but soft kiss. You felt the nice taste of tea on his lips as you kissed him. As he raised up from the kiss, he didn’t stop there. He traveled his lips to your chin, placing a kiss there, then on your nose, onto your forehead and then back to your lips. The sweet gesture made you melt into his arms almost immediately, turning your heart into complete mush. Now it was your turn to blush.

“Should we go to bed now?” He asked you, still so close to your face. You could still taste his drink he had earlier on your lips. “Yes, finally.” You said sarcastically. He laughed at your response, breaking the closeness between you two.

You made your way to the bedroom first, with him behind you the entire time. The walk back wasn’t as suspenseful as the walk there to find him was. It was quick in an attempt to get in bed as quickly as possible, sleep now starting to come over you slowly, making you yawn on your way back to the room. When you made it back to the room, you climbed yourself back into bed slowly. You sighed in comfort, the cozy bed welcomed you with a familiar warmth. Gene made his way onto the bed and laid under the covers, joining you in the comfortable spot. You laid down with him, and found your way to his chest.

You rested your head there softly, finding solace in the beating of his heart. “Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?” He broke the peaceful silence with the question. You didn’t have to think if you would or wouldn’t. You knew you would, the way you were feeling, you might just let sleep take you right now. “I will.” You said softly into his chest, not daring to raise your head from the comfortable position. It wasn’t long before you finally gave in, and fell asleep. He waited to rest until he knew you were fully asleep. Once he heard your light snores, he kissed the top of your head, before letting sleep take him too. “Sleep tight chérie. I’ll be dreaming of you.”

[plumadot]

it is me I have arrived

woe upon thee

-

“Thank you, thank you! Folks, isn’t it wonderful to be here tonight?” The bard spread his arms wide, a massive grin on his face. Grian noted vaguely that there were scars lining his skin, the most visible one being a slit across his nose. Had this bard been getting into fights? 

“Now, I would be a terrible entertainer if I didn't introduce myself.” He continued. “My name is Scar Thymes, from the forests near Dogwarts. I won't be so bold as to ask you to toss a coin just yet, seeing as I've only sung you one song. So how about another?”

The patrons whooped and cheered and grabbed more beer, and the music kicking back into full force as they launched into the next song. Grian narrowly avoided an elbow to the face as the patrons began to jostle each other and bounce up and down. He bit back a retort, reminding himself of his mission. He did snatch their money purse as retaliation though.

It was easy, he just had to follow their movements, twisting with them and slipping his fingers under their belt. He lifted it ever so slightly, and the pouch fell from its hold around it, straight into his outstretched hand. He caught it nimbly, careful not to jostle it more than necessary so that the coins within wouldn’t rattle. He couldn’t have his target notice that their purse was gone now, could he?

He collected a few more purses as he moved through the crowd, tucking them under his robe as the bard sang song after song and the patrons grew drunker and drunker. It was as he was grabbing his last bag of the night that he happened to have up and see the bard staring directly at him. He was still mid chorus, the crowd singing rambunctiously along with them, but there was a gleam in his eyes that told Grian that he knew exactly what he was doing. 

Grian met his gaze defiantly, pocketing the pouch while not breaking eye contact. He wasn't scared of some random bard in a tavern, and he wasn't going to show any fear. So he caught him stealing, what was he going to do about it? End his song early and call him out? He still hadn’t gotten paid more than a few small coins for his songs. The grin on the bard’s face grew ever so slightly as they locked eyes,  and there was a newly animated air to his movements as he pushed forward into the next verse of his song.

The atmosphere in the tavern seemed to shimmer as the music slowed down slightly, and the bard’s singing became slightly more lyrical. Grian felt the magical compulsion immediately, and he dug his nails into his palm to keep himself from falling under it as the bard seemed to glow radiantly in the dim lantern light of the tavern. His hair, long and pulled back in a ponytail, seemed impossible soft and silky, his cheekbones and jaw were perfectly shaped, his eyes practically glowed green. His song floated over the crowd, his voice smooth and soft and full of emotion. Every eye was on him now, and for good reason. He was beautiful.

Grian’s nails cut his palms, and he shook his head aggressively, shaking off the compulsion to stop and stare, to devote all of his attention to him and him alone. The bard raised an eyebrow at him, a perfectly arched eyebrow that balanced with the rest of his features to make him look closer to a god than anything else. He glared back. The eye contact seemed to make the spell stronger, far stronger than Grian would have thought possible from an ordinary bard, and anxiety clawed at his throat as he began to wonder if he had made an enemy in this tavern. 

Then the spell snapped, the music rushed forward into a fast pace again, and the crowd broke into raucous applause that contrasted with the bard’s singing only moments before. The bard winked at him, as if they had shared some kind of secret between the two of them, then broke their eye contact to cheer alongside the crowd. Grian breathed out a long sigh, then turned away from the bar. He paused at the door to look back at the bard, and he felt his feathers rise as he saw him looking directly at him. He didn’t waste any more time, and with a flash, he slipped outside and into the night. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA FIRST MEETINGS FIRST MEETINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

strangers to enemies gkjfkdgj i love it i love it. a little bit of a charm person spell hmm hmm you don't need that, scar, you're already magical!!!!!!!!!! even the bird knows it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and ahhh grian is just the right amount of rogue/warlock hehehe perfect

this is so cute i love it so much gkfjdkg thank you for this gift!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3

[rockingrobin69]

Peppers, please

(Also on AO3, 1.6k)

“I’ve been informed,” Harry Potter burst through the door with his habitual earth-quake of a shout, “that you don’t even like peppers!”

“Good morning,” Draco said dryly. Harry Potter glared.

With a sigh, Draco retreated to the kitchen to fetch the biscuits from the cupboard.

Around his third one, an insistent crumb hanging to his upper lip with all its tiny might: “Peppers, Malfoy!”

“Pardon?”

“Peppers!”

Draco blinked. “If you’ll be so kind as to tell me what on earth you’re on about.”

“Pansy said you hate them!”

He looked absolutely outraged. Draco sipped his long-cold tea.

“Do I?”

“She said you’re allergic!”

“Am I?”

“Stop—fucking with me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” But the corner of his lips was twitching. “I’m not allergic. I was simply a horribly dramatic child and she still naïve back when we were, what, six. Seven. I’m fine with peppers now.”

Harry Potter pouted, terribly chipmunk-ish, and even put the biscuit pack down. Down to business. “I cooked the—bloody hell, Malfoy, just, honestly. Why wouldn’t you say? That you hate peppers. I would’ve made something else. I would have happily—why?”

Utterly bemused, “I am. Honest, I mean. I don’t mind peppers anymore.”

“That’s a fucking lie and we both know it.”

Grasping at straws and failing, at least managing to stop the wobble of his stupid mouth, the automatic turning downwards. Went for his cup instead. The tea was ice-cold and flavourless and Draco poured it down his throat like it could cure him.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he then said, venomous, and turned his eyes back to the wall, where they refused to stay. It was always like this when Harry Potter barged into his flat. Even the water stains on the ceiling lost their usual allure and could not hold his attention. “If it’s raining, cast a bloody Impervious. Or take an umbrella.”

Harry Potter took a deep breath instead, sounding awfully, weirdly small. Some of the tension bled out of him in increments, his shoulders first, then the fists unclenching, then his belly un-hardening. His jaw was last. Draco was helplessly mesmerised by the transformation.

“You’re impossible,” his voice finally not straining, his fingers not twitching towards the biscuits. No longer needing the obvious distraction. “Next time, if I make something you dislike, you have to tell me.”

“An order,” Draco huffed. “How sweet.”

Harry Potter could blush all the way to the roots of his hair. It was such a stunning, breath-stealing thing to witness.

“It’s not a… fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Hmm.”

They sat there in strangely amicable silence. The oven still gave that choking, desperate cough every ten seconds, and it set a nice framework for their breathing, for the non-fidgeting. Harry Potter was always fidgety, but not when he sat in Draco’s kitchen like this.

“What’s your schedule? For today. Nev said you’re doing overtime again.” Leaning back, giving Draco that look all his friends liked to wear, the one on the border of a telling-off. It didn’t usually work on him, but Harry Potter had a slight edge to his disappointment that made Draco’s skin crawl.

“Not—exactly. Shouldn’t be so late. I’ll be home for bedtime, Mother, I promise.”

Even his mother didn’t glare like that. “Third time this week? I kind of want to strangle your boss.”

“Ha. Violence is usually frowned upon in the workplace.”

He didn’t smile, but he came near it. Draco could tell, because the corners of his eyes were dancing. “Does it count if it isn’t my workplace?”

“Mm. Fair enough. Strangle away.”  

Now he was smiling. “When d’you start? Want a ride?”

And Draco was so grateful he didn’t launch yet another tirade about how Draco should quit his awful job that he said, “Why not.” (Only because he was distracted and rather tired, and not because sitting behind Harry Potter on his motorbike was in itself half-punishment, and not because clinging to his waist on tight turns at far-too-quick was—anything at all). On the downside, it made Harry Potter practically beam, and Draco still needed his eyes.

“Great! I mean. That’s good. That you won’t be late. Bad for your, er, record, and stuff, and you might not get a—bonus or something.”

They didn’t do bonuses at McMillan & McMillan, but that was neither here nor there. Draco nodded, pushed himself up on not so flimsy legs, collected his coat from where it was crumpled on the back of a chair.

“What about lunch?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t take. Any lunch.”

Why was he so obsessed with food? It was dangerously endearing. “I have an apple in my bag. Come now, you promised I won’t be late.”

“An—” Harry Potter shook his head, loosening even more curls out of his bun. They were rain-flat and miserable and still entirely too sweet. “I’ll buy you a sandwich at that poor excuse for a cafeteria you got in that building. And so help me god, Malfoy, you’ll eat it, or—”

“All right,” both hands up, “no need to shout. Your wish is my command, etcetera.”

He pouted so hard it was almost comical. But there was something still wounded there, so Draco added, “As long as there’s peppers, you know,” and then he was fuming again, bouncing on the balls of his feet and ready to deliver yet-another lecture. Draco watched him, amused, and forgot to lock the door behind him, and forgot his scarf.

Did remember his umbrella, which he Leviosa-ed to follow the Death Machine, stuck it against the back of the silly jacket when they reached the office. It wasn’t raining anymore, thankfully allowing Draco to arrive not wet-dog for a change, and it made absolutely no difference.

Harry Potter took off his helmet to watch Draco enter the building. Didn’t follow him inside (wise, to prevent a murder), and so Draco completely forgot about the sandwich threat until it was roughly lunchtime. At which point, a drawer in his desk suddenly jumped open, and a far-too-fancy £12 bready monstrosity appeared. On it a note that scrawled pepper-free, git.

Harry Potter had a lot to answer for. Draco, distracted, chipped away at the sandwich all the same, and was only shouted at twice, and didn’t even spill coffee on his keyboard.

‘Not exactly overtime’ at the office meant staying after everyone else to take note of stock and arrange all the impossible paperwork. That Draco was given this task was already hilarious, and always a disaster: that his boss insisted on continuing to give it to him, possibly commendable. Maybe he thought Draco was being stubborn. Maybe he thought, nobody could really be this bad without actively trying. Well, he didn’t know Draco yet! There was always time to learn.

Stock was stocked. The backroom was stuffy and still smelling slightly of smoke (not Draco’s fault, probably), the sweet scent of old paperwork going to rot. It made his head spin, made him inhale a little brokenly and laugh to himself. The sandwich Harry Potter forced him to eat sat heavy in his belly, sweating. Everything was so incredibly laughable.

When he finally finished (after only forgetting three steps in the protocol), the sun had long set and the streetlights were humming. Not worrying, Draco thought, going back to the office (forgot his bag). Not worrying at all (back to the office, to check he locked the door). (Why would anyone give him the keys?) (Some disasters were just asking to happen).

On his way home he stopped by the corner shop for another pack of biscuits. Some disasters, sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare in advance. Harry Potter would surge in soon enough with another grievance. Draco was giddy by nature, and so the shakiness was not necessarily to do with this.

Under the crescent moon drowning in cloud he wondered, do I hate peppers?

Couldn’t remember to decide by the time he made it back.

The flat, Harry-Potter-less, was not entirely quiet and frankly disinteresting. Draco forced himself in the shower (the smoky smell always caught in hair, then on pillows, and made sleep be—not sleep at all). Scrubbed, whatever. Even towelled himself dry like a real human being, and only slipped a little on the stupid rug he kept meaning to banish, to Vanish, to—chuck. He was tired. The smoke-thing was not a metaphor. He got barely the bare minimum last night.

Bear minimum? Like bear claws? Better than fire, he thought, nonsensically. Tired-Draco had a tired brain and it was only half-working in the best of times. Dragged himself to bed, knew he won’t get away that easy.

To the ceiling, too dark to make the water stains: what did Harry Potter have for his lunch? He always ate, but only when he made Draco eat too. It was some sort of ritual. A demonic binding of sorts. They had other friends who could make him eat, like Ronald and also Ronald and mostly only Ronald, and sometimes Hermione. They had other friends, but Harry Potter always ate if Draco did.

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to him: was he manipulating Harry Potter? Had he truly forgotten to pack lunch, or did he do that on purpose? Thankfully, the panic was cut off when he suddenly thought, shit, I never locked the office.

But he did. He went back to check, remember? Silly. By the time he was thinking of Harry Potter’s eating habit, he forgot to fidget about whether he was viciously tricking him or not.

Some disasters, Draco thought, half-drifting, were just asking to happen.

So, it's on AO3. It might even continue, who knows.

[dairy-farmer]

You know? Seeing all these Breeder Asks makes me want to give it a go >.>

You know what seems to be the Universe's version of the Oak tree? As in a Being both willing and able to breed with fuckin EVERYTHING? Humans. Know what's really REALLY Heroic? Saving a species from Extinction.

Too some? Lois Lane is legitimately a greater hero then her husband. She's the mother of the next generation of Kryptonians, a race that otherwise would have died with Clark.

It's? A big universe. Doesn't have to be an entire Race. The extinction of X planet. Y people. Last of their kind. How utterly hopeless they would feel. Unable to bring their people BACK. And THEN? This MIRACLE of a Race? Compatible dispite being from galaxies away?

You could SAVE YOUR PEOPLE.

They're your HERO.

One(1) space adventure gone funky. Suddenly young justice is... uuuuuuuh.... Space? In Space, definitely. Yep. Lots of stars. Very lost.

Fuck.

They're looking for a Lantern. Someone who could direct them home. Find The Last Scion of (unpronounceable)! Under heavy fire by the people who wiped his people out. The save him! Do a Heroics! Wooo!

Dock on his much bigger, but strangely empty ship. Tragic backstory: unlocked. Is Space Superman. He totally can help them find a Lantern though. Neat.

Everyone but Robin heads to bed. S.S. is tragically hot and has Cool Technology. They get talking. He eventually mentions, tragically, how he will never see his babies brooded. They just need to be incubated, huh? Couple weeks? Then get pushed out?

....you got a Machine to finish hatching um?

............hypothetically, HOW many are we talking here?

Because Robin? A hero. This guy is alone. Last of his kind. And... TECHNICALLY... Robin... COULD fix that. In the time frame they're talking. Technically. But he wants specifics.

And S.S.? Drops his god damned control pad in shock and heart breaking awe. Choked up hope at the impossible, dangled right in front of him. R-really? In a soft teary whisper. Fallen to his knees like Robin has offered him salvation in his despair, the terrible darkness of his life.

Well shit. Yeah, really. Now Robin DEFINITELY has to do it. He can handle it, probably. And it means EVERYTHING to this guy. Let's ball.

So before his teammates can, rightfully, talk him out of what's probably a stupid idea. He follows S.S. back to his quarters. Pulls his pants off. And loses his virginity to the most worshipful tentacle fucking known to man. Gets beads stuffed into him until he feels like he'll burst. Deep where they can't fall out, heavy and growing in his gut.

Pregnant.

It's... it's AMAZING. The new sensations. The way S.S. hovers and flutters around him like he's the most precious thing that's ever lived. Being treated like someone precious. The center of his world as his gut swells. Feeling everything shift and press. And when they come OUT?

Thick orbs, one after another. Feeling like they won't END. Grinding against everything good and popping out of his poor abused hole. He cums and cums. Feels so EMPTY once it's done.

Of course, his teammates are LIVID at S.S.. Won't let him NEAR Tim once the brood is out. Bundle him off to the Lantern and tattle. Meaning Tim has to sit in a Lantern health office before they can go home. But...

Tim learned something about himself.

Makes a note if it.

And eventually? Whoop! Weeee're in space again! Damn it. At least this merchant vessel is headed in the right direction, huh guys? Everyone makes new friends!

Tim meets another Last of Their Kind. Their babies are tiny masses of shape-shifting tentacles. Tim says Bet. Learns a lot about their culture, flat on his back, as the babies are Fed inside him via fucking. Births a healthy brood so hard he passes out from the pleasure. Last one has to wriggle its way free on their own.

Kon is gonna tear his hair out. Space is trying to Lewd his team mate. This is two for two! No space for Timmy!

Next time they get yeeted by Heroic Shenanigans into space? Him and Bart basicly handcuff themselves to Tim's side. No babies this time!

There are babies.

A birdman puts an egg in him. Tim feels like a Kiwi. Can't stop rubbing his swollen belly. Kon tries to rip the wings off said bird man and make him EAT THEM. Bart is busy stretching Tim so nothing tears when it's time to push. It feels like being fisted.

The Birdmans father takes responsibility for his grandchild AND child's seduction of Tim. Flys them back to earth on the condition Kon stop trying to kill his idiot son.

Young Justice holds an intervention. Tim you have a problem.

Tim does NOT. Tim has a KINK thank you very much!

THATS NOT BETTER. They argue.

No one believes them, when they try to warn others. The PRUDISH Bat child? Who are you trying to fool they scoff, time and again. Then others end up in Space with Tim. And when they come BACK?

They very much Believe Them Now(tm).

Tim is traumatizing the Heroic community and Saving dying Races Left And Right. Is a SAINT and CELEBRITY. There are Space Newsletters and lovingly penned reviews. 10/10 would fuck again. Fantastic surrogate and would Mate Up in an instant, if their teammates didn't try to kill me.

NONE of the other Bats are aware of this. No one wants to be the one to tell them.

Eventually, someone IS going to be saved by Superman in space, hear his story, go "oh that's so sad! But don't worry! We TOTALLY know how you can fix that! See there's this AMAZING guy on the planet Earth called-"

And it's going to be DELIGHTFUL~~☆

-🐼🐼🐼

😭😭😭😭😭 i'm dying at superman being in space, saving someone, spilling out his woes because bruce has put a cap on the amount of times he can bring up being the last of his kind a week, and getting told there's someone on earth that can birth the revival of his race and learns its TIM!!!

also the thought of tim's team almost pulling their hair out over the fact that their teammate keeps getting knocked up with alien babies! and they try their best to be vigilant but they can't be on every space mission. so they corner tim's team that he's being sent out with and they warn them "do NOT let him get pregnant out there again he keeps doing that shit thinking it'll be alright and won't STOP". and all other capes know about the strightlaced robin, the 'lets get down to business' robin and they don't really believe tim's friends. they think they're just exaggerating. but then tim is humming and round with some last of their kind alien following them around like a puppy because robin is pregnant, he's pregnant and how the FUCK are they going to explain to batman how badly they fucked up?

but it's fine. robin gives birth and they try to cope with their near heart attacks and they decide not to say shit about it because it worked out! until it doesn't because it keeps happening and they don't know how to stop it this kid keeps fucking and getting knocked up and giving birth to tentacle monsters and little eldritch horrors.

giving birth is like his default diplomatic strategy and they HATE that it works so well.

when clark comes back he's so awkward around tim because all he thinks about is the endless amount of stories he's been told about how he's a perfect little incubator and surrogate and how he heals well and gives birth to healthy broods.

[ssukidesu]

a better method

Fandom: Inuyasha: A Feudal Fairy Tale

Pairing: Inukag

Rating: T

Inukag Week 2024 ( @inukag-week ) - Day 3: Bickering

Summary: After a messy fight, Kagome offers to clean the beads of subjugation. She has every intention of putting them right back on afterwards, but Inuyasha's not so willing.

Read on AO3

Read under the cut

Kagome was bent over, towel in her hands, ruffling her hair dry. The smell had taken forever to get out. The very memory of it made her stomach curl in nausea, and she shoved the thought away hastily. Sango had borne the brunt of it; it was hiraikotsu, after all, that sliced the pig demon into pieces. Its blood and entrails were flung absolutely everywhere—and all five of them had been drenched. Luckily, there was a river nearby, and they were able to clean themselves of the worst of it. Sango had been grateful for the shampoo and soap, which was equally strong with its floral aroma.

The girls had gone first, of course; currently, Inuyasha, Miroku, and Shippo were making use of the river, though Kagome doubted it would do them much good; she and Sango had used up all of her soaps during their cleaning, and the boys would unfortunately be going without. Not that she thought Inuyasha in particular would have used her perfumed shampoo… but still.

The girls were working together to get a fire going for dinner when the men and Shippo returned. They at least looked better, Kagome noted immediately. She would make sure to purchase some unscented soaps whenever they passed the next village. The soap of this era was far less offensive to demonic senses, at least.

Fifteen minutes later, and they were all sipping on venison soup, thanks to Inunyasha’s successful hunt earlier that evening. It smelled glorious, and they were all grateful for the additional refreshment to their olfactory glands.

But afterwards, when they were settled around the fire to ward off the dropping autumn temperatures, Kagome got a whiff of that terrible scent again. It happened right as Inuyasha plopped down next to her—and she immediately roamed her eyes over his figure.

“What?” he accused sharply.

“That smell. Where’s it coming from?” she said, getting right to the point. “Your clothes look fine.”

He grit his teeth. “It’s this stupid thing,” he said, gripping the beads around his neck. “It’s impossible to clean. Too many crevices.”

“…Oh,” she said, rather stupidly. She shared a look with Sango, and then Miroku. They both shrugged at her. Inuyasha was picking something from under his claws when she returned her wary gaze to him. “Do you… want me to clean it?” 

His fingers stopped their twiddling. “Huh?” His eyes widened briefly before narrowing. “Are you messing with me?” he charged.

Kagome swallowed, solidifying her decision. “N-No. We can take it off for a minute,” she said.

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Right. Go ahead, then!” His tone was sarcastic as he dramatically leaned his head down, as if he was daring her. 

Kagome took one last look at her friends. Apart from Shippo, they seemed… relatively okay with the idea. They were probably having the same sort of doubts she was—that he’d be a little insufferable for a bit, but that he’d surely do nothing too diabolical.

She returned her gaze to him. He was peering up at her now, seemingly convinced that she wasn’t actually going to do it. But when she lifted her hands to grip the beads, his breath stuttered, and his eyes widened. She lifted and lifted, detangled some hair, and then lifted the rest of the way. 

He was gawking at her. She lifted her hand and closed his mouth. “You’ll catch flies ,” she snapped before flipping her still-damp hair and walking away.

He immediately turned to look at his friends, who were staring at him tensely, and he couldn’t help himself. 

He hooted. 

Kagome expected something like this, that the first thing he’d do is scare the kit a little. As she tinkered near the campfire to boil some water, she heard Inuyasha chasing Shippo around with terrible laughter, and she felt an inner peace take her. Of course he would be harmless. He didn’t even have it in him to actually catch Shippo; he just wanted to mess around. If he was good, maybe she wouldn’t make him put it back on until tomorrow. She grinned at the thought.

The thing really was filthy. Not just from the pig demon, either; it had needed a good cleaning for months, most likely. The plaque and grime was disgusting, even after letting it soak in the boiling water for ten minutes. She decided she could spare an old toothbrush and used it to scrub the thing bead by bead. Before she knew it, she’d been working on it for an hour. 

Inuyasha gave her no more time than that; he was ready to set off toward their next destination. She tried to convince him to let them keep that campsite another night, but it seemed he was… a little too confident in his newfound freedom for her mere pestering to work.

She didn’t think much of it. He wasn’t wrong to be in a hurry; there was a lead to follow, and it would be risky to linger. So they indeed set out. 

After a rather… bothersome three hours of walking, night finally fell. Inuyasha graciously allowed them to stop, and they ate some leftover soup for supper. 

It looked like he would make it to tomorrow without having to put it back on, after all; Kagome still wasn’t done scrubbing it, and she was too exhausted to pick up where she left off before. 

“Don’t go crazy from excitement, Inuyasha,” she told him as she crawled into her sleeping bag. “I’ll finish cleaning it tomorrow, and then it’s back to real life.”

She heard him scoff from the tree he’d chosen as his resting place. “Yeah, right,” he laughed.

Her stomach sank a little at this. Kagome did worry a little that he’d fight her about it, and if she was being honest, she didn’t quite know how she would go about winning that argument. But she told herself it would work out, somehow. She wouldn’t worry about it just yet.

But in the morning, after they had broken their fast and she had completed her cleaning job, she found herself at the moment she’d feared sooner than she expected. He was lounging in a low branch of a thick tree, eyes closed. The others were closer to camp, trusting the task to her.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve finished, Inuyasha.”

“Hmm.”

Well, that wasn’t a helpful response. 

“Come on down so I can put it back on,” she tried with a forcibly normal voice.

“No way,” he said simply.

“…What do you mean, ‘no way’?”

“I mean what I said. I already told you I wouldn’t let you put it back on.”

Her stomach hardened into a knot at that. This was going to be more difficult than she’d hoped…

When she threw a pebble at his head, she at least succeeded in getting him out of the tree. 

He landed roughly on both feet, growling. “What was that for? You tryin’ to start something?” he said, glaring down at her.

“That’s my line. Stop being childish and put it back on,” she said, lifting it up with her hands. 

He instantly stopped the movement by gripping the beads with his own hand, tugging and holding it back down with a strength that humbled her own.

He was smirking. “You couldn’t do it if you tried.”

Her mouth was agape. 

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ll catch flies,” he said mockingly.

“Inuyasha,” she scolded, keeping her temper down. She tried tugging the beads, but they didn’t budge from his grip. 

His smile was more cruel than playful, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t scare her a little.

“Are you being serious?” she tried.

“Of course. You’re an idiot if you think I’m gonna let you put that thing back on me,” he goaded.

“Hey,” she huffed, mask slipping. “Don’t call me an idiot. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

He chuckled bitterly. “You’re not the one who kisses dirt because of it.” Releasing the beads, he pressed two fingers into her shoulder and gave her a weak shove, though it was enough to jostle her back a step. “You can’t make me,” he grinned savagely.

She saw that he was playing… sort of. He was smiling, for sure, but there was something resentful behind the facade of banter. He seemed genuinely vengeful. 

She wouldn’t show her growing fear—no matter what. Better that she acted the same as always, right? If she acted the same… maybe he would, too.

“Come on,” she badgered. “I’ll get you more ninja food next time I go home.”

“Nice try, Kagome,” he spat, towering over her with a puffed chest. “Admit it. You messed up. Stupid,” he drawled.

She would not let the tears form. Yes, she was growing terribly frustrated, but she couldn’t let him see. She’d have no shot of convincing him after that; she had to stay level-headed. Had to keep her reins in her own hands. She couldn’t reveal that she was getting embarrassed at her own naivety, and she certainly didn’t want him to know he was succeeding likely more than he meant to in intimidating her. Kagome didn't like thinking that her confidence in him depended on his wearing the beads; the thought made her feel dirty, like she had broken some sacred unspoken part of being his friend.

But then, he went a step further. And a physical step closer.

“Say it,” he taunted.

She scowled up at him, weighing whether to try and surprise attack him. But she knew he was too quick for something like that to work. “Say what?”

“Tell me to sit. I just wanna hear you say it.”

“Why would I?” she fumed. “It wouldn’t work.”

His smile was less of a smile and more like a smug way to remind her of the sharpness of his teeth. “Exactly.”

The sight was not ineffective. Her heart began to race, and not for entirely pleasant reasons. 

“You’re being mean, Inuyasha,” she said in a desperate attempt to regain herself.

He didn’t falter. If anything, his expression grew in vitriol. “I’m a demon, Kagome.”

“I know,” she yelled, rising to her toes. Her fist clenched around the necklace at her side.

“Then maybe you should start acting like it,” he growled. He was seething now, and Kagome realized that he had probably wished to say this—to reestablish his pride as a demon who wasn't leashed by a little human girl—for a very long time. In his view, the beads had been a sign of humiliation. Kagome had always known this, but she had come to believe that he didn't take himself so seriously as to be genuinely offended by it. The revelation of her mistake was no less than discomfiting. Yes—of course she knew he was a demon. But when he had the beads, this fact had seemed... unimportant. And as it turned out, an unfettered Inuyasha was a little more overwhelming than she'd expected.

What had she done?

“You’re—” she stuttered, and she wondered if the moisture gathering on her lash line was real or imagined. “You’re so…”

She watched the muscles in his jaw clench, watched his pupils grow to slits. Her ears stopped working; her eyes were blurring.

And when he lifted his hand toward her face, she couldn’t help herself.

She flinched. 

And it was quite dramatic. No way to hide it if it ends with your feet tripping over each other and your butt landing on the filthy ground. No way to cover it up when your breath is still recovering from a gasp like that. 

The shame of the moment had not hit her yet; she was still reeling, still refilling her lungs, still blinking her vision clear. She kept her head bowed, stuck on her lap. 

When she heard her name on his lips, she began to sense her mistake. But before she could fully decipher it, his hands were on her, under her knees and behind her back. She was in the air. She clung to him as he bounded through the trees, not even remembering the beads still wound around her fingers, until he found one he liked and burrowed them there within the branches.

Her hands were plastered to her face even after he released her. 

“Kagome…” he said, voice dangerously low. “Are you really…?”

Pounding. Her heart was pounding. She knew she was being stupid, but she had lost control of her body—and all she had was instinct, instinct, instinct when she saw him bring his fatal fingers toward her neck. Luckily, when he made the same motion this time, her eyes were shielded from seeing their approach. His hands pulled her wrists down, freeing her mortified face. She stared down at where he gripped her.

“Hey,” he said, jostling her hands. “Look at me.”

He didn’t continue until she obeyed. Kagome wondered if she looked as terrified as he did in that moment, and it encouraged her to attempt a calming breath. His voice, however, retained its anger from before—though its direction had changed. 

“I would never hurt you. Got that?” He shook her again, desperation taking over his features. “Burn it into your damn head. Beads or no beads, you’re—" he halted abruptly, black brows still drawn taut in the middle. “To hell with it,” he growled to himself. He loosened her wrists and gripped her shoulders instead, bringing himself closer. His golden eyes bore into hers. “You’re everything to me. The only person who’s in danger if I don’t have the beads is any person who’s stupid enough to lay a finger on you.”

Her tears streamed outright now, but she didn’t even notice. She was staring at his mouth, which was snarled in an angry frown. She licked her dry lips and said meekly, “I’m sorry, Inuyasha—I shouldn’t have doubted you. I don’t know why I…” she trailed off, the risk of her voice breaking too great to ignore.

“Keh,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Give it to me.”

Eyes widening for only a second, Kagome managed to nod her head before she loosened the beads from around her fingers. His right hand unlatched from her shoulder, and he placed his palm in the air to receive it. She lowered it onto his skin, the beads clacking quietly against each other as it collapsed from gravity. 

She supposed it wouldn’t really change anything for him to break them. He hadn’t lost control of his demonic blood in a very long time, and she figured the beads had lost their edge against him in such a form, anyway. Tetsusaiga was far more effective. And she supposed she technically didn’t sit him nearly as often nowadays, either. His behavior today would prove an outlier, she told herself; he was just readjusting to his freedom. It would be fine. She believed this firmly now, and she was ashamed that she didn’t from the start.

But Inuyasha did not break them; instead, he pulled them right back over his head and let them drop with a loud clatter around his neck.

“Wait, Inuyasha—“

“Shut up,” he snapped, but his remaining hand on her shoulder was gentle, and his eyes were, too. His voice remained firm, but he softened it for his next words: “I don’t ever wanna see that look on your face again. And if this is what I gotta do to prevent it, then I’ll do it.”

“Inuyasha…” she winced. “I’m sorry. Really, I trust you—you don’t have to wear them anymore.” Kagome pushed herself onto her knees and lifted her hands to grab the necklace, but his own hands were faster: he gripped and halted her wrists against his chest. She froze, eyes locking onto his from a mere foot away. 

His eyes flashed in warning. “Leave ‘em,” he scolded. “I’m not letting go until you say you won’t try to take them off.” He punctuated his words by a quick squeeze of her wrists, which were still pinned to his firm, warm chest. 

Kagome gulped, half dazzled and half annoyed. “…Only if you promise you believe me when I say I trust you.”

He looked at her, hard. She wondered at how his anger, for a moment, seemed to sharpen. Then, in one fluid movement, his hands shoved hers off of his chest and backwards—back, back, back until her wrists were pinned behind her against the thick trunk of the tree. She had lost her balance on her knees in the movement, and she fell back on her rear. He was leaning over her now, face even closer than before, close enough to feel his hot breath on her face.

“Do you trust me, Kagome?” he said doubtfully.

Kagome’s breath caught. “Inu—”

“Prove it. Don’t sit me.”

Before she could question him, his nose was at her throat. He opened his mouth—she could feel his heavy sigh—and he grazed his teeth against the skin there. “I don’t blame you for being afraid of me without them,” he said bitterly. “It’d be easy for me to kill you.”

“You would never,” she whispered, eyes clenching shut at the feel of him on top of her, at the strength of his hands, at the edges of his teeth. 

Something like a whine escaped him. “Sit me,” he said.

“No.” She angled her chin toward him, cocooning him even closer to her throat. 

“Do it,” he begged, hands tightening around her wrists.

“Inuyasha,” she crooned.

Her tone was more effective than that damned word ever could have been. He tore himself from her neck and stared down at her with an expression so pained that her heart ached. Their eyes met with an intensity he wasn’t ready for—and when she broke away to look at his mouth, he looked like he was going to lose his godforsaken mind. 

As a final nail in his coffin, she tilted her head up to brush her nose against his. “I trust you,” she said again, and he was off of her in a flash. 

Chest panting, he watched in awe as she sat up, brushed her fingers over her neck, and eyed him sadly. 

“Kagome, I…” He trailed off, the apology sitting on his tongue. 

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

She was wrong, though. He did mean it. He meant everything he had done. Maybe not everything he’d said, but… there was something depraved inside of him that enjoyed hearing her heart beat insanely beneath him. Whatever it was—whether it was the demon inside of him, or the man even deeper within—he knew that whatever it was that gave him pleasure at seeing her flustered and heated and pliant was what the beads were really for. 

He would never hurt her—he knew that. He prayed she did now, too. But he also knew that there were different kinds of pain, and while he knew he would never hurt her with his hands, he couldn’t say the same about his words… or about his mouth, in general. 

And it was for days like today, when temperatures were running a little too hot, when words were flying a little too sharp, that he needed that extra incentive to stay in line. To not push her (or himself) too far. To remember that she was still just a girl, and he was almost fully a man, and that that might matter even more than the fact that she was human and he was not.

Maybe one day it would be different. Maybe one day, she would be ready to take those beads off of him—to keep him in line the way that he wished she would, with different words and a different method. A better method.

But in the meantime, he supposed they could just keep bickering like they always have, as if petty little arguments were really the worst thing he could do to warrant a kiss to the dirt.

“Inuyasha,” she said, pulling him out of himself again.

With just a look, he understood her, and he gathered her onto his back. They were back at the outskirts of camp before the others even noticed they were gone.

But what they did notice was Kagome’s commanding voice as she let fly one resounding word, and the loud crash (and wince) that followed immediately after. 

They also noticed that he didn’t even complain about it.

[victimsofyaoipoll]

Round 2

Propaganda Under Cut

Allura

Lots of people (myself included tbh) ship klance (Keith and Lance). In s8 the creators made Allura/Lance canon (but then they killed her off and left the ending ambiguous it was weird). Anyway the fandom treats her like she's the most terrible bitchy woman ever but all she wants to do is end the war and avenge her destroyed home planet. Yeah she wasn't always the nicest or always the best, but you could argue some other characters in the show aren't either and they aren't treated near as bad as allura. people really just hate her bc Lance liked her. I don't think allura/lance are good together, but I still liked her as a character and thought she was interesting and had a lot of growth during the show. she DEF is not evil like some people portray her as in fic or talk about her in captions on posts. I've seen people say that they HATE her and that she's the worst and I'm like ??? let her live (well sort of ig she is dead now). lots of fic writers use her as the villain which is so interesting to me bc the show literally has villains like use them. anyway allura so perfectly fits the bracket description she deserves better.

I hate to acknowledge my time in this fandom but I hate the way the fandom treated her more. Allura was treated like shit no matter what side of the Great Ship War you were on because she was always a threat to the biggest ships (klance and sheith). At best she got put into Background Lesbian or Consolation Prize Shallura (Space Mom-zoned) (She was not a motherly figure btw. She was just Black). At worst she was violently demonized for being ~racist~ (kinda not cool with the alien race that blew up her planet for a few episodes), complete with misogynistic language hurled at her (she got called a bitch sooo much). Allura was a good and cool character and the show did her dirty but the fandom was somehow worse.

i apologise for speaking the dark magicks, but amidst the voltron fandoms many, many transgressions, there were a particular subset of people who just hated this girl. the infamous klance wars of the 2010s kept this perfectly fine childrens cartoon character in the sights of shippers everywhere, and she (and her voice actress im sure) were subjected to years of petty squabble blown up to global perportions. ive seen hate, ive seen rants, ive seen fanfics that made her homophobic. girls been through the ringer, and even though voltron was never the show its fandom wanted it to be, i believe allura deserved better

Mary Morstan

a controversial one i know, but it’s tumblr. how could i not? anyway shoutout to the writers for CANONICALLY killing her off for the non-canon ship. she was so cool honestly poor girl

Oh god where do I start? Constantly being turned abusive? Killed off (in canon!)? Constantly being removed from fic? I cannot stand the way she's treated, but it's 100% impossible to find Johnlock fic without the "umsympathetic Mary Morstan" angle. It's infuriating!

The fandom insulted Mary at every conceivable turn, refused to acknowledge her narrative importance or impact on the other characters, called for her death repeatedly, and even SENT DEATH THREATS TO HER ACTRESS because she had the AUDACITY to be a morally gray female character who was married to John (they did not care about the moral grayness of the male characters, but she was irredeemable, apparently-presumably because she was a "threat" to the main fandom ship). And though she was definitely sacrificed on a SPECIFIC mlm ship altar, she was still tangentially victimized by OTHER mlm ships too! For example, this fandom was willing to make up a character WHO LITERALLY DID NOT ACTUALLY EXIST to ship with different male character (who was morally...way worse than she ever was), as well as create swathes of content about two men who had maybe one canon interaction in the whole show, before even thinking about the possibility of making content for this character or even just talking about her in a way that wasn't overtly misogynistic and degrading. When Mary died in-story (in what, in my opinion, was an unnecessary, bullshit way), her death was, to this fanbase, not actually about her and was just seen as "proof" that the two male leads would now get together (they didn't). And this STILL continues to this day. People reduce her to "selfish bitch," completely ignoring any of her complexity by claiming that she's incapable of caring about anyone (despite helping to save lives on more than one occasion, as well as dying in an act of sacrifice) and insisting that any of her positive qualities MUST be completely fabricated. I've seen a lot of female characters get mistreated by fandom for a mlm ship's sake, but I don't think I've EVER encountered an example as bad as this one.