#or whatever version if ‘hell’ you prefer

[alaskan-wallflower]

can we just say all the outsiders universes coincide with each other and stop bitching about what’s canon and what’s not please

[this-charming-primevalmusic]

EXACTLY

one big thing i think people outside fandom (like, all fandoms, fandom in general, not any particular one) tend to misunderstand is they know it's a subculture of people who are weirdly deeply invested in fictional media, and they hear about drama caused by people in those subcultures being unhinged in not-fun ways, and they think the unhingedness comes from the fact of being overinvested in works of fiction.

which is a natural assumption, but in my experience that's not really the case? like in my experience the drama llamas in fandom are usually not the ones who are just genuinely very deeply into the fiction. i've known people who are basically thinking about star trek or x-men comics or supernatural pretty much 100% of their free time and ime that type of person is usually very nice and surprisingly functional in their regular life. when someone's a constant nexus of fandom drama it's usually not that they are obsessed with the actual work of fiction the fandom is about, it's at least one of the following:

what they're obsessed with is not the source material but their unhealthy parasocial relationships with one or more of the people who created it

what they're obsessed with is not the source material but some elaborate shared-universe subset of fanfic about it that's only barely related to the original at this point, and/or an esoteric reading-against-the-text reinterpretation of the source material (often if the canon is active and ongoing this leads to becoming actively hostile toward it for its inevitably increasing failure to conform to their preferred fanon)

what they're obsessed with is not the source material but the fandom itself and gathering clout within it, so that the source material basically only exists to them as a tool for scoring points in increasingly arcane fandom disputes

and very often you get the same person doing 2 and sometimes even all 3 of these, and that's where the trouble really starts

[cumironi]

YOU ARE GOOD TO ME jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life,” you said when your boyfriend have a bad day. why? you too have no idea, maybe because the fact that you don't know how and never once in you life comforting someone. genuinely. again genuinly.

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, crack, fluff, petnames,

GOJO SATORU

the apartment door slammed open like he’d just escaped war, and satoru gojo stumbled in dramatically with his white hair sticking out in every possible direction, sunglasses askew, and his coat only halfway on. he groaned as if gravity had quadrupled just for him. “i’m a broken man,” he announced, kicking off one shoe and somehow missing the entire genkan floor, letting it fly into the wall. “a shell. an empty husk. your poor boyfriend’s gonna die, babe.”

you looked up from your laptop on the couch, blanket wrapped around you like a burrito, eyebrows raised. “you say that every time you have to walk up stairs.”

“these weren’t stairs,” he collapsed face-first onto the couch beside you, not even bothering to move your legs—just burying his face right into your thighs like they were some heavenly pillow from ikea. “this was hell disguised as productivity.”

you let your fingers run through his messy hair, watching him melt under the touch. he peeked up at you through the curtain of silver strands and whimpered. “aren’t you gonna comfort me, sweetheart? tell me i’m a strong, hardworking man? kiss my forehead? lick my—”

“i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life,” you interrupted dryly.

satoru paused. blinked. then wheezed out a laugh like he’d just short-circuited. “what kind of weird-ass therapist talk is that? are you trying to seduce me or initiate a cult?”

you shrugged. “i read it online. it’s for people who are bad at comforting others.”

he burst out laughing again, rolling onto his back and yanking you down onto his chest with him, despite your protests about needing to finish your assignment. “baby, that was the worst attempt at comforting i’ve ever received. and also the funniest. you’re not supposed to make me wheeze when i’m dying. you’re supposed to kiss it better. preferably with tongue.”

“you’re so dramatic,” you mumbled against his neck, feeling the vibration of his chuckles under your lips. but he felt warm. exhausted, yes—but warm. arms tight around you like he needed you to keep him from sinking through the earth.

he sighed, running a hand down your back. “you know what, though? i actually like that stupid line. ‘i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.’ that’s hot in a weird way. mysterious. do it again, but whisper it in my ear like you’re about to tie me to a chair and interrogate me.”

you laughed into his collarbone, swatting at his side. “you’re unhinged.”

“and you’re terrible at comforting,” he grinned, lips pressing to your temple. “perfect match.”

he nuzzled into your cheek, breath soft and warm as he murmured, “thanks for not trying to fix it. just… lying here with me. even if you suck at words. i love your stupid mouth anyway.”

you blinked. “is that your version of affection?”

“it’s my version of proposing,” he teased, then added seriously, quieter this time, “you’re my favorite place to fall apart.”

you didn’t need to say anything back. just the way your hand found his and curled your fingers together said enough.

GETO SUGURU

the door to your shared apartment creaked open much slower this time. suguru didn’t have the dramatic flair of gojo—not unless he wanted something—but you could hear the unmistakable sigh as he stepped inside, shoulders heavy under the weight of whatever hell he’d just endured. he didn’t say a word, not even a greeting, just kicked off his boots, loosened the black tie around his neck, and tossed his coat over the armchair like a man who’d just survived an apocalypse and wanted absolutely no questions about it.

you peered up from the floor where you’d been lying belly-down with your laptop, typing an essay due in four hours and slowly accepting your fate. “hey,” you called softly. “you look like a ghost.”

“feel like one,” he muttered, voice hoarse as he stepped over your textbooks and dropped down beside you, his tall frame curling next to yours like he was seconds from passing out right there on the floor. “every joint in my body hates me. my brain is soup. and not even good soup. like lukewarm instant ramen broth.”

you scooted a little closer, until your thighs were touching. you didn’t know what to say. you were never great at comfort—it always felt forced, like reciting lines from a textbook. but you tried. “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

geto froze.

turned his head slowly toward you with a blank stare.

“…what the hell did you just say?”

“it’s a thing!” you defended quickly. “for people who suck at comforting others, you’re supposed to say that. it shows solidarity.”

he blinked once. then again. then he made a deep, guttural sound from his chest—one that started as a chuckle and very quickly turned into a full-blown laugh, his hand dragging down his face like he couldn’t believe he’d just heard that come out of your mouth.

“baby,” he said between breathless laughs, “that sounds like something someone would say to a war criminal before interviewing them on a podcast.”

“well, i’m trying,” you muttered, looking away. “do you want a hug or not?”

he reached for you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you into his lap like a man starved for affection. “yes, i want a hug. i want your shitty comfort. i want your confused college girl energy. i want all of it. come here.”

your legs tangled together as he nuzzled into your neck, his voice muffled against your skin. “your awkward little line is staying with me forever, by the way. next time someone tries to lecture me, i’m just gonna stare at them and whisper, ‘i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life,’ and see if they cry.”

“maybe they’ll fall in love with you like i did,” you offered, biting back a grin.

he kissed your shoulder. “they won’t. i’m saving my unhinged affection for you.”

you turned toward him, brows lifted in mock curiosity. “unhinged affection, huh? is that what you call pressing your nose into my cleavage while you sigh dramatically?”

“don’t disrespect my rituals,” he said solemnly, burying his face between your boobs like a man returning to his homeland. “this is how i recharge. spiritual energy. it’s science.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you laughed, letting him pull you fully into his lap, arms tight around your waist.

but he didn’t say anything else for a moment—just held you there, cheek pressed against your chest, breathing steady and warm. when he finally spoke again, it was quiet. tired.

“you don’t have to say the right thing. i just… like when you’re here. even when you’re awkward and quoting therapy twitter. especially then.”

you smiled, combing your fingers through his soft hair, brushing it back from his temple.

“i’d like to join you in acknowledging how bad you are at expressing emotions,” you said sweetly.

“you little shit.”

“you love me.”

“unfortunately, yes,” he whispered, kissing your collarbone. “very much so.”

NANAMI KENTO

you heard the apartment door click shut before the wall clock even hit 8 p.m., which meant something was wrong. nanami was never home this early. it wasn’t his style. he worked late, came back when the world was quiet, shoulders tight and tie loosened, jaw clenched like he was still arguing with someone in his head.

but tonight, it was different. he didn’t say a word when he came in. just walked in like his bones had betrayed him, hands in his pockets, tie already undone, and that golden tan trench coat of his draped over one arm like it weighed fifty pounds.

you sat up from your spot on the floor, where textbooks and half-drunk iced coffee cups surrounded you like a shrine to academic burnout before rise to your feet. “hey…” you said softly. “you’re home early.”

“burned out,” nanami said simply, putting his coat on the back of a chair like he was laying a body to rest. “utterly depleted. mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally—choose your adjective.”

you stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do with your arms. you weren’t the best at emotional first aid, and nanami was so… composed. always so damn calm, even when the world around him was on fire. it felt wrong seeing him like this—shoulders slumped, voice dull, his usual neat hair slightly tousled from stress.

so you cleared your throat. “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

nanami froze.

slowly turned his head toward you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “pardon?”

“it’s supposed to be a comforting phrase,” you explained quickly, cheeks heating up. “for people who don’t know what to say but want to be supportive.”

he blinked at you for a long, silent beat.

then, deadpan, he said, “i feel like i just got emotionally mansplained by a motivational instagram reel.”

you sputtered, trying not to laugh. “you’re not helping.”

“no, you’re right,” he sighed, stepping closer until his hands found your waist, his head dipping down to rest on your shoulder. “i appreciate it. even if it sounds like something someone’s overly enthusiastic coworker would say in a corporate support group.”

his arms wrapped around you slowly—deliberately—like this was the only thing anchoring him to the floor. you could feel the tension melt away in pieces, each exhale grounding him a little more in your presence. “you’re terrible at comforting, by the way,” he murmured against your neck. “but you’re warm. and soft. and you smell like that overpriced shampoo i bought you, so i’m not complaining.”

you snorted. “so you do notice when i use it.”

“i notice everything,” he said, leaning back just enough to look down at you. “especially when you walk past me in those little shorts you think i don’t see.”

your mouth dropped open. “nanami kento.”

“i’m tired, not blind,” he muttered, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw. “let me rest my forehead on your boobs and pretend they’re a stress ball.”

you smacked his shoulder, giggling. “you’re supposed to be the mature one.”

“i have a professional reputation,” he mumbled as he guided you to the couch with him, sinking down with a deep, grateful sigh. “but not here. here, i’m your very tired, very needy boyfriend who just wants to be held and babied and—”

“don’t say babied.”

“—and smothered,” he continued stubbornly, resting his head in your lap like it was a luxury pillow. “preferably to death.”

you stroked his hair, soft and slow, and smiled down at him. “you want a bedtime story too?”

“only if it ends with you riding me into the sunset,” he murmured, eyes already half-lidded from comfort.

you blinked. “…sir.”

“you offered. i’m just being imaginative.” he looked up at you with that small, rare smile—the kind he only gave when he was too tired to hide how much he adored you.

“seriously, though,” he added quietly, fingers lacing with yours. “thank you. even when you’re awkward, you’re everything i need.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

he didn’t even knock. he kicked the door open like it owed him money, his tall frame slouched in the doorway, one hand on the back of his neck, the other holding a plastic bag of convenience store food that looked like it had been crushed under his boot.

“hey, baby,” he called out, voice already heavy with exhaustion as he kicked the door shut behind him. “i think i tore my soul today. like, straight up. my legs are vibrating. that ain’t normal, right?”

you looked up from your laptop where you were halfway through a research paper, eyes dry and fingers twitching from too much caffeine. “you look like you just got hit by a truck.”

“mm.” he dropped the bag on the kitchen counter and slumped into the couch like gravity was trying to eat him alive. “probably did. can’t remember. the day was a blur of dumbasses and testosterone.”

you blinked at him. he looked so done—shirt halfway unbuttoned, tie hanging like a noose, hair a mess, one eye twitching from what you could only assume was the sheer mental stamina it took to not punch someone today.

you closed your laptop and stood. time to try.

“i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

silence.

toji turned his head very slowly to stare at you from the couch.

“…the fuck was that?”

“it’s a thing,” you said, crossing your arms defensively. “i’m trying to comfort you. don’t make fun of me.”

his lips twitched. you saw it. the way his eyes lit up like he’d just found his new favorite toy. “that was you trying to comfort me?”

“yes.”

he let out a low, slow laugh, leaning his head back against the couch. “baby, i love you, but that sounded like you were about to put on a headset and guide me through a meditation app.”

“okay, rude. i’m literally trying to be there for you.”

he patted his thigh lazily. “then get over here. bring those soft little thighs i like and come help me ‘acknowledge the difficulty of my life.’”

you rolled your eyes but walked over anyway, crawling into his lap and straddling him as his hands immediately settled on your waist like muscle memory. he looked up at you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth pulled into a lazy grin.

“you’re bad at comforting, but you’re hot, so i’m willing to overlook it,” he said, sliding his palms up your thighs under your oversized shirt. “wanna kiss it better?”

“kiss what better?”

“my brain. my bones. my soul. my—”

“toji—”

“—cock. obviously.” he gave you a smug little smirk, resting his forehead against your chest like he was about to fall asleep right there. “’m serious though. lemme stay here a bit. you’re warm. and soft. and smell better than anyone I’ve touched all day.”

your fingers drifted into his hair without thinking, stroking back the messy strands. “you’re such a menace.”

“yeah,” he mumbled, already dozing, “but i’m your menace. the tired, aching, sex-deprived, emotionally-stunted mess you chose.”

you snorted and kissed the top of his head. “if you weren’t so hot i’d slap you.”

“do both,” he whispered against your chest. “get creative.”

but then, quieter, he added, “thanks for trying. i like it. even when it sounds like a therapy robot malfunctioning.”

you paused. smiled. and hugged him tighter.

“anytime, menace.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you didn’t expect to see him on the couch like that.

sukuna was always loud—annoying and smug, lounging across your bed like he owned the place (because he absolutely believed he did). he talked too much, flirted too shamelessly, and got under your skin so easily it was practically a talent.

but right now? he was quiet.

legs spread wide, forearms resting on his thighs, head tilted back with his eyes shut like he was trying not to bite someone’s head off. the black markings on his skin seemed duller than usual, and his eyes—usually narrowed and gleaming—looked heavy, like the weight of the world had finally pressed down on him for once.

you tiptoed over, unsure, nervous. sukuna wasn’t like anyone else. he didn’t want sympathy. he didn’t even believe in comfort.

but still…

“i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

his eyes cracked open.

slowly. like he was wondering if he just hallucinated that.

“…what.”

you shifted on your feet, hands behind your back. “i’m not good at… emotional stuff. but i read that line somewhere. it’s supposed to help.”

he stared at you. dead silent. not blinking. eyes locked onto you with the intensity of a man who had never in his life heard anything so baffling.

and then—

he laughed.

not a chuckle. not a snort. a deep, full-body laugh that came from his chest and shook his shoulders, one hand dragging down his face like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“you’re such a little idiot,” he wheezed, grinning now, eyes gleaming with mischief as he sat up straighter. “what the hell was that? who the fuck wrote that? i wanna thank them for the comedy gold.”

“shut up!” you pouted, smacking his arm. “i’m trying to be supportive!”

“supportive?” he scoffed, grabbing your wrist before you could pull back and yanking you right onto his lap, like he was done pretending to need space. “you sound like you’re reciting a spell to make me spontaneously combust.”

“maybe i am.”

he grinned again. slow and lazy. “you trying to kill me, baby?”

“no,” you muttered, cheeks warm as your legs straddled his thighs, hands braced on his broad shoulders. “just… you looked tired. and i didn’t know what to say.”

he hummed, arms sliding around your waist without hesitation, pressing you closer until your chest touched his. “i am tired. but if you keep climbing on me like this, i’ll forget all about it.”

you rolled your eyes, but your hands slipped up into his hair anyway, tugging gently. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and you’re so soft,” he murmured, burying his face in your neck, his voice suddenly quieter. rougher. “smell nice. feel even better. mm. i should fall apart more often if it means you’ll climb into my lap and say weird shit.”

you felt him exhale, long and slow, against your skin. he was warm. heavy. not just in body but presence—like he carried the weight of centuries and finally, finally let someone else hold him for a minute.

“you okay?” you asked, voice quieter this time.

“i’m fine,” he replied easily. “i’m always fine. just… annoyed. tired of dealing with people. bored. everything feels stupid.”

you nodded. “i get that.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you, two of his fingers tracing along your jaw. “you don’t need to say anything smart, you know. you just gotta be here. let me touch you. let me forget the rest of the world.”

“…you really are a pervert.”

“you say that like you’re not grinding on my lap while calling me tired.”

“sukuna—!”

“you love it,” he smirked, dragging his fingers down your spine until you shivered. “and i love you. even if you say weird comforting lines like some emotional AI.”

you blinked.

“what.”

“don’t make me say it again,” he said, too smoothly. “i’m only saying it once. i’m exhausted, not weak.”

you stared at him. for once, he looked flustered. not red-faced, not babbling, but that little twitch at the corner of his mouth gave it away.

you leaned in, whispered against his lips, “i would like to acknowledge the difficulty of your heart finally admitting that.”

“i swear i’ll spank you right now,” he growled, mouth already crashing against yours, exhausted and starving for you all at once.

SHIU KONG

you heard the door before you saw him—soft click, slow open, followed by the sound of a deep exhale and the thunk of expensive leather shoes being kicked off without care.

he rarely came home this quiet.

you peeked out from behind your textbook, still in your oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, hair up in a lazy bun, half a bag of chips already devoured beside you.

he looked like hell. beautiful, expensive hell. black coat half off his shoulders, tie loose, eyes low-lidded with a dangerous kind of fatigue.

he didn’t even glance at you. just walked straight to the bar cart, poured himself a glass of dark liquor, and sank into the leather armchair like he was made for it.

you padded up to him quietly, awkward and unsure. your lips parted, brain short-circuiting, and then you blurted out, “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

shiu froze mid-sip.

he slowly lowered his glass and turned his head toward you with the slow, deliberate grace of a man wondering if you’d just tried to initiate a séance.

“…what the hell did you just say to me?”

“i’m trying to comfort you,” you said quickly, a little embarrassed now. “i read it online. it’s supposed to validate your emotional experience.”

he blinked.

then—deadpan, flatly—he asked, “are you high?”

“no! i’m being serious. you just look… really exhausted.”

he stared at you for a moment longer before his lips twitched. he took another slow sip of his drink, watching you over the rim of the glass like a predator watching its prey try to act tough.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “because that was the most HR-approved way anyone has ever tried to flirt with me.”

“i wasn’t flirting!” you gasped.

“mm. so you just randomly walk up to me and talk like a guidance counselor in the middle of an emotional crisis?”

you flushed, crossing your arms. “okay, you know what? forget it. next time i’ll just let you rot in your classy little despair cave and do nothing.”

he grabbed your wrist before you could walk away, gently tugging you into his lap with practiced ease. his hand slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm palm splaying against your bare thigh.

“you’re not leaving me alone when i’m like this,” he said, voice dipped in that tired, rich silk tone that made your stomach twist.

you settled against him reluctantly, your head resting on his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt.

“i didn’t know what to say,” you muttered. “i’ve never seen you this tired. you’re always so… put together.”

he chuckled, low and bitter. “baby, you’re the only person i’d even let see me like this. the rest of the world gets the polished version. you get the man underneath the suit.”

“…so you admit you’re actually a cryptid.”

“a very expensive cryptid,” he murmured, letting his lips brush your temple. “one who only wants his bratty little girl curled up on his lap when he feels like throwing someone off a balcony.”

you laughed softly, fingers playing with his tie. “do you feel any better?”

“no,” he said honestly. “but i’m enjoying the view now. keep sitting there like that and i might forget how many people pissed me off today.”

“you’re such a perv.”

“i’m exhausted and in need of emotional support. and by emotional support, i mean your thighs.”

“…you’re impossible.”

“and you love it,” he whispered against your ear, nipping gently. “now be a good girl and keep acknowledging me. preferably without sounding like a therapy hotline next time.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he didn’t even greet you when he walked through the door.

his shoulders were tight. his expression, unreadable. briefcase in hand, tie loosened just enough to tell you he’d been fighting with it in the elevator. he kicked his shoes off, dropped his keys in the tray, and exhaled like the weight of the whole goddamn justice system had been balanced on his spine.

you blinked from the couch, still in your pajama pants and tanktop at 6 p.m., cuddled up with your laptop and a cup of tea you’d already reheated twice. he hadn’t even looked at you yet.

so you stood up, heart softening, and approached him slowly like he was a wounded animal. his eyes finally met yours—tired, heavy, rimmed with frustration and fatigue.

and you said, completely earnestly, “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

he blinked.

paused.

just stood there, stunned in his wrinkled white dress shirt and undone tie, looking like you’d just offered him a lifeline made out of cling wrap and good intentions.

“…what?” he asked, voice hoarse.

you fidgeted. “it’s supposed to help people feel seen. and supported. and stuff.”

he stared at you.

and then—without a word—he set his briefcase down, stepped forward, and just…

collapsed into you.

face first.

straight into your boobs.

you froze. arms still awkwardly midair. hiromi was usually so composed, so careful about touching you, always asking permission like a gentleman even when his eyes darkened with hunger.

but now? he was clinging to your waist with both arms wrapped tight, burying his face in your chest like it was his only safe haven, letting out a muffled, broken little sigh.

“…you really are something else,” he mumbled into your tits, voice low and muffled by your skin. “who even says that?”

“i was trying to be comforting!” you squeaked, cheeks warm as you slowly wrapped your arms around his shoulders, one hand carding through his soft hair. “this is my first time dating a tired, hot lawyer.”

“you’re doing horribly,” he said, not moving an inch.

“…but you’re still nuzzled into my boobs.”

“they’re warm. soft. significantly better than anything else that happened to me today.”

you smiled, holding him closer. he melted against you, hips pressing to yours like he needed to feel all of you at once, breathing in the scent of your skin like it grounded him. your heart fluttered, cheeks on fire as he sighed again and murmured:

“do you even know what you do to me?”

“uh. judging by the fact that your face is in my cleavage right now, maybe?”

he laughed softly. almost shyly. and then—still with his face hidden—he admitted, quietly, “i was so close to snapping today. just one more word, one more file on my desk, and i think i would’ve lost it.”

you pressed your lips to the top of his head.

“i don’t need you to be perfect, hiromi. just let yourself be held sometimes, okay?”

he didn’t respond at first. just nuzzled in deeper, like he wanted to climb inside your skin and stay there forever.

“…you’re dangerously good at this,” he whispered finally. “even with the weird lines.”

“i practiced in the mirror.”

“adorable.”

“horny.”

“also true.”

he finally tilted his head up, resting his chin against your chest as he looked up at you, eyes softer now. the kind of soft that made your knees go weak. the kind of soft that made you forget he could probably ruin a man in court without blinking.

“can we stay like this for a while?” he asked.

you nodded.

he kissed your sternum, then let his head fall back into place with a content little hum.

“…you smell like cookies.”

“you smell like burnout and moral crisis.”

“perfect. we balance each other out.”

[angelluv16]

Hi! Could I have a fic where reader is Chr*st**n H*rn*r's daughter and she doesn't have the best relationship with her dad (especially after the allegations) but she has a wardrobe malfunction during media with her tube top (which, fun fact, is called a boob tube in the UK (I think)) and the nearest garage is Mercedes so she heads there and comes out wearing a Mercedes kit and all hell breaks loose with her dad? It could be Kimi Antonelli x reader (or George Russell x reader, whatever you prefer)

Wrong Team

✩: No one except your close friends knew you were dating a Mercedes driver until a little accident happened that revealed it all

Want to be added to my taglist? (new version): Click here

pairing: Kimi Antonelli x reader

warnings: Christian Horner (🤮), Flashing? argument (chirstian being an ass like always)

A/n: I'm so so sorry this is so so bad. It's really late, and I decided to do it now since I have school tomorrow and I won't be able to write then. But Your my third ever request I love writing for you guys I love writing in general I just really suck cuz Idk what to write about haha

Butterfly Banner- @bernardsbendystraws

This day was officially the worst.

Media duties were already hell, especially when half the reporters were still throwing shady questions about your last name at you. But then, as if the universe was personally out to get you, your top decided to completely betray you in front of the entire paddock.

One second, you were answering some pointless question about Red Bull’s performance. The next—pop. Your stupid strapless top slipped at the absolute worst moment, and the cameras? Oh, they caught everything.

Panic took over. You bolted from the media pen, arms crossed over your chest, not stopping to think about where you were going. Just away.

Which, in hindsight, was how you ended up here.

Mercedes.

“Uh—hey?” One of their mechanics blinked at you, completely confused as you barged in, looking like you’d just escaped a disaster (which, to be fair, you had).

“Long story,” you muttered, shifting uncomfortably as the cold air hit your now-exposed shoulders.

Thankfully, someone—bless their soul—threw you an oversized team shirt. You yanked it on immediately, sighing in relief as the fabric swallowed you whole. The crisis somewhat averted.

Or so you thought.

The second you stepped outside, still wearing the Mercedes shirt, you heard it.

That voice.

“What. The. Fuck.”

You froze.

Slowly, you turned to see your father—Christian Horner—staring at you like you’d just committed actual treason.

His face? A deep shade of red. His jaw? Clenched so tight you were honestly concerned for his teeth.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded, his voice low but dripping with fury.

You glanced down at yourself like you’d somehow forgotten the giant Mercedes logo now printed across your chest. “Uh—”

“Are you kidding me?!” He took a step forward, eyes burning into you. “You just humiliated yourself on live television, and your first instinct was to—what? Run straight into the enemy’s arms?”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Oh, really?” He scoffed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you couldn’t wait to ditch Red Bull for our biggest rival.”

You clenched your jaw, frustration bubbling in your chest. “Dad, seriously?”

But he wasn’t done. “Do you have any idea how this makes me look? How it makes the team look? My own daughter, parading around in Mercedes gear like she’s one of them—”

“Okay, first of all? Parading is a stretch,” you snapped. “Second, maybe instead of worrying about your precious reputation, you could ask if I’m okay?”

Christian exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re fine.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Wow. Thanks, Dad. Great to know my well-being is second to your ego.”

Before Christian could spit another sharp reply, a familiar arm draped over your shoulders.

“Everything alright here?”

Kimi.

You didn’t even have to look to know he was enjoying this. His voice was calm, but you could feel the smug energy radiating off him.

Christian’s entire body tensed immediately. His glare shifted from you to Kimi, eyes narrowing into dangerous little slits.

“Why the hell are you touching my daughter?”

Kimi didn’t move his arm. In fact, you swore his grip tightened slightly—just to piss Christian off more. “Problem?”

Christian’s gaze flickered between the two of you, realization dawning fast. “No,” he muttered, voice cold. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

You sighed, leaning a little further into Kimi’s side. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“If you think Kimi and I have been seeing each other for a while now… then, yeah. It’s exactly what you think.”

Christian just stared. You could see the gears turning in his head, but whatever response he wanted to throw at you never made it past his lips. He just inhaled sharply, turned on his heel, and walked away without another word.

You blinked. “Okay, that was… unexpected.”

Kimi chuckled, finally turning to you. “I was expecting more yelling.”

“Same.” You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I give it ten minutes before he finds a camera crew to rant to.”

“Should we place bets?”

You laughed, leaning into him a little more. “I’d rather not lose money today.”

Kimi just smiled, pressing a light kiss to your temple. “Guess we don’t have to keep it a secret anymore.”

“Guess not.”

You exhaled, glancing down at the Mercedes shirt again. “You know, the worst part is, I actually like this shirt.”

Kimi smirked. “You should keep it.”

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Might as well. Red Bull’s probably already burning my team kit.”

And honestly? You didn’t even care.

Taglist: @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @greantii @norstappenvibes @mary-op81 @Karmahnicolas @nichmeddar @honethatty12 @mynameisangeloflife

[gatorbites-imagines]

please pretty please good sir, please right an imagines of Kurt Wagner with a demon, like full on demon from like the Bible s/o, like straight up like a prince of hell kind of demon.

p.s. I love your fics sm 💐🌅

Kurt Wagner x Demon male reader

Headcanons

Did you guys know that in olden time, people thought owls and toads were linked to the devil? Was this an excuse to give the reader animal characteristics? Yes, yes it was. Fruits like strawberries and cherries were also used to symbolize different more bodily involved sins. I took a bit of inspo to how the demons look in Dictionnaire Infernal, since they’re cool and goofy.

I may still be tired and wrung out from all my classes, but the will to write lives on. How’s everyone’s week been?

No one had known you were a demon in the beginning. Everyone just kind of assumed you were another mutant. They already had one member of the x-men who had wings, so it wasn’t the wildest thought that you were like warren.

Your wings were a bit more like an eagle owl, and sure, sometimes your eyes would morph into something like a toad or even a goat, but they had seen much weirder.

You not stepping inside churches or other holy areas was mainly seen as a personal preference, since you were so casual about it. you technically could step inside the buildings, but it was too much work to be worth it for you.

Instead you’d hang out outside with the others who didn’t feel a need to step inside. And yeah, you may have carved a sigil or two into the building behind your back, so you could teleport there in the future to cause some trouble if you got bored.

Demons had no specific form, at least your father didn’t and so you didn’t. you simply morphed into the one that felt most comfortable, making most believe you had a shapeshifting mutation.

There were multiple kings of hell, but your father had always been the most powerful and most influential, so you were expected to follow in his footsteps, which was why you had kind of ran away to earth.

It was just so boring, sitting there and doing all that kingly work so your father could retire with the other ancient kings, since demons don’t die, they can simply only be ignored and rebutted.

You had never meant to help the x-men or join them, but they’d been there at the right place at the wrong time, and just happened to catch some human trying to assault you for being a “mutant”

It was only the x-men stepping in that kept you from trapping the guy in eternal damnation, but you decided why not just play along for now, see where it takes you. And before you knew it, you were an x-men, helping to “fight for the good of mutant kind” or whatever.

It wasn’t hard to make you seem like a mutant, for you to even show up when Charles was looking for mutants with his powers.

It was all good and dandy, until that furry blue bastard wormed his way into the six pitch black organs you called your hearts. Well, sometimes it was six, sometimes twenty, sometimes zero, it really depended on the day.

But it was six the day you realized Kurt had gotten into your good graces. More than that honestly, as he made you feel… flustered. How he succeeded in making a demon like yourself flustered was still a mystery to you.

You had been drawn to him in the beginning because of his whole “blue demon” thing, only for it to turn out that Kurt was religious, and would sometimes wear a cross. He even prayed at times, the action always making your skin itch.

Kurt was honestly the only one to start putting things together since he knew some about demonology, hell, your name was just a shortened version of your infernal title. Weaker demons showing up and groveling at your feet and referring to you as their prince probably didn’t help.

Luckily it had just been Kurt around at the time, but the blue imp clocked you quicker than you thought they would.

Surprisingly, Kurt didn’t hate you or fear you. To him, you were an x-men and helped save people, so you weren’t fully bad. He even went out of his way to pray somewhere else so your hands wouldn’t burn and for your wings to start burning at the edges.

Somewhere along the way, what you had morphed into more than just a friendship. You had an inkling that your father would have your hide when he realized you had bedded a mortal, and one so clearly meant for heaven when the day came.

But eternity was so long, so who could blame you for wanting to spend it with someone as kind as Kurt. Even if you knew somewhere deep inside, that you would mourn Kurt for most of that eternity when the time came.

Kurt talked you into telling the x-men your true origin. They were hurt in the beginning, and you politely stepped out of the team since you technically weren’t a mutant, and you wanted to respect that.

That didn’t stop you from hanging out at the mansion, or on Krakoa when that came around. How you got on the island? You would never tell, mainly because it drove Scott crazy that he could never figure it out.

After coming out of the hellfire closet, you felt less need to control your form to the same degree. To most you were still just a mutant, since the body you wore the most had been a mutant, so… it counted in a loophole kinda way.

Everyone got good at clocking who you were, even on days when you altered your shape completely. Kurt was obviously the best. Even on days where you had a lion head and the tail of a snake, or when you had three heads and a burning crown.

It was a little awkward when Kurt became a priest and built his own religion like thing, mainly because you just couldn’t get yourself to touch him when he wore the uniform.

It was the aura for the most part. None of the others got it, or saw it like you did, but they weren’t demons, so it made sense. But Kurt always carried an aura, and it was manageable enough on regular days. But after sermons it just got strong enough to make your tongue buzz and your feathers puff up.

Kurt got good at wiping himself off in a metaphorical way, so you guys could kiss and cuddle even on days he did sermons. And you as a demon were way too strong to truly to hurt by it, it just got a bit annoying sometimes.

All in all, you two were happy. Even if you had to chase away demons that wanted to take over earth every now and then. Your father had never given you your own domain, so you just kinda slapped your name on earth and told every other demon to square up for it.

Some did come out of the woodwork to fight, mainly just because they could. No one really wanted earth. Too much trouble, too much holy interference, and all those magicians? No way. It was just older demons wanting a good fight for the most part.

Kurt also came to really like your less human look. Maybe he was projecting, but there was something nice about having a partner that didn’t look too “human”, if he could say that without being offensive.

There were days where you looked like the average human man. But other days you were more beast than man, or even the days where you didn’t even want a blood-filled body, so you were made out of sand or water, or anything along those lines.

He did have a preference for forms where you had a tail, because it was comforting to coil your tails together. Or if the form you took had claws, since it felt so good to have your hands rubbing up and down his back and scratch through his fuzz.

There were times when Kurt forgot to take off his cross, or hide it under his shirt, so you did get small burns, even if they went away in a few seconds. You didn’t care much, but seeing Kurt apologize was always very cute.

Having a powerful demon like you on the side of the x-men also helped out a lot during fights. You stayed out of it for the most part, to “keep balance of the mortal plane” or whatever your father said.

There were times when Kurt was in mortal danger where you stepped in though, but you always contained the worst of your powers.

And staying back also meant you could focus your powers on healing those that needed it. Kurt got the most of it, of course, as you would cuddle and kiss him, your kisses transferring the healing energy instead.

It was nice. And yes, you knew one day you’d be alone again, stuck on earth after claiming it as your territory. But the present was so good, so warm and loving, that the cold empty future didn’t matter.

[hrtfeltalex]

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── The sea of consciousness Technique

⌇ᝰ ⋆ Imagine that you are at a beach at night, imagine yourself stepping on the sand, imagine the wind hitting you, the sound of the waves, the calm, the stars and the moon in the sky, the calm waves, how does it feels like?

Now look at the sea, pay attention to it and realize that, this sea, is not a regular one, its THE consciousness sea.

*The consciousness has no forms, no place, consciousness just is. In consciousness (you) is where everything resides, it is where all possibilities, realities, manifestations and etc live and meet. Consciousness, like the sea, is infinite, vast, and serene.

Imagine that, Within this sea, is were everything comes together, all of your DR's, all manifestations, all possibilities, all realities, every single thing, In short, where everything and nothing just is and resides. Now close your eyes, mentalize your dream life, your desired reality, Or a specific manifestation, whatever, just mentalize something you want.

Now imagine yourself diving into this sea, imagine that while you dive, you are embodying that version of yourself that has what you want/your "self" from your dr (there is no isolated self!), Enjoy, swim or just dive, do whatever you want, take your time. When you're done, feeling like it's been enough, get out of the sea, and now you know that version of you that had nothing? That hadn't shifted? It's gone, now there is only the you who gets everything/who shifts when you wants.

If you prefer, you can sleep or live your life normally, do it whenever you want. But SAY GOODBYE to your empty self, hell, you can even listen a sad music as a funeral to your old self! Well, Just say goodbye to your empty self, and just live and embrace the state of your self that has everything.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; “mistaken identities and interdimensional refugees”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“No, man, I was talking to both of you. I mean he's hot but I have enough daddy issues of my own, thanks, I don’t need his too,” he says with a sigh. “I'm dating a different younger brother. Specifically one who is legal, legally adopted, and also is not actively murderous and did the least amount of time in the League of Assassins. Though apparently that’s just . . . not a thing here, I guess.” 

Dick and Jason stare blankly at him again. Even Jon stops sniffling into his shoulder long enough to give him a confused look of his own. Kon just tries to figure out how to explain literally anything about himself without having to say the word “clone” out loud in a reality that may not be all that clone-friendly. Said figuring does not “figure” very well. 

Or like . . . at all, really. 

Goddammit. 

“Who the fuck did any time in the League of Assassins?” Jason demands disbelievingly. 

“. . . don’t worry about it,” Kon says. “So like, uh . . . I can explain. Probably.” 

They all look at him again, up to and including Alfred, who somehow left and came back with tea without Kon even noticing and is now just barely raising an eyebrow at him. How the fuck he even made that so quick is beyond Kon. Doesn’t that shit need to steep or whatever? He feels like that shit needs to steep or whatever. 

“. . . okay,” Dick says slowly. “So when you say you’re not Superman, you mean . . . literally not Superman. As in, not Clark Kent.” 

“Bingo, World’s . . . eh, what’re you, Third-Greatest Detective, y’think?” Kon asks, cocking his head as he looks the guy over consideringly. 

“Bullshit, you look exactly like him!” Jason protests indignantly, pointing accusingly at him. It’s incredibly novel, as an experience, actually, given he’s not doing said pointing with the barrel of a gun. Like, whole new experience to be having with a version of Jason. 

“That is really not as rare a quality in the multiverse as you apparently think it is,” Kon says. “Actually it’s like . . . ridiculously common, in my experience.” 

“How?!” Jason demands, again like he just . . . what, thinks Kon’s gonna answer honestly? Like, genuinely appears to think that? 

Weird. 

“It is such a long story,” he says. “Or like, such a short story that I’d really prefer to see Batman’s immediate reaction to, just in case he feels like whipping out the kryptonite over it.” 

Technically this reality’s kryptonite shouldn’t work on him, but they’re all having a very weird interdimensional crisis right now and also it’s, like, the principle of the thing or whatever. Whether it works on him or not, when you get to the “whipping out the kryptonite” stage, you’ve kinda crossed the Bat-Rubicon or whatever. 

The bigger concern right now, though . . . well, like . . . 

“Wait, you’re not a version of my dad?” Jon asks uneasily, just barely tense in his arms. “You mean–not at all?” 

“Yeah, no, sorry,” Kon says, hoping that if he doesn’t make a big deal about it, the kid will at least, like . . . semi-match that energy. At least this version of Jon almost definitely hasn’t met an Ultraman, so . . . fingers fucking crossed, he guesses. He is being way too optimistic about this shit, frankly, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do with a literal ten year-old? “Thought you realized that earlier, and then the conversation got complicated.” 

“Then who are you?” Jon asks, looking even more uneasy. 

“I would love to have a concise answer to that question,” Kon says. “Like. Ever. Listen, I am sorry, kid, I wasn’t actually trying to pass for your dad. Hell, I wasn’t even trying to pass for their . . . also-dad, apparently, god that is so weird, I’m sorry.” 

“Bruce being our dad is weird?” Dick asks with a frown. 

“You specifically calling Bruce your dad is weird,” Kon clarifies, sparing him a quick glance. “Like, congrats on all the family therapy I’m assuming you did, seems like that worked out real well for you and all. Clearly did the work there.” 

“What?” Dick frowns, looking a little uneasy himself. Kon . . . probably should stop saying shit that’s going to make people associate, like, negative emotions and shit with his presence, considering. 

Like. Definitely he should, at this point. 

“Sorry,” he says again, then looks back to Jon. The kid hasn’t freaked out on him yet, at least, but he’s still pretty tense. Which . . . yeah, well, the kid saw him toss Killer Croc’s teakettle like less than half an hour ago, so probably he is feeling a lot less safe than he’s used to feeling right now. Especially a lot less safe than he’s used to feeling when he thought he was with his fucking dad. 

Kon really, really feels like an asshole over that. 

“Are you okay, kid?” he asks. “Like . . . you need me to put you down, or . . . ?” 

“I want my dad,” Jon says, abrupt and just barely cracked as he stares at Kon’s very El crest-less chest, his hands fisting in Kon’s jacket. 

“Sorry,” Kon repeats, trying not to visibly wince. “Like–listen, I meant it when I said I had you. And we are family, in my book. Like, I’m not your dad or even Superman, but I am a Kent. And an El, too. Though I’m assuming in your case you’re gonna care more about the ‘Kent’ part, far as I know my reality’s version of you’s never been all that concerned with, uh . . . any of the Kryptonian shit, gonna be honest. Which, like, I have a limited amount of dog in that race myself, just I was an ‘El’ first and–yeah, never mind. Sorry, rambling here. Uh. Do you need to put me down, or are you good right now?” 

“What’s your name?” Jon asks, rubbing anxiously at his big wet eyes, and Kon literally does not even know how to compute the question. It just . . . it is very much the last thing he would’ve expected the kid to ask him right now, he guesses. 

“Kon-El,” he says. “Conner Kent.” 

“. . . are you from Krypton? Like–from Kandor, or . . . ?” Jon asks hesitantly, and Kon . . . sighs, a little. He really did not wanna explain himself pre-Batman, but the literal ten year-old definitely deserves at least an explanation, at this point. 

Also he doesn’t want the kid to be worrying he’s from the fucking Phantom Zone, considering. So yeah. 

“Not so much, no,” Kon says.

[couch-potato28]

Imagine being a Blue Lock manager! ⚽️

VERSION VIII.

(a/n: dropping 3 eps cause i was gone for like half a month, so enjoy this holy trinity 🤌 thank you for your support 🫶)

Warning-none

wc: 1k

ALSO: tags @ttheggrimrreaper ✌️

——————

FROM THE PROLOGUE:

“Congratulations L/N Y/N! Based on your results, you've earned your place in Blue Lock as the manager of player number…

…69, Karasu Tabito.”

Smirking at his jersey number, you instinctively glanced around, wondering if anyone else had found it just as amusing. But as your eyes swept the room, it quickly became clear—everyone was far too anxious to notice such details unlike your brilliant self, of course.

Taking a closer look at the guy, you memorized his most prominent features, making a little note to yourself to find someone with an oddly specific hairstyle and a cute mole under his left eye.

Exiting the room, you followed the signs leading to Anri, who handed you some documents before sending you off to find your partner.

Imagine being Karasu Tabito’s manager, known as the assassin.

——————

Karasu Tabito, who moved on the field like he was flying, the ball looking like a feather on his foot. You, amazed by his movements, quietly stood near the benches until the whistle blew, indicating a break for the boys. Snapping back to reality, you jogged up to him with a warm smile across your lips, introducing yourself. Raising a brow, he did the same, his gaze sharp, yet curious.

“So, yer my new manager, huh?” he asked again, still unsure 'cause you looked too lovely to be assigned to him. Maybe Yukimiya was the lucky bastard?

“Yup. Somehow managed to get myself a nice player.” you cracked a smile, trying to break the awkwardness. He smirked at your response before initiating another conversation.

——————

•Karasu who clicks with you immediately. The conversations flow smoothly, and getting to know each other seems to be the easiest task for you yet. (he analyzed you waaay before you spoke to him)

•Fun fact, the first thing he requested from you was better hair wax saying the one in the facility makes his ends split. :)

•He also has the ability to remember the most trivial details that you have shared with him about yourself—something he gladly takes advantage of, either to tease the hell out of you or simply make you flustered by casually bringing them up.

•Extremely attentive, and always notices if you’re struggling. He’ll also offer help with paperwork if needed. Other times, he prefers to yap or test your patience by hiding your pens, reading aloud or giving unwanted comments.

•Karasu, who’s sometimes waaay too relaxed for his own good, yet he has never once made you scold him for anything important. He likes to arrive just on time for practice, only to complain about training all while flawlessly following the instructions, and if there’s any competition—be it big or small—he will make sure to be in the top 3.

•Also, petnames. Not the flirty ones, but something like “boss” or “shortie” that makes your eyes roll from the amount of time he uses them. He’s pretty clingy as well, following you around all day, and if anyone tries to disrespect you, they gotta deal with him first.

•Karasu is the king of reassurance. If he sees you comparing yourself to other managers, he will stop whatever he’s doing to give you a motivational speech. Rare moments of him being sentimental, where he makes you repeat over and over that ‘he wouldn’t be here without you’ or ‘don’t you dare switch to other players’.

•Has a lot of respect for you as well. The way you always put him first, making sure he’s alive and breathing. The fact that you can keep up with him is impressive too, and he’ll never admit it, but he’s been amused since day 1.

——————

AFTER THE U20 MATCH…

•Karasu takes training more seriously—not that he never did—just that he’s now putting in more effort and energy than before. Pushes himself harder than ever, yet he still doesn’t let you work overtime.

•Has a habit of pushing your laptop closed or simply snatching your clipboard out from your hands, if he sees you staying up later than usual.

•He’s also more engaged in the analyzing, actually taking notes and listening to your opinions before asking questions and such.

•Karasu will never miss a chance to tell you “yer messy hair is funny” or pat you on the head when you’re angry saying “relax manager-san, i’m sorry ‘kay? forgive me please, ‘cause anger will stop yer growth at this rate”

•Tutoring him is like gambling—there’s a 50% chance of him actually paying attention and doing what you said, or he will lazily finish half of the exercises you give him before he passes out on the table. Weirdly good at guessing which nouns are feminine or masculine.

•Loves to listen to your voice thanks to his fetish, so don’t even try to give him a textbook to read. Won’t work unless you read it for him like it’s daycare, while he lays on his arm, looking up to you, admiring every inch of your face.

•Interviews with him are a pain in the ass. Loves to sarcastically answer questions making you groan in the background. Karasu also never fails to appreciate you at least once in every interview he does, talking about how hardworking and supportive you are.

•Working with him means throwing insults and arguing about who’s smarter, but physical touch isn’t rare. Karasu has a habit of casually throwing his arm on your shoulders during break, laying his head on top of yours for support, or making you piggy back him back to his room.

•He’s very proud of you and will fight with anyone who thinks their manager is better. He also knows your schedule by heart, favorite snacks already on your desk when it’s a long day with a small note that says

“oi, am I the player or your manager? get some sleep”

•Karasu, who is fiercely loyal to you—granting privileges such as bossing him around, make him worry about your health, and be able witness his rare waxless hair. Switching managers? Not a chance. You’re stuck with him for life.

“Yer the one and only person I’m capable to work with”

[anto-pops]

Would you consider making a headcanon post about Sebastian? It could be random, or it could be smutty as hell. But just... what goes on in Anto's brilliant mind when she's writing thid version of Sebastian in her stories? I'm very, very intrigued with how exactly you see him. I know we already have a general picture of who he is through your stories. But are there any more headcanons you have that might not be that obvious? I just love your version of him in your mind. ❤️‍🔥

YEEESSS I WOULD LOVE TO !! I have some written down in my notes app already that I reference from time to time but I'll add more here LMAO

↓↓ SEBASTIAN SALLOW HEADCANONS ↓↓

SFW

Sebastian's main love languages are quality time and physical touch. He loves any excuse to be around you, offering to study with you or to accompany you to Hogsmeade for whatever the occasion calls for.

As for physical touch, this man would make you wear him as a backpack if it wouldn't crush you. Any means of touching you has his name written all over it. Hand holding ? Check. Playing with your hair ? Check. Steering you places by putting his hand on your lower back and gently urging you along ? Hell yeah (he might even cop a feel while he's that low)

He loves seeing you in his clothes. Like, an unhealthy amount. You're cold ? Suddenly you're being smothered by his coat. You're studying together in his dorm and you start to doze off ? Smack– his Quidditch jersey or some other large shirt hits you in the face.

If you tell him to turn around while you're changing, he'll do it, but he may or may not sneak a peak 👀

This one is obvious if you've read my fics, but Sebastian is possessive. BIG TIME user of the "dibs" system, and he's calling dibs on you.

He glares down any other men that think to talk to you (though always from over your shoulder so you don't catch him), but if he's not close enough to do that, he'll manipulate the situation to better suit his preferences.

E.g.: using magic to tip something over so it spills on the offensive male's lap, or jinxing their textbook so it jumps off their desk and smacks them in the face.

In rarer instances where he has the ability to exercise patience, Sebastian will wait for the chatty admirer to stand up and leave, then use his magic to yank their pants down. Embarrassment is a good teacher, right ?

If the two of you aren't already dating, Sebastian goes out of his way to secretly memorize your schedule so he can 'coincidentally' run into you more often. He thinks it increases his chances of wooing you, but Ominis just thinks he's acting like a buffoon.

He always buys an extra treat to offer to you later on. He'll claim that he's so full that he doesn't have room for it, but it's all calculated so he can watch your expression light up when you take the morsel from him (Pavloving your crush... smooth, Sebastian)

This man falls asleep reading like he's an 80 year old man. Upright in bed, light still on, book halfway covering his face or open in his lap. He also 100% isn't above writing in the margins or dog-earing the corners of pages.

If the two of you ever get into an argument that isn't immediately resolved, he BROODS. He'll haunt the Undercroft like a ghost, stare unblinkingly at the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, and glare at anyone that tries to check on him.

Eventually you'll have no choice but to go seek him out because A) you're convinced he might be dead and B) everyone is begging you to. They can't take it anymore– he's terrifying when he's upset.

Sebastian is stubborn as hell but will almost always defer to your judgement. It's 1am and he's still up reading ? "Come to bed," you order. He listens. He gets injured after a particularly difficult fight in the Forbidden Forest ? "It's just a scratch," he waves you off. "Sit down," you demand, pointing at the ground in front of you. He scrambles over like an obedient puppy, though not without pouting.

He might argue against the claim, but he's sentimental. He always saves letters from you, Ominis, and his sister. He has a box of trinkets full of items that belonged to his parents hidden away in his trunk.

He also becomes extremely quiet and reserved when the anniversary of his parents' deaths comes along and will shamelessly melt into you for comfort as though you're the only thing that can keep him from crumbling.

The man can eat. Like Ron throughout the entire movie series, Sebastian's love for food knows no bounds. Maybe it has to do with playing Quidditch or just being gifted with a fast metabolism, but he gorges himself on sausages, pastries, candies, roasts, and whatever else he can get his hands on with reckless abandon.

He also never seems to gain weight from it (which irritates you to no end).

He was never big into romantic literature until he met you. Then all of a sudden, his excursions into the Restricted Section were focused wholly on locating more and more books centered around female anatomy and love stories.

Even if he vowed to never dabble in the Dark Arts again, there's still a tiny part of him that yearns to try his hand at it again. The allure of power like that is too tempting for him to completely ignore.

His eye sight isn't exactly perfect, but he refuses to wear his reading glasses because he doesn't want to tarnish his public image. He'll wear them around you, though (especially once you tell him that they make him look charming and dashing).

NSFW

Relating to his love of physical touch, Sebastian HAS to have his hands on you the entire time you're fucking

E.g.: running them up your legs, tracing the grooves of your abdomen, squeezing your breasts, or (his favorite) intertwining his fingers with yours and pinning your hands beside your head.

It depends on his mood, but Sebastian's kisses alternate between slow and soft to desperate and needy.

He often buries his hands in your hair to pull you in and hold you where he wants you, secretly obsessed with how malleable you are with him.

Sebastian is messy, passionate, emotional, and almost impulsive with how he loves. It can be overwhelming at times, but you grow to accept it fairly quickly.

He loves dominating you in bed, but he's remarkably quick to hand the reins over to you in the event you're feeling bold. He loves that just as much– watching you ride him like your life depends on it, shamelessly turning into the neediest, whiniest bloke in existence.

He's a LOUD masturbator. Sebastian totally lacks the ability to keep his voice down when he's jerking off– brazenly moaning and panting while his fist pumps wetly up and down his cock. For those reasons, he tries to hold off on pleasuring himself until he's alone in his dorm or in the showers, because it only took Ominis commenting on it once for him to learn his lesson.

Sebastian isn't an exhibitionist by any means, but in the event he's worked up enough that he can't stop himself, well... he'll fuck you anywhere. In the Quidditch locker rooms, in an empty classroom, in the bathroom. You usually try to lead him someplace more private in those instances, but you don't always succeed.

He's so willing to try new things with you that one might think he doesn't have a favorite position, but 9 times out of 10, he's finishing with his eyes glued to yours. Sebastian loves watching you crumble beneath him, adores watching your lips part around stammered moans of his name, so missionary tends to be his go to position towards the end.

The guy is grossly obsessed with watching you stretch around his cock. I'm talking stars in his eyes, a big stupid grin on his face, and airy groans of your name pouring from his throat. He was addicted from day one and will never stop studying the way you swallow him up.

Sex with Sebastian is as versatile as his kisses; sometimes it's tender and languid, not at all rushed as the two of you take your time touching and grinding and sighing into one another's mouths.

Other times, it's rushed and desperate. He'll dig his nails into your skin and bully your legs apart so he can get to his target quicker, then tease you and edge you so aggressively that the overstimulation bring you to tears.

Always whispers praises directly into your ear while he thrusts into you, relishing in the way you tighten around his cock and flush with embarrassment when he compliments how good you feel, or how perfectly you take him.

Sebastian is so, so shamelessly flirty when he drinks. It's a rarity when the two of you are still students, but getting your hands on Firewhiskey or other alcohol is far from difficult. After his third drink, he's ridiculously clingy and even more touchy than usual, unapologetically murmuring sweet nothings in your ear regardless of whether or not there's an audience to bear witness to the scene.

Loves loves loves burying his face between your breasts. Either to suck on your nipples or to press his ear against your chest to hear your heartbeat, it doesn't matter. Just trust that his head will eventually end up against your sternum.

Sebastian 100% has a breeding kink. He might not reveal it in its entirety in the beginning, but once you're both free from the confines of Hogwarts and living with one another, it shows itself dramatically.

(See this post for more clarity on why that is)

He can never decide what he likes more: watching his cum drip out of you, or seeing you covered in it. Usually he just opts to go another round so he can see both and sate his curiosity.

Will absolutely do everything in his power to leave lasting marks on your body. Be it on your neck, your thighs, or your waist– he loves seeing evidence of himself all over you. It makes him bloom with male pride knowing that anyone that sees them will know they were left there by him.

Not-so-secretly loves when his banter with you segues into a steamy, passionate make-out session. It could be over something completely irrelevant, but he'll keep pushing your buttons just to get you riled up enough that you decide to shut him up with your lips.

[sp0o0kylights]

Eddie led a weird life.

This was something he welcomed, given half the things people thought were “weird” was just his fashion sense or preference for table top games.

Small potatoes to the larger things in life, really. 

Of course, this was before he found out there was an evil version of Hawkins underneath him. 

Now Eddie did things that would previously sent his old self into a fucking coma. 

His friendship with Steve Harrington for example.

Dude saved his life and bridal-style carried him out of literal hell.

It’d have been rude not to be friendly with the guy after that, even if they weren’t both  members of a very exclusive and bloody club, with trauma and secrets that really only a select few people would ever understand.  

Sleeping over at Harrington’s half the week also made perfect sense, and Eddie will argue that to his very grave. 

It turns out nightmares suck, and waking up screaming all the time sucks even more.

Something everyone involved in this entire escapade (and all the ones prior) knew.

Because more bodies means more eyes to look out for you, and feeling safe means you might actually sleep for an hour, they all got used to showing up at each other's houses at odd hours of the night.

Pulled one another out of nightmares and got comfortable with the fact that they slept better, together.

Steve’s house in particular is typically void of both adults and annoying freshmen, which meant it's the most comfortable place for a lot of people to crash together. 

(Sometimes the annoying freshmen do show up and maybe Eddie is also a little weirdly overprotective of the whole Party now, and alright fine, he enjoys all their company, even Erica's--but who's keeping track? 

He isn’t. 

He’s busy arguing all this is perfectly normal.) 

Sleeping in Steve’s bed is where things get a little tricky. 

See, when it was more than just Robin and Eddie crashing at Casa De Harrington, they all sleep in the living room. 

Steve drags out some fancy blow up mattress (an air mattress what the fuck) and changes the couches around and long story short his fucking living room is more comfortable than Eddie’s own bed has ever been. 

But when it's just Eddie and Robin, they retire to Steve’s stupid huge bed, so large the damn thing takes up most of his equally massive room. 

(“This isn’t weird right?” He’d asked Robin once, hanging his head over the edge of the bed while Steve did--whatever it was he was doing to his hair in the bathroom. 

Robin, who was busy rifling through Steve’s drawers for a shirt to steal, stopped and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. 

“Not unless you make it weird, Munson.” She’d told him, and well, that was all the permission he needed.

They slept together in tight groups, where it was easiest to defend each other in case of Upside Down fucking monster attack.

Case closed.) 

Sleeping in Steve Harrington’s bed, without the buffer that was Robin Buckley, is where the lies started.

Because it was weird. 

It was incredibly weird, and did guys even do this solo?

Eddie hadn’t. If one of Hellfire or the band stayed over, it was a strictly floor/bed/couch situation unless there were more than three of them, and that was within Eddie’s small ass trailer. 

Sure they piled up if they had to, but it wasn't like it was with Steve. All tangled limbs and being right up in each others space, no pillow or blanket or anything as a buffer.

Hell, Eddie had woken up getting spooned or doing the spooning more than once, and no one said shit.

How Steve made it sound so genuinely normal was beyond him. 

Not that Eddie argued about it.

 Not the first time of the fifth or the twenty-fifth, and not even after Robin pointed out he was rooming with Harrington more than she was.

Because he just slept better, next to Steve.

(Steve apparently, felt the same.

Or must have given it kept happening.)

It wasn’t like Steve didn’t crash at Eddie’s trailer either--his parents had come right home upon hearing about the earthquake, and had been a bit more present after running into the joint forces of Jim Hopper and Joyce Byers in the hospital lobby. 

Add in Wayne’s own Disapproving Stare (TM) and the town being up each other’s ass to try and keep it together, and suddenly Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were hanging out in Hawkins that much more.

(Steve seemed to think it was more to save face rather than because they actually gave a shit, which Eddie felt was obvious but he wasn’t gonna say it. 

“They’re trying I think. They just--they’ve never encountered anything like this.” He’d said, a little frown line pinching his eyebrows together.

“Stevie, no one has faced anything like what we have. Your parents, on the other hand, are only dealing with what they think is the aftermath of an earthquake and plenty of people have seen those.”

Steve had sighed. Stared a little helplessly, like he knew he was making excuses but couldn’t help himself.

 “I know, Eds. I know.”) 

Them being home more meant Steve was at Eddie’s more--on grounds that Robin’s parents were fine with him hanging out but drew some kind of weird not--very--hippy line at him sleeping over.

Which was fine.

Great even, the Eddie and Steve had never slept better! Sucks to be Robin, who had to call up Nancy Wheeler if she wanted to share.

All this was, was trauma buddies being guy pals who were very comfortable with each other due to said fucking trauma. 

Steve used to help Eddie take a piss for fucks sake, and according to literally everyone else involved in the Vecna related mess, this was their fourth go round with supernatural shit.

Chances of it all happening a fifth time seemed kinda high, even if the gate was supposedly closed and the psychotic meat puppet madman six feet underground. 

Sharing was caring, and caring was not letting your new buddy you saved fight off monsters alone if they popped back up.

Plus he and Steve spent a huge amount of time together, almost as much time as Steve did with Robin.They were all in each other’s back pockets to the point that Eddie’s band was used to it, with Gareth even starting to make secret lover jokes about it all. 

(The dick.)

They were just really good friends dealing with the shit life had dealt them. That was it, that was the whole ass story.

Eddie’s growing gay crisis aside.

So no. It wasn't all the time with Harrington that sent Eddie over the edge. Nor was it the bed sharing, rapidly dropping boundaries, or even the fact that Steve knew where Eddie kept his condoms (An accident Eddie wouldn't ever live down, holy shit.)

No, what sent him into an absolute, hair tearin' meltdown, was the day Steve woke up, rolled over, kissed Eddie right on the lips and then went to make breakfast.

No good morning, no how ya doin.

Steve just left Eddie there, clutching onto the sheets for dear life and mildly terrified he’d just hallucinated the entire encounter.

(Hell, maybe the whole thing was hallucinated. 

Maybe he died in the Upside Down and this was some sort of sick version of the afterlife. 

Eddie pinched himself, and when that wasn’t enough, bit his own knuckle. Both hurt, which was unfortunate, because death seemed preferable to dealing with life right then.)  

Unfortunately for him, Steve did not run back into the room with a myriad of excuses, which meant Eddie had to experience the horrifying ordeal of getting out of bed, putting his clothes on and going into the trailer’s kitchen--because Steve hadn’t even had the decency to wreck Eddie’s life at his own house. 

‘What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck--’

Heart galloping, Eddie put on his big boy pants--metaphorically and physically--before stepping out into the kitchen and confront his friend.

Who was cooking shirtless, without a care in the world. 

It still took him a full thirty seconds to get his mouth to work.

“Hey Stevie? Do you want to tell me what that was about?” 

"Hmm?” Steve replied. His eyes were hooded, hair mussed in a way Eddie knew only a few select people had ever seen it.

He looked half asleep, and proved it a second later when he reached twice for the one of the two mugs on the counter and missed entirely.

Eddie swung in, grabbing one and offering it out for Steve to pour coffee into, before swapping it out for the other mug once Steve was done. 

Stayed in Steve’s space even as the former jock fussed with adding in milk and sugar and whatever else he was feeling, working up the courage to say something.

Anything. 

“Uh, the--just now?” Eddie squeaked. He coughed to clear his voice, trying desperately to act normal.

Look normal.

Like he hadn't just been kissed by the guy he had absolute worst crush on.

Steve, bless him, didn’t tease him. Just shoved one of the mugs into Eddie’s hands and kept the other for himself.

Took a nice, slow sip, adam's apple bobbing and Eddie quickly averted his gaze, staring firmly into his coffee. 

“What happened?” Steve asked a second later, sounding a touch more clear, and not at all like he was experiencing deep regret, or dodging the question, or even aware of what had happened. 

Eddie had two seconds to realize that hell, maybe Steve really didn’t know, before his mouth once betrayed him. 

“When you kissed me?” And motherfucker, for once, Eddie wished he would think before he fucking spoke.

(Wayne had always told him he'd come to regret it. He just hadn't thought it'd be like this!)

“Oh.” Steve said, very anticlimatically. “I didn’t realize I did that, sorry.” 

Eddie's entire body twitched.

One long shudder, like it was rejecting the very words coming out of Steve's mouth.

“You didn’t,” He tried, voice dry and cracking. He realized his hands were shaking and promptly put his mug down before he dropped it. “You just--what, did that on instinct?”

“...Kinda, yeah.” Steve said and why the hell did he sound entirely unphased!? 

Was this some kind of weird jock thing? Did the basketball team all wake up together and kiss each other on the mouth?! Did they think it was some sort of straight--guy haha joke, or fucking--Eddie didn’t even know what, because Eddie was too busy spiraling. 

“Steve I’m gay.” He blurted out, mouth now firmly ahead of his brain. 

He instantly wanted to take it back.

Grab the words with his hands, and cram it into his mouth.

Maybe Steve was only cool with it if he thought Eddie was straight.

Hell, maybe he fucking did it while sleep walking or something and Eddie was the one being weird about it, or he--fuck, really did imagine it and, and--!

“I know.” Steve told him, interrupting Eddie’s catastrophizing entirely. 

“You know?” Eddie stared at him, feeling like the world had fallen out from underneath his feet. “How do you know!?” 

He actually had a pretty good idea of how Steve knew, considering they were both friends with Robin, but while Robin was comfortably out to both of them, Eddie was not. 

Had not in fact, even confirmed that he was queer to Robin herself, though he’d hinted at it plenty and shared more than one inside joke.

Didn’t think Robin had outed him or anything, but more that, well…

Steve was smarter than the kids made him sound, that’s for damn sure. 

“Honestly dude? You’re not subtle.” Steve told him and at least he finally sounded serious.

Like this was a much needed conversation and not some weird tangent Eddie was on. 

“The handkerchief, that triangle pin that you and Robin both have, the fact that you once jumped in my pool to get away from Dustin asking about you're dating life."

He rolled one hand in an etc. all gesture, before adding;  “Also there was that time you and Robin got absolutely smashed on my dad’s whiskey and argued about who the hottest Rocky Horror actor was.” 

Eddie’s mouth sprang open to defend himself, but absolutely nothing came out. 

When had they even watched Rocky Horror together!? 

“You kept insisting the guy who played Brad was hotter than the one who played Rocky, remember? I thought Robin was going to strangle you because she like, adores Susan Sarandon.” Steve continued, like they were having one of their playful little spats and not--not discussing Steve kissing him!

“You guys asked me to tie-break,” He added slowly,  like he was trying to jog Eddie’s memory. “and I told you guys I thought both were hot.” 

Which--oh.

Oh.

“Okay so you’re…?” 

Not going to kill me is what Eddie intended to say, but Steve took it as another question entirely, and answered with a nod and a hum. 

Which--okay. 

Steve Harrington was bisexual, and also already thought he’d come out to Eddie. 

He could roll with that. 

That was not the problem, at all. 

The problem was; “That doesn’t explain the kiss though?!” 

Steve finally put his coffee down, huffing out exasperatedly. “I  wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t realize I did it, man. We share a bed a lot and I guess I wasn’t--I must have--” 

And now, finally, Steve was getting embarrassed. A red flush spread across his cheeks and down his neck, vivid even on his tan skin. 

He ran a hand through his hair, and Eddie knew purely from the sheer amount of time they spent together that it was a self-soothing action. 

“I guess I’m sorry?”

It came out less as a question and more as an accusation-- which Steve himself seemed to hear because he immediately corrected it with a far less sassy and much more sincere; “No I am--I’m sorry.” 

None of which answered why Steve had kissed him. 

“You didn’t think I was Nance, did you?” Eddie asked, because apparently he just couldn't stop while he was ahead.

Maybe he should have died. It'd be better for both of them, considering he was doing about as good as kicking Steve while he was down.

Steve, the guy who had saved Eddie's life and was now one of his best friends and here Eddie was, dragging this out of him like a moron.

“No.” Steve said immediately. Reflexively, almost, firm and sure. “I am very aware you’re not Nancy.”

‘Let it go Eddie. Don’t make it weird Eddie. Just laugh it off and say okay--’

“Then who did you think it was? I mean you said it was instincts and like, I'm not stupid. I know I can be confused for Nance in the low light, it's happened before but--"

Stupid, stupid, stupid! 

“I didn’t think. I knew it was you." Steve interrupted. "I knew I was kissing you, Eddie."

Oh god, just kill him now.

Hell he'd even take a Vecna death! With all the gross gore and the shitty villain monologue!

"This morning I was tired, and I was sleepy, and I apparently skipped the part in my head were I asked you out and we were dating.” Steve deadpanned at him.

Eddie gaped, mind shattered and rapidly reforming.

It was like the universe was recreating itself, only this time all the stars had aligned and his wish had come true and some Disney director had taken control of his life--

“But I get it if I’m not your type." Steve was saying, because Steve was perfect.

And Kind.

And wanted to date Eddie.

"I’m sorry if I made things uncomf-mmphhh!” 

‘Mmmph’ because Eddie had flung himself at Steve, face first, the second "I asked you out and we were dating" had finished processing.

(Which was alarming fast, considering he'd been struggling all morning.)  

‘D--ff--ing?” 

Steve laughed in his mouth as Eddie tried to talk while kissing, pulling away slightly and holding his chest back with a hand when Eddie tried to chase him anyway. 

“Yes, dating. As in, would you, Eddie Munson, like to go on a date with me, Steve Harrington?” 

“Yes.” Eddie’s mouth said. 

At least this time it and his brain were on the same wavelength. 

“Yes I very much would.” He put some weight into his lean, making it harder for Steve to hold him back. “I think you can tell, by the way I'm trying to kiss you. Which you are not doing."

He pouted, and refused to be embarrassed about his behavior.

Steve laughed, and he might have said something like “God you changed up fast” except he had given in and let Eddie close again, and his words were now being swallowed down.

Eddie's life was weird alright, and now it was weird even by his own standards, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

[l0sercat]

NSFW alphabet with King Baldwin IV

Please note that this is not the historical figure but the movie version. Also MDNI for my sake and yours.

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He's a god at aftercare. Literally will get you whatever you need or want. He puts his needs last. When you take care of him he is shy, but very thankful.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He doesn't like his body that much due to his leprosy. He has to admit he was good looking before and during which he loved his hands, but now they're covered in sores. So maybe his eyes. He loves everything about you but more specially your hair. He loves how soft it is and he likes playing with it.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He loves cumming inside you. He wants to get you pregnant so bad, he wants an heir to the throne when he eventually succumbs to his illness. Even if you can't get pregnant he still loves to cum inside you.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He gets hard every time he sees you naked. Even if it's not in a sexual context. Taking a bath. Boner. Get dressed boner. Hell if you give him a kiss and shower him in praise he gets hard. He can't help it just loves you so much.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He is a total virgin. No experience. I mean he's a strict Christian so obviously no sex before marriage. He is super happy that your taking his first and he gets to experience these pleasures with you.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

He really likes doggy. You can't see his scarred body which is a plus. He also likes how he can hit every angle in this position. He wants to make sure you feel good.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Serious 100% He views this act as sacred and something that your taken care of. Making a joke would just ruin the atmosphere.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Does leprosy affect pubic hair? I personally believe that he would try to keep it tame down there. It's not perfect but he put in the effort and that's all that matters.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He is sweet and a little clumsy but it's his first time so. Your pleasure is always number one. You'll have at least three orgasms before he has one.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He does not masturbate. He views it as an unholy act. The only way he will cum is by your "hands". Even thinking about masturbating grosses him out.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Praise. Oh my gosh does he love when you praise him. He feeds off of your praise. He performs better if you praise him. Especially when he cums and you praise him he will go wild.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

The bedroom. He'll only do it there because it's the safest. Why would he fuck you anywhere else?

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

He really wants to get you pregnant, but at the same time he doesn't because he doesn't want his kid to have leprosy. So it's more so that he just really wants to be close to you.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Degradation. To him or you. If you say something degrading he will not stand for it and make you apologize immediately. And he could never degrade you because he thinks your near perfect. It would literally kill him to degrade you.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He wants to give but is afraid he'll be bad at it and it probably might hurt his scarred skin. He doesn't mind receiving but is awkward the whole time. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

He is slow until he is on the edge and picks up the pace a bit. His leprosy effects him a bit in this department. He can't go to fast or all his stamina will deplete.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

No, he prefers to take you properly. Also quickies just wouldn't be good because y'know he's king and all. He has no time to quickly fuck you.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

No he is comfortable with what y'all have now and that's all he wants.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He has bad stamina because of leprosy, so he can't last long. But he makes sure you'll have many orgasms and feel overwhelmed with pleasure. He always prioritize your pleasure over his.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Toys weren't even invented back then lmfao

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn't tease, much. He'll never deny your orgasm but he'll gently poke fun at the way your face is all red and teary eyed.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He isn't very loud but he doesn't hold back his voice. You'll hear everything that comes out of his mouth.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He likes when your on top and gently rake your fingers through his hair and whisper praises. And maybe call him your king or majesty.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He's about 5-6 1/2-inches long and kinda thick. It has a little scaring due to his leprosy but it looks normal. It is not cut but he does clean it well.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

It's not high but not low. He wants to do it more frequently than he does but his body can't handle it. He feels repulsed by himself but seeing you moaning his name makes him feel better.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After your both cleaned up and taken care of he falls asleep pretty quickly. Your in his arms sleeping and then he falls asleep.

[velka-art]

Lux/ Mr Ring A Ding Magma Drawing Hangout!

HIII!

So we have people being interested in a drawing hangout.

So this Saturday, 8PM CET, I will have a link open for a Magma canvas that people can join.

I will probably leave around 3 AM cause I need to sleep. I think the canvas can continue to be open for the remaining people who want to continue drawing. BUT I am not sure of this yet. Edit: confirmed by @wulverarctos that the canvas will continue to be open after the host leaves.

We also have a few people who are interested but probably can't join on Saturday evening. So we can have another one opening around 1PM CET. This is as early as I can have it.

Saturday 8 PM CET - 3AM CET

Sunday 1 PM CET - ???

Please look up the time in your own time zones when it starts!

MORE INFORMATION. PLEASE READ IF YOU ARE THINKING OF JOINING

Some rules.

You are allowed to draw whatever you want, but Lux/ Ring A Ding is the main focus of this drawing hangout, so try to keep to that.

But of course, you are allowed to draw your own self-insertion/OC/sona/different versions of Lux/Mr. Ring A Ding, and self-ship! It's it is encouraged!

Suggestive stuff is OK, but keep in mind that minors might also join the canvas. So don't draw NSFW.

Those are the things I can come up with for the moment.

What do you need?

Your preferred browser and a drawing tablet/ipad/galaxy tablet to be able to draw. Mouse/ touch pad also works.

Do you need an account?

You don't actually! But you can log into Magma in various ways.

I have never used Magma. how does it work?

It functions as most drawing programs. You have various tools and layers to work with.

There is a chat. I have never used it, but it probably works as any other chat.

You can try magma out for yourself and alone to get used to it. You can also save your preferred brush settings so you can use them for various other canvas projects.

Magma.com

Do my drawings need to meet any standard?/Be good?

NO! I will absolutely draw and doodle ugly little things that's going to be sketchy as hell!

this is meant to be fun and to interact with people!

[artytaeh]

honeymoon!Mattheo? Also I'm so obsessed with your pages aesthetic, especially since I've been on this app for like 3 years and just changed my profile picture... anyways adore you and your writing <3

this is so sweet! i melt everytime i reread this rq, i swear. tysm for reading my posts and accompanying my writing, also for requesting 🌷 honeymoon!theo was a silly shower thought— i didn't plan to do a version of it. however, since you're asking, i just can't say no; so i hope that you like it, love! ♡

warnings: includes smut, so obviously it's advised for +18 readers; read at your own risk. brief mentions of trauma from being the son of bellatrix lestrange + the dark lord.

honeymoon!mattheo who felt like these next two weeks outside england, just the two of you, were like a blessing after your wedding day— don't get me wrong, mattheo riddle feels like the luckiest motherfucker to have been the one to marry you, the man who put that ring on your finger and to see you walking down the aisle to him. even so, fucking hell, how can a celebration for your marriage be so, so exhausting for the two of you? mattheo himself begged you to take off those heels; it was paining him to see you in them after so many hours, really!

honeymoon!mattheo who was ecstatic at the idea of going out of the country with you, of all people. sure, he's been out of england: he studied at hogwarts, which is in scotland; italy too, courtesy of theodore's invitations to spend a few weeks or most of the summer break at his family's estate; that one time that draco bragged about his wealth and took all of his friends to spend weekends or some days somewhere through europe. but travelling with you? that's different. this isn't a vacation with the boys; he's on his way to enjoy two paradisical weeks with the love of his life— just. the. two. of you.

honeymoon!mattheo who planned these vacations with you — where do you wanna go? how long would you like to stay? would you rather somewhere to rest and do nothing, or travelling around? truthfully, mattheo had his own preferences; as fun as it is to explore new places and unraveling different cultures, mattheo was a bit (a lot more) into seeing you in bikini most of the day. visiting a city or some nearby mexican tourist attraction is totally fine by him; a few were chosen by the two of you during a rainy day, cuddling on the sofa as you and him daydream about the sound of waves, sunny days and heat tanning your skins. with a laptop in front of you, mattheo checklists and makes notes of whatever was decided that day.

honeymoon!mattheo who jumps straight to the bed as soon as you arrive to the hotel's bedroom. soon, strong arms pull you close to him; mattheo spends some minutes like this with you, cuddling and feeling you close, nevermind how warm it is in mexico during this time of the year, not giving a flying fuck if you two are sweaty. mattheo riddle needs to rest after so many bloody hours inside a plane, and dealing with the airport's burocracy. fuck, there's a fucking spell for everything in the wizarding world, how come no one found a better way to travel between two continents already?!

honeymoon!mattheo who has his arm around your waist at all times. walking together? mattheo is there, hugging your waist, matching his usual long strides to your calmer pace, making sure that you're the one leading the speed of your walk. taking a stroll on a nearby city or exploring the streets? mattheo riddle won't unwrap his arm from your waist, fingers gently tracing the curve of your side, as you two comment about the beautiful streets you walk by and how good all of these restaurants smell. and, well, if his arm becomes bothersome because of the heat, mattheo is happy to hold your hand— as soon as it becomes sweaty, mattheo himself moves to your other side, to take your other hand in his, nevermind if he has to repeat this ritual every five minutes.

honeymoon!mattheo who drags you to play on the beach with him! this man will proudly buy a kid's kit for himself: a set with beach toys, including a bucket, shovels and other stuff to build castles on the damp sand. obviously, the set is green, if there's that color option— hey, all of those years as a slytherin, wearing a green tie on a daily basis, got him a little attached to the color, alright?!

honeymoon!mattheo who looks like a man preparing himself to go to war, as you patiently massage the sunscreen on his face, warm shoulders and back, along with the rest of his body; you don't trust your husband to apply the sunscreen correctly, since mattheo is all too impatient to go have fun. he does the same to you, of course; pulling you to his lap, big hands making sure that your smooth thighs are protected by the sunscreen— maybe a little too much, since you grow suspicious that mattheo caresses your thighs for a moment longer than necessary. hey, he's a man in love; can't a husband appreciate his wife's beautiful body?!

honeymoon!mattheo who lowkey tries to learn how to speak spanish, or at least simple phrases; thank you, hello, please, and perhaps being a little more observant to catch a curse word or two. god forbid mattheo catches on how to compliment you— now, each time you show your outfit, smile or do something as simple as existing near mattheo riddle, he grins and dramatically pronounces: 'guapissima! bonita, muy bonita.' — sneaking a squeeze on your bottom, pressing your body closer to his. you'd be at least a little annoyed, if mattheo's bambi eyes weren't so full of love for you. you know he means every single praise that rolls out of his mouth.

honeymoon!mattheo who sleeps a little more peacefully now, in mexico, far away from london and the looming notion of his ancestry. here, a continent away from his lunatic of a mother, oceans away from the knowledge of being the dark lord's son, mattheo riddle relaxes. you're married now; away from the chaos. during your wedding day, mattheo was terrified that something would tarnish this happiness with you. being physically away from all of that, on a country where no one blinks an eye at the surname riddle, mattheo is able to relax and let go of the overthinking habit he created since childhood. mattheo riddle isn't a cursed child anymore— at least not here with you.

honeymoon!mattheo who buys a lot of souvenirs. at least for theodore, he gets something that he knows that his best friend would find funny too; perhaps one or two things for his slytherin friends. then a lot of bracelets, or whatever the fuck you happen to stare for a few seconds. sundresses become part of your wardrobe, too, since mattheo argues that is sinful to not have you wearing such flattering clothes, choosing colors that you like the most, and compliment you the best.

🗯️ : matt, this is the third dress you're about to buy for me. i already have enough!

m : nonsense. you don't have any on this color, do you? besides, it's fancy to say 'hey, see this dress? my husband got it for me from mexico'; i'm helping you to brag, woman!

honeymoon!mattheo who hugs you from behind in the pool, trailing kisses from your left shoulder, cheek, neck, shoulder blades, until he does the same to the other side. he's not even attempting to convince you to lustful things— mattheo is just so in love with you. should an older couple or bitter tourists side-eye any of you, mattheo will kiss your cheek for a moment longer, staring menacingly to whoever is nosy enough to notice him and his wife. mattheo riddle, as always, doesn't even have to open his mouth; his serious expression and dark eyes being enough of a warning. as soon as they avert their gaze, mattheo goes back to the task at hand: kissing every inch of you with that silly little smile of his.

honeymoon!mattheo who takes full advantage of the jacuzzi on your bedroom. you should have expected it, as soon as dark eyes shine with mischief, a wolfish grin on his lips as mattheo riddle inevitably plans ahead— hours later, you'll find out exactly what was going through that devilish mind of his.

honeymoon!mattheo who is safe to say that fully enjoyed the warm water at night— calloused hands placed on your hips, thumbs brushing soothing circles on your hipbones as mattheo takes in the sight of you, naked on top of him, guiding your movements as you bounce on his length. mattheo fights the urge to tilt his head back and close his eyes, wanting to drown himself in the sensation of you so tight, so warm and wet around him— but then, he'd lose the bewitching vision of you, so mattheo bites his lip while his hands move lower and lower, greedily squeezing your bottom, hands full of the smooth, soft skin. mattheo watches you so intensely, that you're almost shy under his gaze; his strong arms embrace you so close to him, lips bruising the skin of your neck, collarbone, chest (and for a moment, you wonder if wearing a bikini would be safe tomorrow, giving each reddening, becoming purple hickey left on you) as he whispers against your wet skin. 'so pretty— such a good girl for me, aren't you? riding your husband so, so well. so wet and tight for me, huh? moan for me, baby. let me hear all of your pretty moans, hm?'

honeymoon!mattheo who is so gentle with you afterwards. without even having to ask, mattheo carried you back to the bedroom, patting your body with gentle movements so that the towel absorbs the water from your body, cooing at you. despite your tired demeanor, sore legs recovering on the comfortable mattress— mattheo riddle is all too energetic and blissfully satisfied, massaging your smooth skin with a body cream of yours; and trust me, it takes everything within him to not tease you, holding back any 'fun' comments about you after three rounds that got you absolutely wrecked.

honeymoon!mattheo who dedicated a part of these few days to read one of your favorite books. you see, mattheo riddle isn't really one to take reading as a hobby; at most, mattheo would have fun spending the afternoon at some bookstores to read bd, mainly about superheroes, or the ones that blaise brought from school breaks to lend to him. apart from that, mattheo's hobbies mostly revolve around drawing or listening to music— but he's making an effort for you, alright?! he is! look, he read five pages today, while you were tanning!

honeymoon!mattheo who brought a camera with him for the sole purpose to have photos with you during these weeks; as much as he adores all of your wedding photos, either with you, his best friends and other guests— this honeymoon with you must have physical evidence, not wanting to depend on his memory alone. mattheo plans to show most of them (*cough* the appropriate ones) to your children, if you ever have kids together, that is. the camera and him are present at the same place, at all times; like symbiosis, mattheo has the camera by his side to never lose the opportunity of a good photo of you.

photos of you while you're sleeping, dressing up or changing clothes, while you're relaxing on a chair near the pool to tan, swimming, at night with a flower tucked on your hair— one that mattheo picked up for you and fixed behind your ear. mattheo riddle will come back home with enough photos to decorate a wall. there's photos of you two together, too; silly selfies with you, some of them while you're sleeping by his side or on his chest, others blissfully taken by other tourists who offered such a favor. mattheo loves every single one of them.

honeymoon!mattheo who discovered that breakfast could be delivered in bedroom, four days after waking up a little earlier to shower, dress up and go downstairs to have the first meal of the day. ever since mattheo discovered such a wonder, never again— fuck that. he's having breakfast on the bed with you, requesting the staff to put an extra portion of your favorite fruits, which he'd then feed to you while the two of you are lazying on the bed after a shower, talking about whatever.

honeymoon!mattheo who suddenly doesn't hate that much anymore. at hogwarts, first years were a headache; little tiny humans that mattheo had to be careful to not bump against, or else they'd fall to the floor and god forbid professor mcgonagall saw it, should anyone accuse him of bullying. first years were also troublesome at the bloody hogwarts' train, running around like hipper active insects— however, this one little boy that came running up to you, giving you a flower? mattheo riddle couldn't help but smile, a smug grin on his lips as he crouches down:

m : hey, little dude— this beautiful woman is taken. hasn't your mother told you that flirting with a married woman is wrong? the husband might get you in trouble, you know.

honeymoon!mattheo who would complain a little less about the kids running around or simply existing around the hotel. there was this one little girl he saw at the pool, while you were getting drinks; curly hair, soft cheeks that remind him of your beautiful face— mattheo riddle is a weak man, and ever since then... baby fever. suddenly, the idea of a tiny human that is the perfect mixture of you and him, doesn't sound so scary anymore. i mean, if you and him ever had a baby, it'd be the most beautiful kid to exist; mattheo reasons that not having such a blessed child would be illegal, a heartbreaking loss to this world! (correction: a small sized demon that inherits mattheo riddle's troublemaker nature, and your charm that'll get them out of trouble ever. single. time.)

honeymoon!mattheo who tries at least once every single drink and cocktail at the bar. and more than that, makes you try them with him, which becomes a game of creating a tier list of the whole menu. mattheo will get you the colorful ones, being aware of your taste— and should you dislike alcoholic drinks, well, mattheo is a man that is unknowingly considerate, making sure to taste the drink first (so that he's sure that it tastes good, according to your preferences, of course), before giving it to you. lowkey, mattheo riddle who becomes a bit obsessed with those drinks straight from the coconuts— he might have like, seven photos of that, some of them being selfies with you.

honeymoon!mattheo who takes you dancing. hands on your hips, feeling as you sway them, gripping at them each time that mattheo riddle has to take a deep breath to not get a hard-on in the middle of the dancefloor. if possible, he'll learn how to dance the bachata with you— be it by a free class at the hotel or some bar, or even just by staring at an experienced couple dancing with ease. mattheo would be so happy to dance with you, twirling you around and pulling you closer to him, your noses brushing as mattheo looks at you with such intensity; the love of his life, this goddess in his arms. physically can't listen to one of those latino songs without immediately pulling you to dance a little with him; fuck the stares that you might receive.

honeymoon!mattheo who wants to live right here, at mexico.

m : fuck england, let's ditch london.

🗯️ : mattheo, darling, we can't do that.

m : why not?! here's the best— no rain, no people bothering us. why can't we just fuck and chill every day like we do here?

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🌿 ’

౨ৎ spend the summer of a lifetime with me ♡ ͡

let me take you to the place of my dreams . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— ever since i posted my masterlist i've been receiving some requests; i didn't expect so many so soon! tysm for reading and requesting to my blog; i'll do my best to write and post each of them asap. ♡

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[anjelicawrites]

None of the guys in the 141 are immune to gossip, in their own way.

One of Gaz's ways to decompress after deployment is listening to you while you help him catch up with whatever has been happening in your workplace. Mark from legals did what? Wait! Wasn't Shannon, the one two cubicles over, shagging the security guard? She's left him??? Who the hell is Brennan now? Do you all even work? Don't be mad, baby! He was kidding!

Soap is rabid. Are you chatting over the phone with a friend? Put her on speaker, he needs to know everything! What do you mean it's private? What's his is yours and the other way around lass!

Once you tried the TikTok prank on him: you faked being on the phone and kept repeating "He did what?" "Oh! I can't believe he's sunken so low!" While he's losing his mind behind you: what the hell is happening? Throw him a bone bonnie, he's dying over here!

Price is more of a good sport about it and appreciates the intel that might bring to him. At home shares with you what he can, because it makes you giggle and you're invested in some stories at this point: it's your personal version of Eastenders, only with more military! More than once he had tapped you over your shoulder, when you were on the phone with a distraught friend, car keys in hand, ready to drive you to your friend to help them.

Ghost, in the immortal words of Bartleby, the Scrivener, "Would prefer not to''. No, he doesn't want to know the latest gossip on the bitchy physician, thank you. Why are you all subjecting him to the knowledge that the rookies now shag in the broom closet two floors down? He's trying to enjoy his cuppa in the shadows of the rec room! Bleeding Nora! He's trying to eat, please discuss what the general, allegedly, did with his secretary somewhere else!

You know how much gossip irks him, so you tell him about your day, and keep all the juicy stuff for Johnny, the only one to truly appreciates what a snoop you are!

[avis-writeshq]

06 — untouchable

summary: “come on, come on, say that we’ll be together/”i’m caught up in you.” pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn,  warnings: rated 16+ for two mentions of nakedness, short blood mention, brief mention of dead things, mostly canon compliant (s4 e23 ‘amplification’), wc: 4.3k a/n: thank you again to the lovely @astrophileous for beta-reading <3 good luck on your thesis babes MWAH SERIES MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

38 Hours Before the Phone Call – Monday, 8:42AM, BAU Office

Spencer arrives at the office with a stupidly giddy smile on his face. His cheeks are flushed as he grips a hot takeaway cup of coffee in his hands. He taps the cup idly with his fingers, bouncing on the heels of his feet as he steps out of the elevator unable to shake the smile off his face. It’s ridiculous and insane and borderline delusional but he knows it’s far from that. After all, he has a perfectly good reason as to why he is in such high spirits and that reason is you. After years of pining and psyching himself up (only to psych himself out) he managed to actually ask you out on a date. And, he reminds himself with a silly smile, he actually kissed you. And it wasn’t one of those platonic kisses, no, this was an actual kiss to the lips and he couldn’t be happier. 

He thinks back to the previous night, visualising the way your cheeks grew warm and the way your lips felt against his. His own cheeks flush at the thoughts and he remembers committing that version of you to memory. How on earth are you so beautiful? Even while sleep deprived with dark bags under your eyes or unruly hair, he still thinks you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. 

“Pretty boy,” Derek comments in a teasing sing-songy voice as Spencer takes a sip of his coffee, trying to appear nonchalant. “Ooh, I know that look.”

Spencer chokes a little, wiping his mouth with a tissue in his bag. “What look?”

“Someone got lucky last night,” Derek responds with a grin. “It must be the hair. I heard that long hair gets all the ladies nowadays.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spencer is quick to deny, walking through the big glass doors of the office. 

“Who got lucky last night?” Emily asks, poking her head out of her little stall. Her eyes flit to Spencer and she grins. “Oh… I see how it is.”

“Nothing happened last night,” Spencer says adamantly, swiping a hand over his face. “It isn’t like that. Whatever we have is good. It doesn’t need to be–” He coughs quietly as blood rushes to his ears– “to be sexual. I like her. More than physically.”

Emily coos at his confession, twisting around her desk to ruffle his hair. “You’re such a gentleman, Reid.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says through a laugh, swatting Emily’s hands away. “Being a gentleman. Some women prefer it over the whole macho act.”

“Hey, I am plenty gentleman,” Derek says swiftly, holding a finger out. “And chicks dig the macho thing.”

*** 

14 Hours Before the Phone Call – Tuesday, 7:09AM, BAU Office

It was supposed to be a normal morning. It was supposed to be an average Tuesday with your average, run-of-the-mill serial killer with daddy issues but instead, JJ called the entire team in the early hours of the morning, saying to get to the BAU as quickly as possible. 

“Case must be local. JJ said not to bring a go-bag,” Spencer says as they enter the office. 

In moments they were met with a complete arsenal of military personnel, bustling around their desks and storming throughout the office. Others were answering and sending phone calls, demanding for processes to be sped up as Hotch speaks to a group of people in his own personal office, Rossi beside him.

“What’s the army doing here?” Derek asks, his brows furrowed.

“What the hell is going on?” Emily demands, eyeing the uniformed professionals as they splay casefiles across their desks. 

They all enter the conference room where JJ was waiting for them, along with a neatly dressed Asian woman with her hair tied up in a ponytail and out of her face. 

“Guys, this is Dr Linda Kimura, Chief of Special Pathogens at the CDC,” JJ introduces, filling up styrofoam cups with water and placing them around the round table. 

“Hello. I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances,” she says as she places pills on a shiny metal tray. 

Spencer frowns at that. “What circumstances?”

Hotch enters the room instantly, gripping a case file in his iron fist. “We need to get started.”

“Last night, twenty-five people checked into emergency rooms in and around Annapolis. They were all at the same park after 2PM yesterday. Within 10 hours, the first victim died. It’s now just past 7AM the next day, we have twelve people dead,” JJ explains as the rest of team look through the manilla files. 

“Lung failure and black lesions,” Derek murmurs thoughtfully. “Anthrax?”

Spencer flicks through the papers, scanning the tox screen. “Anthrax doesn’t kill this fast.”

“This strain does,” Kimura says, an edge of fear in her tone.

“What are we doing about potential mass targets– airports, malls, trains?” Emily asks, turning to Hotch who shakes his head. 

“There’s a media blackout.”

“We’re not telling the public?”

Derek looks over at Emily. “We’d have a mass exodus.”

“The psychology of group panic would cause more deaths than this last attack,” Rossi explains.

“Yeah, and if it does get out, whoever did this might go underground or destroy their samples,” Spencer says as he sifts through the papers. 

“Or if they wanted attention and didn’t get it, they might attack again. Doesn’t the public have the right know that?” 

“If there is another attack, there’s no way we’ll be able to keep it quiet,” Hotch says urgently. “Our best chance of protecting the public is by building a profile as quickly as we can.”

Spencer wets his bottom lip nervously, his thoughts drifting to you. You work indoors all day. You’ll be fine, you have to be. “What do we know about this strain?”

“The spores are weaponized,” Kimura explains, “reduced to a respiral ideal that attacks deep in the lungs. Odourless and invisible.”

Rossi nods, almost as if he wasn’t surprised at all upon hearing the news. “A sophisticated strain. Only a scientist would know how to do that.”

“These lesions are doubling in size in a matter of hours,” Derek points out, gesturing to the less than positive crime photos in their files. 

“It’s not the lesions I’m worried about,” Kimura begins, taking an ultrasound scan of a patient’s lungs and presenting it to the team. “Its the lungs. We don’t know how to com2bat the toxins once they’re inside. And the reality is, we may lose them all.”

“The remaining survivors have been moved to a special wing at Walter Reed Hospital. Our offices will become a small command centre,” JJ tells them.

“We’ll be working with military scientists from Fort Detrick,” Hotch adds on.

“General Whitworth is coming here?” Rossi asks.

Hotch nods in the affirmative. “He’s in charge of sit containment and spore analysis. Determining what strain this is will help inform who’s responsible.”

“My team is in charge of treating all victims,” Kimura goes on to tell the team, looking at each person.

“Reid, go with Dr. Kimura to the hospital, interview the victims,” Hotch says, dishing out responsibilities. “Morgan and Prentiss, there’s a hazmat team that will accompany you to the crime scene. There’s Cipro. Everybody needs to take it before we go.”

Linda hands a small plastic container, each one having two round tablets resting inside. “We don’t know if it’s effective against this strain, but it’s something.”

Emily lets out a nervous breath as she toys with the rim of the container. “This… is really happening?

“We knew this could happen. We’ve done our homework. We’ve prepared for this. This is it,” Hotch says as reassuringly as possible before knocking his head back and taking the two Cipro tablets. 

“Cent’anni,” Rossi toasts, holding the little container out. “May you live one hundred years.”

*** 

Everyone rushes about, gathering files and resources before the head off to complete their allocated assignments. Regardless of how much is at stake in this certain situation, Spencer feels his heart spike with anxiety. It’s against protocol, sure, but shouldn’t he call you? Tell you to take a sick day and stay at home, or to just stay indoors the entire time you’re at work. Maybe if he’s lucky he could get you into witness protection. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch says slowly, seemingly appearing out of thin air behind him. 

Spencer freezes, his hands pausing as they rummage through his bag in search of his cell. “I’m not.”

“You’re not thinking?” Hotch asks, raising an eyebrow. “I know what you want to do.”

“I can’t just– I can’t just keep her in the dark, Hotch,” Spencer insists, continuing to feel for his cell phone. “She could get infected and–” His mouth runs dry at the idea and he swallows thickly. “If I can protect her, then why shouldn’t I?

Aaron sighs, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows knit together. “I know you care about her and I know you’re worried, but she isn’t on this team anymore. If we all called home and used this information to give them the advantage that other people don’t have… is that really the right thing to do?”

“Don’t give me a moral dilemma, Hotch. This isn’t a hypothetical,” Spencer counters, finally finding the little device buried at the bottom of his satchel. “When I– when the incident with Tobias Hankel happened, she never gave up on me. She went out on a limb for me. I’m returning the favour.”

Hotch is quiet for a moment before finally, “What about the guilt?”

Spencer balks. “What?”

“If she is saved because of the information you gave her… can you imagine the guilt she would feel? She’s a selfless person, Spencer, and knowing her… well, you can guess what she would do,” Aaron says, glancing back to his office where Rossi is waving him over. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. Kimura is waiting for you.”

Hotch is gone before Spencer could say anything. He huffs quietly, guilty after hearing Hotch’s words. Even though he doesn’t want to admit it, he has to accept that his boss is right. The best way to keep you safe is by finding this UnSub before he could hurt any more people. He rubs at his eyes in frustration, stalking out of the BAU offices. Hopefully you’ll forgive him.

*** 

“Dr. Lawrence Nichols? Yeah, I read about him. He was highly respected doctor who studied anthrax prior to the attacks in 2001,” Spencer says as he gets into the passenger seat of Derek’s SUV. He rolls up the sleeves of his dark purple shirt, brushing some sweat from his forehead. “They think that he’s behind it?”

“There was a video of him at a conference with the with the National Defense Committee. He was paranoid after the Amerithrax attacks in 2001, proposing some crazy high budget to ‘protect the people of America’,” Derek explains. “He matches the profile exactly. Prentiss and Rossi are heading to his work. Apparently he got demoted into working with influenza.”

Spencer grimaces as he stares at the overgrowing rose bushes at the front of Dr. Nichols’s house, his nose scrunching up in distaste. Do people not hire gardeners anymore? He squeezes past a few bushes to follow Derek closer to the house, hissing when his hand gets caught on one of the thorns. He shakes his hand out, a scratch already blooming on the back of his hand with small droplets ot blood already emerging. 

He continues to walk into the house as Derek’s phone rings, entering the house through a glass sliding door. The whirring of the fan above him grabs his attention and he frowns. The fan is on but the door is open… someone must have left in a hurry. He takes another step forward, jolting when he hears the sound of glass being crushed under his feet. Shit.

“Reid?” Derek yells, and Spencer jumps. 

“Morgan, get– get back!” Spencer yells, slamming the sliding door shut so hard that the glass shakes. “Get back! Get out of here!”

Derek frowns, tugging at the handle. ‘What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

“No, don’t!”

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks again, tugging once more at the handle; Spencer is a lot stronger than he expected.

“What’s wrong?”

Spencer pushes his hair out of his face in frustration as he locks the door, turning back to his friend. “I’m sorry.”

It is in that moment that Derek’s eyes turn to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief as he sees the white powder in the room leaking from a broken test tube with a bright yellow symbol for ‘biological hazard’. 

It feels like hours before Hotch and the military arrive at the house, along with an ambulance and a hazmat team. The stench of Dr. Nichols’s dead body lingers in the air even though the air-con is blasting and the air is circulating through the room. He doesn’t even want to think about the dead animals and test subjects in the cages, his stomach churning at the mere thought. From what he could tell, the doctor was dead three days ago, meaning that he couldn’t have been the one to infect those people at the park. His head is pounding and his throat itches and all of a sudden he can’t breathe. He tells himself to relax but how can he when he very well could die in here? He knows the statistics; only 55% of those who receive aggressive treatment survive. He doesn’t like those odds. 

“Hotch, I really messed up this time,” he says hoarsely into the phone, wiping the sweat off his upper lip.

“Reid, we need to get you out and to the hospital,” Hotch says firmly, and Spencer watches as he puts the call on speaker. 

“What– no, I’m staying right here,” Spencer insists, frowning. 

Derek interrupts swiftly, “No, you’re not, Reid.”

“I’m already exposed,” Spencer says, his voice straining as he turns back into Dr. Nichols’s makeshift lab. “It’s not gonna do me any good to stop working the case.”

General Whitworth grimaces in response. “He’s already infected. Now, if Nichols created the strain, he may have also created the cure.”

“My best chance is to stay here, see if there’s a cure, and try to figure out who killed Dr. Nichols,” Spencer insists as he searches through the lab for what seems like the millionth time. 

Test tubes, files, and text books litter the lab, a flurry of papers splayed across the floor. The sight of them remind him of the first time he met you when you had ran into him on his first official day at the BAU. You were a swirling rainstorm as you practically slammed your head against his chest, the paperwork you were carrying flying into the air as you toppled over like a house of cards. In that moment, Spencer could have sworn that you were untouchable. You were like a fire, burning brighter than the sun, and he would be damned if he ever made that flame flicker away. 

“Come on, Hotch, say something to him,” Derek tries again, worry laced in his tone.

Aaron hesitates as he considers his options before sighing. “He’s right. His best chase is inside. We’re gonna get a suit and mask in to you right away.”

“Don’t bother, it’s not going to do me any good. I’m already infected.” Spencer knows that if you were still part of the team that you would be scolding him about being so stubborn. Hell, you’re not even on the team anymore and you still scold him about it. 

As he continues to try and search for more clues and filtering the information he finds through to Derek, his thoughts continuously drift back to you. You and your blissfully unaware state. He thinks of the way you smile and the way you felt in his arms that day. He is sure that the universe is playing tricks with him because the one moment he finally has you, you’re ripped away from him. His mind wanders back to the way your eyes lit up and the way your lips felt against his and in that moment he’s begging. He’s begging whatever higher power there is that he is part of the 55% of people who survive an anthrax attack after treatment. 

“Hey, Reid,” Penelope’s voice echoes through the phone, sad and mopey. It’s unlike her, incredibly uncharacteristic and Spencer chokes out a quiet laugh. 

“Reid? Wow, no, uh… no witty Garcia greeting for me?” He asks, running his fingers through his damp sweaty hair. It’s disgusting and gross and he hates it because he knows that it’s a symptom of the disease. 

Penelope chuckles weakly from the other side of the line. “I can’t be my sparkly self when you are where you are.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that so instead he asks, “Garcia, do you think you can do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“I… I know I can’t call… I know I can’t call (Y/N) or my mother without, uh–” he coughs, wiping his face with the palm of his hand and feeling his clammy skin– “without alerting everyone.”

“What do you need?”

“I– uh– I need you to record a message. Two messages. One for my mother and the other for… for (Y/N). In case anything happens to me.” His voice cracks as he speaks, his hand trembling because oh God, this really could be the end. After everything he went through going to those Narcotics Anonymous meetings, getting clean, going to therapy… this is how it ends?

“Oh, nothing is gonna happen to you,” Garcia says, wholeheartedly believing it. “You’re gonna brilliantly find ut who did this and we’re gonna treat this strain.”

Spencer lets out a nervous breath. “I hope you’re right. But if you’re not, I just… I really want to make sure that they hear my voice. Both of them.”

“Okay. Just– just give me a second,” Penelope mumbles, clicking away on her keyboard. 

“Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“This– um, it’s for my mum first…” He clears his throat, trying to keep his voice even. “Hi, mum. This is Spencer. I just– I just really want you to know that I love you, and– and I need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.”

Penelope presses pause on that message, murmuring, “Okay. And– and for (Y/N)?”

“Is it on?” He asks quietly, coughing as the itchiness in his throat refuses to relent. “Hey, angel, it’s me, Spenc– Walter. It’s your Walter.” His voice catches in his throat as he speaks, tears slipping past his eyes as he tries to choke out the words. “If you’re getting this then something happened and I just wanted you to know that– that– that I love you. I didn’t get the chance to tell you that before but I do. I love you and I wish it didn’t turn out like this but I am– I am so glad that we had that moment.”

“Reid?”

Dr. Kimura enters the room through the sliding door, clad in a bright red hazmat suit. “Prep the victim for transfer.”

“I gotta go,” Spencer says quickly, hanging up the call and pocketing his phone. 

“Dr. Reid,” Kimura says, walking over to him.

“You look nice,” he says drily, staring at the uniform. It looks very similar to an astronaut costume and if he were in any other situation, he would have started to laugh.

Kimura chuckles quietly. “I haven’t been in this outfit for a while.”

“How… how are the patients doing?” Spencer manages to ask, and suddenly it feels as if all the air is kicked out of his lungs. His head throbs with each attempt he makes to take in a breath and sweat pools at the top of his lip. 

“Let’s worry about you.”

“I actually… I feel fine,” Spencer lies through gritted teeth, the muscles in his shoulders aching with each heave of his chest. 

Kimura nods, her concern palpable. “Okay, if you feel any pain, I can give you something.”

In an instant, the fear of losing all the progress he has made in the past year pools to his stomach and he shakes his head adamantly, ignoring the way the room spins. “No, I’d rather not take any pain medication.”

“We can at least make you feel more comfortable.”

“I am comfortable and I don’t want to take any narcotics!” Spencer says firmly, and he can see the realisation dawn in Kimura’s eyes. 

“Okay… tell me how I can help.”

“I think the cure for this strain is in here somewhere,” he says through heavy breaths, sucking in a mouthful of air with every sentence. 

It isn’t long before the hazmat team has Spencer in a decontamination tent, the smell of sterile plastic filling his nose. They’re hosing him down behind a clear plastic curtain, Derek standing in front of him. The feeling of the cold water splashing against his back is uncomfortable, and Spencer grimaces at the feeling of his clothes sticking to his skin. It’s gross and his work shirt is growing heavy from the waterweight, sagging down on his shoulders. The anthrax isn’t helping either. It’s too hot and too cold all at once, it’s too hard to breathe and it’s like his head weighs a million pounds. 

“Go help Hotch,” Spencer croaks out to Derek, shivering as they continue to spray water on his back and front.

“Hotch has plenty of people helping him,” Derek dismisses. 

Spencer shakes his head and regrets it immediately, his head starting to spin. “He needs you more than I do.”

“Reid, I’m gonna see you off to the hospital.”

“I’m about to get naked so that they can scrub me down. Is that something you really want to see?” Spencer deadpans.

Derek grimaces before finally saying, “What if (Y/N) were here? Would you tell her to go?”

“(Y/N)  wouldn’t mind seeing me naked.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot upwards at Spencer’s less than innocent words, immediately turning away. “We are having a conversation about this later. Take good care of him, please.”

The ambulance is stuffy and cramped, and the scrubs that he has to wear is itchy and uncomfortable. They’re menial thoughts that don’t even matter considering the severity of the situation, and Spencer wheezes out of a cough; a reminder that he might not even live to see the next day. The nasal cannula that is attached to Spencer’s nose isn’t doing much to assist him to breathe, and he coughs again. 

“How are you feeling, Dr. Reid?” Kimura asks as she checks his vitals. 

“My throats a little dry, but other than that I feel– I flee– feel…” He blanks. His mind knows the words but they get stuck on his tongue and he panics. It can’t end like this. He refuses for it to end like this. “Flee– fleel– I–”

Kimura nods in understanding, a sense of urgency behind her words. “Okay. Okay, you’re doing okay. Driver, faster!”

“Call–” Spencer tries again, the words spinning in his head. “Pelen– Penel… low… len…”

Call Penelope, he tries to say, the lights in the ambulance growing brighter and brighter. She needs to give (Y/N) the message, she needs to… she needs to…

All he sees is white.

*** 

The first thing Spencer notices when he regains consciousness is the smell of lavender and oranges overpowering the sterile scent of antibacterial wipes. It’s comforting and familiar and he wracks his brain as he tries to remember where he remembers it from. He doesn’t remember much; only getting into the ambulance and Kimura asking him questions. He shuffles around in his hospital bed, stretching his aching muscles. He forces his eyes open little by little, and he quints at the woman at the end of his hospital bed. 

“(Y/N)?”

“You ass,” you respond tearfully, your voice cracking as you swat him lightly on the arm. “You refused treatment?”

He smiles a little, sitting up on the bed. “Hey, angel.”

“Don’t ‘hey angel’ me,” you sniffle, taking hold of his hand and stroking his palm with your thumb. “You scared me.”

Spencer hums softly in acknowledgement, squeezing your hand back. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Dr. Kimura said that you should be free to go in a couple of days but you need rest afterwards,” you tell him, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You owe me a date.”

“I do,” he murmurs, his cheeks flushed and a giddy smile on his face despite where he is. He looks at you, you and his oversized CalTech hoodie. The hoodie in itself is ugly; a muted grey with a half-assed logo slapped to the front and Spencer has hated it ever since he bought it with what little funds he had back in college. Yet, for some reason, he doesn’t hate it so much when you wear it. “You look beautiful.”

You roll your pretty eyes at him, moving your chair closer to him. “Liar.”

“Never,” he whispers. “Never to you.”

You smile at him again, bringing your lips to the back of his hand. “You told me you loved me. Is that true, too?”

“Love,” he corrects you quietly, “and I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

Heat rushes up your neck at his words and you beam at him, kissing his cheeks. “I love you.”

He reaches a hand out to hold the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the line from your ear to your jaw. “I love you,” he says into the space between you, before kissing you again. 

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[jttwconfessions]

I think there's a lot about Wukong's characterization that LMK fandom misses out on. You can dislike him for whatever reason and that's ok, but I feel like it often gets overlooked that Wukong is likely only so laid back and focused on fixing his problems himself because he doesn't want to be seen as the massively violent monster he was during The Journey. His Ink Manifestations showing him being called a monster in various ways, his tendency to prefer to not fight in front of others (especially MK) unless necessary, the amount of times villains mention "the old Wukong" or how he "used to be", are all big hints to this. Hell, even him saying "me too, bud" when MK admitted that he exaggerates his naivety sometimes to lighten the mood. It seems like the depth of Wukong's LMK character is him trying to be less imposing to those around him while the (sometimes literal) ghosts of his past follow him, which is a very difficult thing to do when you're conditioned to seeing yourself as violent and scary, and the antagonists around you are trying to purposefully make you act like the worst version of yourself