#multiplicity adjacent activities

[sydmarch]

it was so stupidly difficult to find any nutritionist who has experience with arfid & takes insurance so after having to go through all these referrals my therapist sent me & jumping through hoops I lowkey hate the lady lmao feels like such a waste of time & energy

[whisperedmeg]

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[thevampiremarie]

SINNERS 2025 SPOILERS

If Grace Chow has no fans then I’m dead. Someone has hit me with their car. That is what it would take for me to stop being a Grace Chow defender. I genuinely don’t think she did anything wrong. The version of Sinners in which she did do things wrong is NOT the version of the movie that actually exists irl. It is made very crystal fucking clear that everyone in the juke joint was doomed from the moment Sammie began to sing and caught Remmick’s attention.

What is your community response to colonial and white supremacist violence? Do you wait complacently until sunrise for the vampires to maybe go away, even after the vampires have literally killed your friends and community members and actively threaten to destroy the rest of your community?

Or do you HANDLE SHIT when it happens, even at the cost of your own life? Are you actually willing to sacrifice anything to defeat evil?

While Grace got ahead of everyone, I am 100% sure that they would’ve come to the same conclusion on their own that the best way to protect the town would be to try and kill as many vampires as possible so they don’t make it there. Remmick clearly would’ve personally dragged every single townsperson and turned them in front of the juke joint to force Sammie to surrender himself.

And if Annie and Smoke’s daughter were still alive, what the fuck do y’all think Annie would’ve done?

The hatred for Grace’s actions and Grace herself is RACIALIZED MISOGYNY rooted in 1. viewing Chinese people as the Yellow Peril and 2. viewing Chinese women as objects - either victims or something to overcome and subdue. Even today when Asian women don’t behave according to the racial stereotypes EVERYONE, including Asian men and other people of color, projects onto us, all those people react with VIOLENCE to put us back in our places.

You are mad that you can’t put Grace in her place, as an extension of what you think of all Chinese women and Asian women (more broadly) and what our place is, according to you.

There’s also the part where Remmick literally sexually harasses Grace and threatens her with rape. We’re all just blowing past that because rape, sexual harassment, and sexual violence are excusable and normal for Asian women to endure, TO Y’ALL.

(Do you know how many people have told me to my face that being raped for being Chinese, and having multiple women and girls in my family being raped and sexually abused as CHILDREN by white men, is something we deserved? Is something we had coming, that we secretly wanted? Hundreds. Hundreds of men have told me that.)

He threatens her daughter in the same scene. When Mary turns Stack into a vampire, that act is portrayed as being adjacent to sexual assault. Grace would know because she was literally there. Remmick threatens her with rape. He threatens to at minimum sexually predate upon her daughter. Her husband is allied with this white man, who is also threatening her community (yes, she’s a member of the community despite not being Black!), her friends, her customers, the loved ones of everyone else at the juke joint.

And people being Sinophobic and racist and misogynistic would have preferred her to do nothing because Chinese women are not people to them. We are not people to you. Y’all are looking for literally anyone else to blame besides Remmick, the actual villain.

Maybe it’s not that Grace is the villain. Maybe it’s not that Grace is an evil Chinese dragon lady who hates Black people. Maybe you are projecting your own views on Chinese people onto her. Just a suggestion.

[llamabois]

Another LIST! Of what I love about Non-MC stories!!!!

1. She goes against fate. The LIs are fated to MC in multiple lives, while NonMC is not. She has chosen to go against what was a love story or tragedy to be written for her love and actively chooses to love despite not being tied to him in a past life.

2. She isn't the center of his world. Usually, MC is the center focus of the ML's world, their reason for being. Their air, conflict, and resolution. Everything. However, because she isn't the center of their life, she helps move their world into a new light and direction that isn't focused on a past tragedy, a future regret, or anything. She invites them into her world, and they slowly allow their own to become bigger too.

3. Her tragedy is not that she wasn't loveable. I keep seeing people throw NonMC away like she didn't truly deserve their love or that her was some sort of less than. NonMC's tragedy is that sometimes fates hold and past histories are stronger than she is and WAY stronger than HE is. Her tragedy is that she loved, knowing that there was a love they had that grew stronger with time away. Who can surpass a dead lover? Or a lover who has come back to life? To rewrite their regrets while undoubtedly making her regret her own self. That is her TRUE tragedy.

4. She's so funny! In ways that are so opposite of her LI, sometimes that you wonder how they got together in the first place. Which is exactly what makes their dynamic so fun! MC is a mirror to her LI but NonMC is sometimes the opposite or adjacent or even parallel to him in fun combinations.

5. Because despite it all, she's the main character of her own story and if her LI wants to be apart of it then GREAT. But if not, she can and will move on!

So please, don't stop making her stories! But please do put some respect on her name fr. She ain't no Debby downer woe is me, I'm an unlovable mushroom. She's so much more.

[mixelation]

I feel like the opinion on itatori varies a lot. People who don't really know Itachi outside of reputation and have never met Tori are just like "oh, the genin teammate romance, tale as old as time very romantic" and don't think much more of it. There are quite possibly thinly veiled rpf novels about it? Whereas yeah Itachi's ANBU team is kind of like "wait so she already KNEW you. and she was still like 'more!'???". I feel like the perspective of the people who know Tori through R&D but don't know Itachi is interesting. She has her loyal minions who are like yes my great boss deserves a hot rich bf but I hope this romance does not take her out of the lab. But people who like her less or at least don't work for her are like. Wow, The Genin Teammate Effect is REALLY powerful, huh. The Uchiha are kind of like, whyyy. But also like well. Who else can put up with him. But they have too much clan pride to say that to non uchiha.

ALL VERY GOOD POINTS

i think i need to rotate WTF is going on in R&D a bit because

i think kushina and deidara are both technically part of it? or some sort of adjacent thing? kushina is head of fuinjutsu, but i think this is probably either a very new, very tiny department, or else she's technically a branch of R&D that gets her own office in hokage tower because she's sleeping with the boss. deidara has a similar albeit more junior vibe where minato is like "oh yeah, please develop your insane jutsu as much as you want," and deidara gets funding/resources via an R&D mechanism. deidara probably does his best to stay clear of the research side of things, so idk if the core of R&D knows that much about him. kushina probably has to consult a lot

i've been debating the approach to the Orochimaru Thing and what i go for in most AUs is: orochimaru going missing-nin resulted in a lot of trust in research being diminished and a lot of people he trained being sanctioned/investigated. it's been like ~10 years when tori joins, so the department is running properly again, but there's a definite shadow. minato decides to keep her being from oto pretty hush-hush but it's not hard to figure out if you decide to actively investigate tori, so she probably occasionally runs into weird problems

i do want to have a whole ongoing Arc about tori learning to be a competent leader but i'm not sure what the timescale is. i think right now i have it: tori gets some sort of minor leadership position in r&d. having some sort of power exacerbates the issue where she sees any sort of hierarchy as a challenge rather than a social framework she should respect (AKA she can fuck shut up more easily and with greater consequence). minato goes "for FUCK'S sake, tori" and demotes her. tori's sudden absence makes a small number of people go "wait but,, we want her back,," also during her demotion a bunch fo shit hits the fan which are meant to narratively solidify her as coming into her own as a ninja, including learning hiraishin, the wave arc, and the konoha chunin exams. so now multiple people are like: tori what if you.... what if you worked on like. being an ACTUAL leader?

and then there's some road bumps but R&D comes around to her!!! i think her trajectory is becoming head of R&D at some point

but anyway she starts dating itachi BEFORE her demotion. however i'm not sure when it actually becomes public knowledge, despite their best efforts. in my mind they're on and off a bit for a while because they both think it's a temporary thing while itachi figures out a solution.

so itatori is just like. a thing. for most of her rise through the ranks of R&D. so im not sure how that would shape opinions?

tori at the department party: oh yeah, and this is my loser boyfriend her coworker:

[leashybebes]

🩸🩸🩸 vampire tommy au my beloved!!!

here we go! plot adjacent but mostly vampiric stalking as a love language. except it's buck's love language which is...disconcerting.

"Tommy? Jesus, you scared the life out of me," Evan says and Tommy catches hold of his arm, pulls him into the light of a streetlamp.

"Someone's following you," Tommy says, casting glances up and down the street. 

"Wait, what? How do you know that? Have you been following me?"

Tommy fights the urge to show his fangs, because Evan sounds delighted. This kid is going to be the death of him.

"We need to get you off the street," he says, instead of anything more damning. 

"My friend lives ten minutes away," Evan says. "He's out tonight, but I have a key."

"Good," Tommy says. "Move."

He keeps hold of Evan's arm as they walk, keeps his senses wide open and straining. He can hear footsteps. He can hear multiple sets of footsteps, and he chivvies Evan into moving a little faster.

Evan either can't hear them, or has an active death wish - both equally likely - because he slaps the back of his hand against Tommy's ribs, grins hugely and says, "You were following me."

[manmadejoyswithinmycomprehension]

would u write anything for homicipher’s mc (Adami) x gn reader…IM STARVING!!! I leave it up to ur imagination

HELL YEAHHHHHHHHH would you believe me if I said I did it already :3 a bit slow burn-ish, I cannot write without a fuck ton of context but enjoy mc saving u from Mr. Stitch bwhwwhhewhheqhhehwehwhehwheb I love her sm

You didn't know how you ended up there or when it happened. It just did. It took you a while to comprehend where exactly you had been transported. Hoping to meet someone else in this worn down place, you aimlessly wandered through the empty rooms and hallways. Coincidentally, you saw another man - tall, with a red jacket and furry hood. He rounded a corner and out of your sight, which prompted you to run after him without thinking of the consequences. As he passed by a door, it slammed open, and a pale hand dragged him in, the blood of the innocent man instantly splattering all over the floor and the surrounding surfaces. You cover your mouth and let out a small squeak before seeking shelter.

Thankfully, you found a pair of scissors lying around. That should come in handy! Shivering, cold, and distraught, you went slower this time, looking for human activity and someone worthy of your trust. A loud rumble echoed throughout the entire place, making tears well up in your eyes from the powerful scare. Was this your end? The hallway you were exploring split into two, and you ran back into an adjacent room. It seemed cleaner than the others, the wallpaper still mostly intact, a bed and a dusty table. On the bed sat a girl with short, white hair and blood stains in her raincoat. Oh, God. This is it. You're gonna die just like that man. You could just hope it was painless.

The figure croaked out something that you couldn't understand. It seemed to try two languages before finally deciding on just one. It pointed at you, repeating a word multiple times before the message was received by your disheveled mind: "You." She was saying "You." Then, she pointed to herself. "Me." Back then, you didn't know that "You" and "Me" would become so important later on.

You sat down on the floor, in front of her, looking up at the stained raincoat and the dirty crowbar that lay on the bed next to her hip.

"Me? You?" you said, moving your hands to check if you understood well. Her nod confirms your suspicions. Then, she points to different objects in the room and demonstrates how the language works. It felt like a breath of fresh air, having someone talk to you like an equal, in a place where you had been so violently proven that your life meant nothing. The bond had already started forming.

It only took a few hours for you to learn that primitive way of communication, and you started teaching her bits and pieces of your human language while she did the same for you. Using this, she introduced herself: Adami. Such a beautiful name... It had an exquisite ring, compared to the rough sounds of the ghostly people.

Soon, it became all about "You" and "Me." At first, you'd brush against her for comfort when a new entity approached. Then, slowly, she'd be the one to hold your hands when you were scared or when Mr. Gap appeared out of nowhere. "You, me, go together," "you, me, stay together" or "you, me, rest together."" It was sweet, having someone protect you in such a world. You didn't have the guts to question your relationship. Perhaps you were her comfort, maybe she saw in you what she once was. You were her anchor when she lost her temper, and she was your shield when a threat was nearby.

Nothing was clear to you. Friends did all of this, too, right? You were walking hand in hand, giggling at a joke Adami made when Mr. Stitch blocked your path.

"Me bored. Want fun?"

"No." she cuts him off furiously, shoving past him.

"Want fun! Want fun together them!"

The deranged ghost grips your arm, pulling you towards him as Adami holds onto your fingers.

"Them will not! You should leave!"

However silly this game of tug-o-war looked to an outsider, you were beyond frightened. Mr. Stitch was obviously not into the fun a normal person would resort to on a bad day. He was into the kind of fun that serial killers sought when sending body parts to the police. It was clear Adami couldn't help you - she'd hurt you in the process. Mr. Stitch ripped you from her arms, throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of meat and ran off to God knows where. He hid you in the Cloth Monster's room, wrapping you in the long curtains that decorated it. Giggling, he gripped your throat and slithered the soft material around it, torturing you as he loosened and tightened it. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you gasped for air when the door slammed open.

Coughing when your lungs could finally expand again, your vision was still blurred when Mr. Stitch transformed into a jumbled up mass of meat right before you. A trembling hand ripped off the fabric and you felt the familiar presence of Adami engulfing you in a hug.

"Me scared..."

Your heart throbbed wildly as you returned the tender embrace, removing her hood to get a closer look at her features. No matter how much she transformed, her eyes were always full of warmth when she gazed at you.

"Love... You and me together... Me love you..." she whispers, her free hand tilting your face up. Adami gets closer, giving you the choice to accept or reject her. You instantly press your lips together, your bodies melting into each other as you let your feelings overflow, your only regret being that you hadn't seen it sooner.

It didn't take long for the other residents to pick up on what was going on between the two of you. Moreover, Adami didn't even look at the cold, metallic doors of the elevator with the same curiosity as she did when she first descended into the other world. To her, it now meant separation, as you two would return to your respective places on Earth. What good was the freedom of humanity, when there was nothing left of her without you? At first, you thought she might want to go back to her old life, yet she always held your hand tighter. "You, me... together here."

[tau1tvec]

Some tips for The Sims 3 Buy/Build

Install LazyDuchess’ Smooth Patch to alleviate lag, esp in Buy/Build and CAS.

Keep your CC merged and organized, esp your patterns, this will also alleviate a lotta lag across all modes.

When building on community lots, or any lot rlly, avoid going to the edit world menu, and just put testingcheats enabled into the cheat window, then shift+click the ground of the lot to enter Buy/Build mode. This makes leaving it to save a lot easier, with less “preparing” screens to possibly get hung up in.

Lower your settings, you don’t need any adjacent lots loaded, and you certainly don’t need super water on either. You can always switch these back on when you’re done.

While you’re at it, remove your HQ mod, and turn off your Reshade/Gshade preset, or at least turn off your depth shaders. I only ever turn on my depth shaders when I’m taking screenshots for better fps while playing. The DoF shader esp requires a lotta resources your game could be using to simulate all those 78 townie sims instead.

Save as… vs Save, I Save as… at least every third save. It’s also just good habit to keep backups.

When using the CASt tool, set down everything you plan to CASt first, then switch to a category like the wall tool to avoid eventual lag and drag when using it a lot. Love yourself. You don’t have to suffer using CASt tool in an overpopulated category like misc deco.

Utilize the clone option through testing cheats to duplicate already CASted objects, it’ll keep your design just like the dropper tool, but it’s a lot less time consuming, I promise.

Don’t be afraid to use the swatch save tool for objects you use often, esp community lot objects, as it helps to keep your aesthetic consistent. I also keep all of my favorite streetlamps, benches, and public trash bins etc in a convenient custom collection folder to speed up the process of doing multiple lots in one sitting. These handy tools are there, use them.

The issue with custom counters. They mess up sometimes, if you can’t recolor it suddenly, here’s how to fix that. Now if you can’t place down a cupboard suddenly, even though nothing’s in the way, and you’ve got moveobjects on activated, try putting it on the wall a tile over, and then try adding it to your desired spot again. Lastly if you set down counters or cupboards at a corner, and it messes up the textures, but you can still recolor it, you could do what the video I linked above does, or you could simply pull out the CASt tool, and switch it back to any of its original swatches and click the check, then feel free to recolor it as you want.

Railings will also do the “can’t recolor” trick too, but this is a simple fix, just delete it, and replace it, and you’re good.

“Oh no, I switched between buy and build mode, and now my catalogue won’t load, and I can’t click on anything at all!” Don’t panic, hit F2 and/or F3 on your keyboard, these are shortcuts for switching between them, and if you’re lucky it’ll load properly again. Should you get the bug where you load a category and it’s somehow empty, don’t fret, just click on a different category and this should fix it. Then if you get the bug where all the objects you put down disappear suddenly, sorry your game is haunted. Call an exorcist, or just reload, they might reappear if you do.

Tbh, if you run into any kind of major bugs, it’s likely a sign to either save immediately or just restart your game. These only ever show up when you’ve been at it a while ( at least for me ), therefore starting fresh wouldn’t hurt. Probably also wouldn’t hurt to check whether you might’ve installed something the game didn’t agree with by running Dashboard, or put it through the ol’ Save Cleaner.

Honorable Mention: Keep an eye on the texture sizes and poly counts of objects. I know it’s tempting to build these ultra hyperrealistic lots with clutter at every inch, but unless you’re just doing it for screenshots, or for your story, or using it very sparingly, it is not by any means recommended purely for gameplay. This is just the truth when it comes to any Sims game. You don’t want lag, or max memory crashes, or save errors? The Sims 3 is a 32bit game, that’s almost old enough to drive, be easy on it.

[notaplaceofhonour]

“it’s hypocrisy for people who celebrated the idf killing sinwar & nasrallah to be appalled by people celebrating luigi mangione killing brian thompson; either you care about sanctity of life no matter what or you’re okay with celebrating killing terrible people”

as someone who isn’t really celebrating either, but is more worried about the latter than the former, I would like to present another option.

there is a fundamental difference between:

killing a member of a military structure as an act of war VS. extrajudicial vigilantism and murder against another citizen

a terrorist organization that exists to destroy a country & slaughter its civilians directly carrying out a massacre with clearcut genocidal intentions VS. a healthcare company that exists to both provide coverage for care to its customers and profit to its shareholders making decisions that indirectly lead to death through a failure to provide care when they prioritize profit over care

an agreed upon military action by official members of a structure that has (ostensibly, or at least is supposed to have) a means of oversight/accountability VS. one rogue person serving as judge, jury & executioner with no oversight or accountability

a military attack that deals a significant & strategic blow to a structure that exists to cause harm VS. a lone act of violence that leaves the injustice structure intact and at most disrupts the means to provide healthcare coverage within that system

on multiple levels, the situations are different. this isn’t saying there isn’t severe injustice in how healthcare coverage is provided, or that Brian Thompson was in no way responsible for his part in it, but there are shades of bad, and in every aspect, they’re multiple steps removed in ways that severely change the dynamics.

yeah, if you squint your eyes until all details blur away and boil everything down to “bad person gets bad thing” they start to look the same, but that is a fundamentally unhelpful & childish way to look at the world.

should powerful people who make unjust decisions & have a larger share in the diffuse responsibility for terrible injustices receive no consequences just because they’re not directly masterminding it, or it’s an indirect consequence of other goals, or “it’s not personal; it’s just good business”? no, of course not. but there is good reason that we as a society have a concept of criminal negligence, and we recognize the difference between manslaughter versus murder. they’re just fundamentally different things.

no, intention isn’t everything, but it isn’t nothing. passively allowing violence isn’t not violent, but it is still categorically different from actively engaging in violence or directly commanding it. indirect responsibility isn’t no responsibility, but it isn’t the same as direct responsibility.

it can absolutely be helpful to build a fence around certain offenses—“don’t do x because it’s adjacent/can lead to y”—to make it less likely that the worse offense will occur or to keep people from abusing gray areas and claiming plausible deniability. but there is a limit to how far you can take that before it starts to do the opposite.

when we keep expanding the criteria of guilt to include more and more steps away from direct, intentional harm as equal to the direct/intentional version of that offense, and we lower the criteria for who metes out justice to just any guy with a gun, and we put the power of judge jury & executioner all in a single person’s hands and we allow the maximum sentence (execution) for even indirect/unintentional systemic harm… we’re creating a powder keg just waiting to explode into mass, unchecked, open violence and throwing matches at it. and that’s not even getting into all the people chomping at the bit just waiting to use this permission structure to attack Jews and queer people

I don’t know when we, the three opinions people, started embracing this dualistic extreme black-and-white thinking where things had to all always be x or y way, but we need to do better. cheering on the expansion of vigilantism into extrajudicial execution for untried alleged criminal negligence & corporate manslaughter is a significantly different beast to crab raving or dancing in the streets when a guy who directly masterminded massacres, ruled a totalitarian regime, or dedicated his life to final solution 2: electric boogaloo gets hit as part of a war.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Solar farms don’t just have to be about low carbon electricity, they could also help reverse biodiversity decline. Under appropriate management and the right policies, solar farms have the potential to deliver benefits for nature and climate. Our team’s research on solar farms across the UK shows that these energy facilities can boost local pollinator populations and enhance pollination services to adjacent crops. For instance, managing solar farms as wildflower meadows can benefit bumblebee foraging and nesting, while larger solar farms can increase pollinator densities in surrounding landscapes compared to smaller sites managed as turf grass. Solar farms have been found to boost the diversity and abundance of certain plants, invertebrates and birds, compared to that on farmland, if solar panels are integrated with vegetation, even in urban areas. Solar farms can also deliver multiple “ecosystem services” in addition to biodiversity conservation, including food production and support for rural activities such as recreation. Yet, as with any changes, there will be winners and losers. Some species, such as bats, find it harder to forage for insects and travel along protected corridors of habitat due to to the presence of solar farms. The jury is still out on whether solar farms change the soil’s capacity to store carbon. With clearer understanding of how different species respond to the presence of solar farms, the design, location and management of these facilities can be adapted accordingly to benefit nature. Solar farms may challenge some deeply held perceptions in the UK of a cultural “green” countryside dotted with lush farmlands in which wildlife co-exist in apparent harmony with human-dominated land uses. However, centuries of agricultural intensification have pushed several species and habitats to the brink in the UK, a nation that’s been highlighted as one of the most nature-depleted countries in the world.

12 August 2024

[letters-unsending]

In which Hero keeps in fixing Villain’s stuff.

////

“Should be harder to break now.” Hero muttered, pushing Villain’s mask into his chest as he walked past.

Without regarding Villain further, he plunked down into his desk chair and began typing. Multiple windows flickered into place on his screen: live security footage, shipping documents, a grainy documentary in a foreign language. Too many numbers and notes for Villain to even begin to decipher.

“You called me here…just to return this?” Villain asked, rubbing his thumb over the mask’s surface.

The metal had been welded together seamlessly, sanded and buffed to a mirror-fine finish. As he flipped the mask over, he found the inside to be equally smooth, though a number of thin bands now crisscrossed the inner mesh.

“Yes. Your mask breaks too often. Your identity could be compromised.”

“I wear a cover underneath.” Villain groused.

“I’m aware.” Hero nodded, his face lit green by the flashing numbers on his screen. He tapped the keyboard and a dozen more windows popped into view.

////

“Stay still.”

Villain steadied himself against the wall as Hero pried open the seal on the back of his suit.

“Easy man, I paid good money for this.”

As Villain spoke, his ribs pushed into the broken suit panel. The metal was curled inward; the barbed edges slid over his bruised skin.

Metal squealed as Hero bent the adjacent plates. Once the plates were lifted, Hero jammed his hand between Villain’s side and the jagged metal, alleviating the pressure at his side. Free to breathe fully, Villain gasped. His ribs pushed into the cradle of Hero’s cold palm.

Bare handed. Villain thought, dazed as Hero used his free hand to break off the joints fixing the panel in place.

Villain sagged, his knees loose. Once Villain’s side was protected, Hero made quick work of the rest of the chest panels, wrenching, plying and snapping the metal, the ease of which reminded Villain of the crumpling of an aluminum can.

Villain groaned. He must have been scammed and given a shitty suit. That, or Hero was just able to bend mid-grade tech like that.

Neither option reassured him.

He nearly yelped when Hero drew away his hand away, exposing his skin to the night chill. The panels popped off Villain’s chest and back, and landed in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Before Villain could even stand straight, Hero leaned down, collected the scraps, and tossed the metal husk over his shoulder.

“I’ll take care of this.” He proclaimed.

“Hey, I just got that. You don’t need to throw it out.” Villain wheezed, rubbing his side.

“I’m not disposing of it.”

“Well, what the hell are you going to do with it? Turn it into some kind of wall decor?”

“Meet me at my base next week.” He hiked the metal further of his shoulder, and began to turn. “I should have it done by then.”

Villain gaped as he walked away, feeling like a skinned animal, watching a hunter stalk off with its spoils. Too tired to yell at Hero’s retreating back, he stared at the wall and muttered.

“What the hell does done mean?”

////

“Twist it to the right. Not the left.”

“Your right or my right?” Villain lifted the ring in the air, assessing the small grooves and buttons. The ring’s tools were worked seamlessly into the ring’s design, lined and obscured by intricate silver detailing.

“Your right.” Hero informed him from across the desk. “Twist the midsection and it should reveal four lights. Those are your cardinal directions.”

Villain twisted the band’s inner ring, a stripe of cobalt nestled in a dark outer band. Four lights blinked into existence. The northernmost point shone the brightest.

Hero opened one of the desk’s drawers and scooped something out. He set the object upon the desk with a light thump.

An identical ring.

“Your ring will lead to you to this matched one. This ring can locate yours as well, but only if you have the lights activated on your end.”

Villain slowly lowered his ring, a commendable display of control.

“This is a fail safe, of course. I don’t intend to be separated from you during this mission, but I thought it would be helpful to have a secondary method of locating each other if we are without our communicators.”

Hero’s face remained solemn. Behind the gleam of his glasses, his eyes flicked between the two rings and Villain without any meaningful pause.

“Your buddies aren’t going to say anything about these? You know, me knowing where y’all are?” Villain asked, twisting the inner ring back to its standard position.

“They’re aware.”

“They know? And you’re sure they didn’t point anything else out to you?”

////

“It’s not even eight.” Villain groaned into the couch pillow.

“You’re in my lab.”

Hero pulled Villain’s blanket off and had it folded and set on the coffee table by the time Villain sat up and opened his bleary eyes. He squinted at the blanket, unsure of its origin.

That definitely wasn’t the grease-stained rag Hero sometimes set over his knees while he read on the couch.

A blur of white blocked his view of the blanket and he numbly accepted the object as it was pushed into his hand. A mug. Coffee. His palms luxuriated in the porcelain’s warmth.

It took a few sips before he registered the familiar texture beneath his fingers. He twisted the mug’s face into the morning light.

“You fixed this?”

“Wasn’t hard.” Hero shrugged as he splayed some diagrams over his work desk.

“You don’t even drink coffee.” Villain sipped again, this time feeling out the slight patches in the mug’s sides.

Hero turned toward Villain.

“You do.”

////

Hero tugged Villain down into a crouch and felt around his back, testing the refined metal. The blow had caused a small dent, but the shape was otherwise intact, and more importantly, not jabbing into Villain’s side.

“Much better,” he noted.

“Great, I’m glad the armor’s okay. I feel fine, by the way.” Villain announced. “Thanks for asking.”

Hero’s hand dragged up Villain’s shoulders and to the side of his face. He tested the edge of his mask, then sighed as he spotted a crack. He swept over the spot with his thumb.

“I’ll do better with your mask, next time.”

The severity of Hero’s gaze stilled Villain, so he remained hunkered down, balancing himself with one hand on the ground.

///

[imarson404]

Maybe a hot take but I PERSONALLY don’t buy into the whole ‘Wammy’s house was a child detective puppy farm’ idea. Mainly because we aren’t told nearly enough about Wammy’s house outside of that one scene with near and Mello (thanks ohba and obata 😐) but also because a lot the stuff that we do see doesnt really give me that impression? Strictly speaking with the main anime/manga you have the existence of Matt and Linda right off the bat. Matt first of all because hes said to be the 3rd best at Wammy’s house, 3rd in line it be L , and yet hes fine to just… say nah, I don’t feel like it? He never really seems all that pressed tbh imo. And as for Linda, we know that she’s an exceptionally talented artist who is in multiple galleries across England, and Wammy’s appears to have facilitated that. She wasn’t grabbed off the streets as an orphan and forced to become a child detective. It doesn’t seem like any of them were. What Matt and Linda seem to show us is that none of them were ever forced to be detectives or the next L or whatever, it was just an option. (Once again, from my perspective in the animanga purely) The core of Mello’s very personality is to be competitive, of course he went for it. Near was exceptionally smart and good at puzzles in the same way that L was. In the one scene taking place at Wammy’s in the anime, it’s clear that Roger really didn’t want them to do this alone. He tried to hold back from telling them that L didn’t pick (cough cough because he knew Mello’s inferiority complex would lead him to believe that meant he had lost) and tried to convince them to work to whether before Mello stormed off alone. Not downplaying the fact that a 14 year old was able to storm off alone but the fact is that we DONT KNOW what happened after that. Theres so much context that we don’t know. Discussing other canons, the L files tells us outright that L WASNT FORCED TO BE A CHILD SLAVE DETECTIVE BY WATARI THE MOMENT HE WAS BROUGHT IN. He just solved puzzled and went on his computer until he was 14, at which point he found ‘something more interesting than any puzzle he’d ever solved’ and moved on to crimes. Again, not to take away from the dubious ethics of a 14 year old solving crimes but it isnt like Watari sat his 8 year old ass in front of a dead body and told him to figure it out. And the (dubiously canon adjacent?) LCtW also suggests that Wammy’s house was a place that facilitated genii of all types, not just the crime solving ones, for example the biochemist (i think) K. Now facing LABB. I can absolutely see why people look to this as definitive proof that Wammy’s house is evil, especially with what Mello talks about regarding ‘Watari wanting backups’ and A’s suicide. Those are both valid points which are very bad. My issue here is just that whats written in LABB doesnt always match up with other canons (theres also the whole issue of Mello being a potentially unreliable narrator but that’s an entirely different matter). For example, it claims that ‘when Wammy’s house was first founded Watari was experimenting with making new L’s’ which doesnt line up with L being taken to Wammy’s house in the manga and anime and basically every other canon, where Wammy’s precedes L. Even Dn 13, which takes LABB as canon in its timeline, also includes the L files which shows baby L being taken to Wammy’s and eventually discovering detective work. overall it’s all about weighing one canon against the over and making your on conclusions, and I prefer to believe in the canons which suggest that while it was flawed, Wammy’s house was not an actively evil child detective factory with an evil overlord running it. now, everything I’ve just said is MY PERSPECTIVE. I’m not bashing anyone for believing any which way, I really don’t care. I just felt like explaining my point of view on my blog (because I like compiling evidence and putting forwards an argument bc I find it fun. Yes I did like debates in class how could you tell

[deepspace-raconteur]

Honestly don’t even know what to say about this one other than it’s a plot bunny that wouldn’t leave me alone. :p

You’re dead-adjacent and Caleb loses his shit, like genuinely actually loses his shit, all the boys are there too, SFW, not super angsty tho, she/her pronouns for MC, Kieran and Luke also make an appearance bc I love them, also they know sign language bc I said so, the boys first time meeting I guess?, spoilers for MC’s whole immortality thing,

Everyone x MC, no established/specified relationships.

⚡️💥

I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

Repeated over and over like a mantra.

This is what Caleb mutters to himself, over and over again, as he rocks your limp body. He has you pulled into his lap, leaned completely over so he can bury his face in your bloodied hair. His warm arm is wrapped around you, clutching you to his chest.

The other hand holds his gun, aimed and still warm from being fired recently. His cold arm doesn’t shake even slightly as it keeps its targets at bay. One teary, blazing purple eye peeks out from under his bangs.

Four targets, in fact. Xavier, Zayne, Sylus, and Rafayel. Multiple blasts scorch the ground at their feet, one notably directly between Sylus’s. Said man’s crimson energy crackles around him dangerously, but doesn’t yet make another move.

Zayne is the first to speak. He had come running when your hunters watch had first sent him a warning alarm about your safety.

“Caleb,” he says calmly, not even flinching when that gun is jerked to aim at him. He raises his hands in surrender, ever the level-headed one. “She needs medical assistance, You know that I can help. I have my bag with me, can I please approach?”

“She’s already gone.” Caleb’s voice cracks, and everyone’s backs stiffen. Xavier gains a wild look in his eye, and his blade trembles minutely. Far off, a crow cries out, and Sylus clenches and unclenches his fists. Rafayel mentally catalogues who he’d need to attack first to get Caleb to believe he’s on his side.

Zayne doesn’t react. He had already known this. Your heartbeat had stopped transmitting to his own watch ages (minutes) ago.

“I… I need to be the first one she sees. I have to be. I-I’m always-“ a harsh sob cuts him off. He clutches her body tighter to his chest.

“I’m always by her side,” is a heartbroken whisper. “I have to tell her. I have to be here. I have to.”

The four exchange glances. Caleb either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. His mind is actively fracturing, but he’s the only one who knows the truth.

She would wake up again. For the roughly hundredth time in her life, not that she would know that. She wouldn’t know anything.

This is the first time she’d been reset in a long time; and Caleb needs to be the first thing she sees. She can’t forget him. She can’t.

“I… might still be able to help. But we need to get her-“ Xavier speaks up, mysterious as ever. What technology could he possibly have?

The gun points at him now, but Caleb deigns to lift his head too. His eyes blaze with fury, and his face contorts into a snarl worthy of a feral beast.

“We don’t need your fucking help!” Caleb bellows, but to everyone’s surprise, no gunfire follows. “She… she just needs time… she always comes back. Always.” He finishes resolutely.

Too distracted by Caleb, no one notices your foot twitch.

“What do you mean by that?” Sylus demands, taking a step forward. He’s been looking down the muzzle of a gun for far too long today anyway, and it’s really getting on his nerves… yet hesitation still infects the edges of his mind. Forces him to act with caution. Like always, when it comes to you.

But there’s no jerking a steering wheel here to make sure he takes a bullet instead of you. Just a madman with a sister complex and a gun holding your too pale, unbreathing body in his arms.

Rafayel has been far too quiet during this entire exchange. Caleb eyes him warily. Everything he had seen and heard of this man made him out to be a cocky, pompous, snotty brat who fancied himself an artist. He should’ve been the loudest one of the group; but he is silent now. His weapon remains hidden from Caleb’s eyes. They stare at each other, sizing one another up, and it makes Caleb’s remaining real skin itch. He doesn’t like unknown variables in his equations.

Rafayel does not like the image of his bride in another’s arms, not breathing. Something in the Tome of the Sea God could fix this, but he needs to get her away from these imbeciles first. Needs to take her out to sea, to his territory, where he is strongest. Maybe he could heat the metal in the gun to get him to drop it.

Caleb can feel him plotting. He shoots the ground at his feet just to make a point. He gets glares, and notably bared teeth from Xavier, for his actions.

Ice is creeping along the ground towards them. Zayne doesn’t even seem to notice, sight fixated on your body.

“Quit it.” Caleb growls, and somewhere in his fucked up mush of a brain, it’s almost like they’re kids again. Like Zayne is making it snow on his and your heads again, freezing melt-off dripping down your collars in the hot day. Yelling and laughing, “Quit it! Quit it, Zayne!”

Caleb shoots at his feet, too. Just to cover his bases.

He isn’t expecting Xavier to suddenly lunge when his focus is on his childhood friend. He teleports forward, blade raised to decapitate, but there’s a reason the others hadn’t attacked.

They knew better than to underestimate their lover’s pseudo-brother, mentally unhinged or not. Normally, Xavier would’ve known better too.

Caleb’s evol sends Xavier crashing to his knees in a second. Never has he looked so princely than in that moment, down on one knee with his head bowed under the pressure. His sword is thrust into the ground, having to rely on it heavily as a crutch just to keep from being pinned completely to the floor. In another situation, in another universe, he looks as if he could be mid-royal crowning ceremony.

The muzzle of Caleb’s gun presses to the sacrificed prince’s forehead. Fury builds on Caleb’s face, not that Xavier can lift his head enough to see it.

The others watch with bated breath. Waiting to see if the gun will go off first, or the human flashbang it’s pointed at.

Caleb twitches like he’s being electrocuted, suddenly stock still. Xavier disintegrates into pure light, and appears behind Caleb, sword raised once again, murder in his eyes. Caleb doesn’t move.

“Wait.”

This time, it’s crackling red energy that halts his blade. Xavier groans frustratedly, fighting against Sylus’s power, but gets thrown back a few feet for his troubles.

The other three stalk forward as Caleb’s eyes roll back in his head. The gun drops from his grasp, and he begins to collapse over, still clutching you to his chest.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!-“ Rafayel exclaims, rushing forward, but Sylus’s energy swoops in to catch the pair. He gently lowers them both to the ground. Rafayel kicks the gun far, far away.

“What the hell was that?” Rafayel speaks up, going to his knees and carefully rolling Caleb’s body off yours. It makes his heart hurt, seeing you limp, bloodied and bruised.

“Toring chip, I suspect. Experimental technology used by the fleet to control its soldiers.” Zayne responds, also kneeling down. By instinct, he’s placing his fingers at your pulse point on your neck. He doesn’t find anything, and exhales deeply.

Sylus gives him an odd look, as if to say “and how the fuck do you know that, doctor?”

Instead, he asks, “what do we do with him? Is he dead, doc?”

Zayne reaches over to do the same thing to Caleb, and finds a steady heartbeat. Far too calm for the state he was just in before seemingly being forced unconscious. Zayne shakes his head. Xavier glares from their feet, once again kneeling, with one hand curled possessively around your ankle.

…. Shouldn’t your body have been cooling by now? How are you still so warm?

Unsteady silence envelopes the four that are still conscious. They eye each other warily, suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that 1: all of them are intent on bringing you back with them to their own territories, and 2: while all of them definitely knew of each other, this was their first time meeting.

Energy crackles in the air around them, and it’s not Sylus’s.

Zayne’s watch beeps. His dark brows furrow, and he taps at it. Then, his head jerks to look at you. Still not breathing. Silence stretches out far longer than it should… then another beep.

“Is… that…?” Xavier whispers, eyes wide. That seems to jerk Zayne out of whatever shock he’s in. Suspicious of his watch, despite knowing the possibility of it being wrong is very low, he presses two fingers to your neck’s pulse point.

A stretch of time passes again, still too long but this time it’s shorter than the last gap. A single, strong thump beneath your skin. Zayne’s hand jerks. “It is.” He breathes, looking shellshocked.

A short, sharp burst of pure, overjoyed laughter bursts out of Rafayel. His hand smacks over his mouth, but he can’t tear his eyes away from his cutie.

She’s still alive. She’s alive!

“I need to get her to Akso, I can treat her there-“ Zayne speaks with finality, even when all their gazes snap to him threateningly.

“No. Too public, too many questions. Too accessible by EVER.” Sylus immediately challenges. “I have a state of the art medical facility at my base. I’ll allow you to treat her there.”

The four stare each other down. Xavier’s mouth opens and shuts over and over again like he wants to say something, but ultimately doesn’t. Rafayel considers reaching for his dagger.

“I will also graciously allow the rest of you to join us, Rafayel and Lumiere.” Sylus drawls, and Xavier glares harshly at him, but doesn’t speak up. “So long as you stay on your best behavior as guests.” Sylus heavily emphasizes the word ‘guests’.

His crimson energy threads reappear, and lift you into Sylus’ arms. Now it’s his own turn to clutch you protectively to his chest, glaring down at the limp body of Caleb.

All of the men seem perfectly content to leave him to rot there…. except Zayne.

He stands and stares at Caleb oddly for a long minute, then sighs. “We can’t leave him. This… this wasn’t like him. Something is wrong with him, and if we leave him here, like this… she’ll never forgive us.” He looks pointedly at the girl in Sylus arms.

Rafayel groans. “Well I’m not fucking carrying his big, broad ass.”

Sylus chuckles. He had a feeling that he and Rafayel could get along, potentially. The man did have quite an eye as an artist, and quite the skill as an assassin.

“You won’t need to,” Sylus replies, then calls out, “boys!”

Like shadows from the depths of the forest, two figures separate from the dark. Luke and Kieran, his ever-loyal seconds in command, move without needing instruction. They heft Caleb’s large body up and over their shoulders, then dutifully follow behind Sylus. All without a word.

Sylus is sure he’ll hear their complaints more than enough later, just not around the untrusted characters.

The boys end up pulling up the rear of the group. Xavier and Rafayel flank Sylus. Xavier is silent, eyes perpetually drawn to you. Rafayel however is positively chatty, and Sylus is surprisingly forthcoming. Even though Rafayel is definitely just digging for information from him.

Zayne follows closely behind the three, occasionally posing a question to Sylus who easily answers. Mostly about the medical tech at this so called ‘state of the art’ facility.

Luke adjusts Caleb on his shoulder enough to free a hand, then makes rapid sign language gestures at his brother. Kieran does some back, and then both turn to stare at Sylus for a moment, then back at each other. Kieran just shrugs, and a quiet sigh can be heard behind Luke’s mask.

Oh well. Whatever Boss wants, Boss gets. Even if it is inviting some of the most dangerous and direct threats to Onychinus right into the heart of his operations.

[bring-backup-99]

They Will Not See

Read on AO3

Am I in a bad way about Season 3 and the finale? Yes.

PAIRING: tech x fem reader

SUMMARY: You spend a sweet, unexpected night in bed with Tech.

WORDS COUNT: 1274

RATING + WARNINGS: 18+, spicy, porn with minimal plot, PiV

NOTES: This is installment eighteen of my reverse harem “Bad Choices” smutlet series on Ao3, but I think it’s also a sweet, intimate stand-alone Tech story. And I do love Tech losing a little of his control, especially since he’s kind of Dom in the series.

Although it’s written in second person, my heroine has a very established relationship with the Batch.

Tech watches you sleep. This is a recent development.

Usually, he would disentangle himself and leave the bed as soon as you drifted off, staying that long only because he knows you enjoy not falling asleep alone. He has spent his entire life sleeping in close proximity to one or more people, so he understands the general idea that this might be comforting. Tech can fall asleep anywhere, under almost any conditions. He has never accidentally fallen asleep, at least not since he was a cadet, but, when circumstances allow, he can just pass out. He overheard someone on an extended mission refer to him as the king of the power nap, which he took as a compliment.

You have always rested on Tech in casual moments; physical contact clearly being one of the ways you show affection. Touch has never been important to Tech. He has never had the need to show anyone affection or have it shown to him. In his life, he has categorized touch as negative or neutral. The addition of sex as physical intimacy has expanded the categories slightly. The touch associated with sex is usually positive. He certainly enjoys the physical sensations he experiences during sexual activities, and he understands that touch pre- and post- said activities is something you need, but it was not something he previously thought about for himself.

With the regular addition of multiple partners to your intimate activities, and their own needs for your attention, the idle time you spend with him has diminished, and, to his surprise, he misses that. He also finds that when he returns to the bedroom and sees you sleeping intertwined with someone, there is an unfamiliar feeling present. He wouldn’t call it jealousy, because he has never previously experienced that emotion, but he might acknowledge that it could be adjacent to that on an emotional spectrum.

So, he watches you, considering, then he puts down his datapad and stays next to you, your head resting on his shoulder. After a few minutes, your body fully turns and presses to him, your arm on his chest. He decides this is not a neutral touch and recategorizes it as positive, and then he falls asleep.

*

You are dreaming. Tech is kissing your neck, and his hand is cradling your head. He’s whispering soft words to you as he nuzzles your ear. You don’t understand what he is saying, but you can tell that the words are sweet.

For a moment, you feel bad; this must be Wrecker or maybe Hunter, but you refuse to wake up, instead basking in the gentle touch of someone who rarely touches you gently. You don’t remember either of them being there, but Tech doesn’t stay in bed with you.

Dream Tech kisses you, pressing his lips to yours before you open your mouth to him and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You hear your name whispered with such a tone that your whole body shivers.

A knee nudges between your legs, parting them slightly, and then another spreads you open, and his body is flush to your own. A strong arm nestles to one side of your head, and you finally open your eyes, ready to let the dream go, to stop this nighttime lover before it goes too far. But it’s still Tech above you, his eyes partly closed, and you feel an unexpected excitement and warmth course through your body. You pull his face down to yours to kiss him more, your fingertips running through his short hair, against the strap that keeps his goggles a permanent part of his face, like Wrecker’s scar and Hunter and Crosshair’s tattoos.

As he begins to slide into you, you softly cry out his name into his ear. He stops for a moment, as if confused, and you wonder if he thought he was dreaming as well. At least it was your name he called out. His eyes are fully open now, looking at you. You smile and tip your hips up to encourage him to continue. Another moment passes and then he is buried inside you.

He’s moving slowly, almost hesitant. It’s been a long time since someone was in your bed who could initiate the dreamy fun of middle-of-the-night sex, and maybe Tech has never done this at all, considering he rarely even falls asleep in your bed. Would he have slept in others’?

But it feels so good. So nice. So satisfying. His body is against yours, his strokes long and careful, and when he fills you, he presses in just a little more, and you murmur at the pleasure of it. You could do this all night, whispering encouragement in his ear, telling him how you never want this to stop, how good it feels. You squeeze yourself around his cock, gratified to hear him make a small sound of satisfaction, moving your hips to meet him. Your arms wrap around him, feeling those strong muscles in his back, feeling his ass tighten as he pushes into you.

He’s different, his breath catching more right now than when he is pounding into you. He hooks your leg over his arm, finding an angle to be deeper into you. He stays like this, rolling his hips against you as you moan in ecstasy.

Eventually, he has to stop, holding himself still as he tries to control himself, but you can tell he’s close. You move under him, tightening around him in tantalizing pulses, pressing him into you, not letting him collect himself enough to halt his body.

“Wait,” he whispers to you. “I will finish too soon.”

“No,” you answer. “I want you to come.” You keep moving against him, feeling his resolve giving way.

“But you…you have not…”

“It’s okay. This feels so good. I don’t want to change it. Come in me like this.” And you want him to lose a little of his usual control. He looks into your eyes before giving in.

His pace picks up slightly, as you push against him, your fingers raking along his back, your teeth finding his shoulder. His lips are to yours, muffling his moan as he starts to come, pumping inside of you.

You cry out in shared bliss, holding him tight, your legs wrapped around his, riding every wave, until his face is nuzzled against your own, his breaths against your neck.

*

You lie on his chest, his arm around you. You thought he’d fall right back to sleep, but you can feel the wakefulness in his body. You stroke your fingers against his chest, then absentmindedly lick his nipple.

“Mmph,” he groans in surprise, catching your hand in his. He turns his head slightly to you. “I feel that I have left a task incomplete.”

“Tech,” you laugh. “I’m not an item on a checklist…or are you concerned about your perfect record?” He rolls his eyes, but you can tell you’re partly correct. “Do I seem any less satisfied to you than at other times?” He has no response. “Then leave it…Or leave it til morning. Let me just enjoy this.” You feel his body relax slightly in acquiescence.

Yes, you want to soak this up. A few hours of soft Tech, with sex no less intense or satisfying because he wasn’t rough with you – with his strong, naked body against you, and his attention not diverted by his datapad. You don’t want to fall asleep yet, but slowly his warmth and steady breathing lull your eyes to close.

In the morning, he ticks off that final box on his checklist before he leaves.

*

The rest of the series can be found here.

Warning: It gets kinky.

[dirtyl0ver]

Love ur hc's and fics!! gotta ask though... Are *all* these guys living in a 'slendermansion' adjacent house? How does that work? And if you could comprehend it, what's the layout (or the general idea) (also since you said in your last post that Tim and Brian are surrounded by men, im assuming there are no female proxies in that place)(fair)(be safe girlies these men WILL wreck you)

Great question! Let me explain 🫡

How I Imagine the Creeps’ Living Situation

Okay so first and foremost, I actually imagine the house being more normal than the traditional “Slendermansion” version, it's not this giant gothic maze or supernatural mansion. In my head, it’s more like a large remote old-but-updated house buried deep in the woods, definitely off-grid, hard to find unless you already know where to look.

Think long dirt driveway, no neighbors for miles, satellite internet at best, and a constant low sense of unease.

It’s big enough to house multiple people, everyone has their own room, but it’s nothing glamorous. Kind of like a place that was once owned by a very normal family… until it wasn’t.

I imagine the proxies occupying the back wing of the house, their rooms being closest together, and they’ve sort of claimed that space without needing to say it out loud. The rest of the creeps are scattered, but most keep to themselves or come and go. There’s definitely a “shared kitchen” situation, but nobody really cooks together lol. The fridge is full of unlabeled containers and questionable leftovers.

And yeah, I do imagine the house being entirely male in terms of permanent residents. I don't think the female creeps are openly excluded, just because, frankly, there are very few of them to begin with. This world isn’t kind to women, and so the ones who do survive it tend to be smart enough to live separately.

I think one or two female creeps might technically have a room in the house, but they rarely use it. They come through when they need something (pass messages, drop something off, get information, do a job) and then they leave.

No one really runs the house. Slender’s presence is more of a looming authority than an active one. He exists, sure, but he’s distant like a force of nature no one tries to question anymore. He doesn’t get involved unless you really fuck up.

So yeah, no supernatural architecture or anything like that. Just a quiet, isolating place full of men.

If you guys would be interested, I'd be totally down to elaborate, maybe do some visual headcanons of how I envision the house + their individual rooms. It’s a little more grounded than the usual vibe I've seen in this fandom, so if that’s something you’d wanna see, lmk!! <3

[kedreeva]

I have a question. I have a very senior mouse (got her in May 2022 from a pet store, unsure of how old she was then). She originally had 4 sisters that she lived with but the last of them passed. I know it isn't ideal to keep one mouse, but due to living situations I'm not in a position to start a new colony. Is there anything I can do for enrichment to keep her happy? She has lots of places to climb and burrow, multiple hides, gnawing sticks, toys, and a wheel she adores. I hand feed her a seed a few times a day and spend time adjacent to her (she's never been a fan of handling). She eats well and is active but I worry about her long-term.

Most likely she was 4-8 weeks old if the pet store was getting them shipped in from a large breeding facility. That's very old for a mouse- the oldest mouse I have personally witnessed was 2 years and 4 months old at the time I saw him (birth date tracked at a research facility so I know it was accurate to within a few days). So you're doing well!

You have most of the bases covered. The only thing I can think to add would be scent-based enrichment (safe herbs/grasses/flowers, safe leaves from trees outside, if there's someone else you trust their husbandry that has mice, something small from their mice like a used chew that she could smell, etc). Soft hides like hammocks, and varying her offered nest material (different sizes/colors of krinkle paper, pulped cotton, tissues/paper towels/napkins in various textures, dried grasses, tissue paper, cardboard etc), are good enrichment.

They also slowly lose the ability to thermoregulate, so giving her a warm spot in the cage like with a small heat source may help improve her QoL as she gets ancient. I wouldn't use a light because that screws up their light cycle but you can get a small piece of reptile heat tape for a few bucks and use aluminum tape to tape it under her cage or along the side. For safety it should be used with a thermostat, and double check with the manufacturer before purchase to ensure it's ok if your cage is plastic not glass.