#perhaps in this post more than ever before

[wannabepoeticischiya]

as long as I exist, you will always be loved

ao3: as long as I exist, you will always be loved pairing: gojo satoru x f! reader genre: fluff wc: 0.4k status: one shot

Satoru wasn’t embarrassed, he could have declared it to the world, and he would find no shame in doing so. But there was something about him when he would look her in the eye, laugh, and poke her face—tell her that he loves her, like there was no surer thing in the world other than the sentiments he held in his heart.

Ever since they were little, she would notice how Satoru offered her all the extra desserts on the table. It didn't matter if it was the last candy in the bowl, the lone chocolate bar, or the cupcake sitting peacefully just waiting to be eaten.

He offered it all to her.

So, she deduced that he must have not liked sweet things.

But even when it came to two different drinks, he always let her choose first, always. And if she decides that she didn't like her initial choice, he'd take it and give her his. Always.

Perhaps it began on that fateful day when she magically agreed to eat together for the first time. Perhaps Satoru saw that she took the little mochi sitting on the edge of his plate before anything else. Perhaps he picked up on that small thing and never let it go. A cherished memory to last a lifetime so it seems.

The seasons changed, and eventually, she caught on to what he was doing and thought that perhaps he had grown out of his sweet avoidance. So, as they were dining together nearly twenty years into the future, she jokingly offered him the last mont blanc—most certain that he would deny.

But he didn't.

He ate the dessert in two bites flat.

A little startled, she voiced the questions lingering in her head, 'You like sweet things?' and he only smiled (albeit with a little glaze decorating the side of his lips) and said, 'Yeah!' An answer far too riddled with love and contentment to be mistaken as anything else.

So, she asked him, if he liked sweet things so much why was it that he always gave them to her in a heartbeat?

And he said, Because I know you love them, and seeing you happy is worth all the sugar in the world.

Satoru wasn’t embarrassed, he could have declared it to the world, and he would find no shame in doing so.

But there was something about him when he would look her in the eye, laugh, and poke her face—tell her that he loves her, like there was no surer thing in the world other than the sentiments he held in his heart.

All her life she wholeheartedly believed he disliked anything that had sugar in it.

But no.

Turns out he really loved sweet things, chocolates, candies, cakes... you name it.

He just loved her more.

thank you for your support ❤ here's a little nice thing (I sure hope it's nice) for you guys before I inevitably post another soul-crushing one shot

I might laugh at that mongrel Satoru and say that he's a pain but I love him sm 😭

[rooksspite]

The Invitation

Lucanis Dellamorte x f! De Riva! Rook

this is my first time actually posting something i’ve written for dragon age! i’ve loved the series for so long and decided to finally bite the bullet.

I wanted to write about Lucanis’ reaction to that crow armour you can get from the lords of fortune. let’s pretend that there aren’t other npc crows that wear it.

“C’mon! It’s blue, has feathers, and some flowy stuff. Doesn’t that check all the boxes for what you crows wear?”

Rook turns her head to look up at Taash with an unconvinced look, “we also prefer to have our vital organs covered Taash. You’re sure there isn’t a missing shirt?” she asks, turning back to the merchant of the Hall of Valour, who only raised his hands and shrugged.

“It’s rumoured to have been worn by a pretty well known crow before making its way into my collection.”

“Right.” Rook replies, unconvinced

“Perhaps the crow was so good at their job they felt they didn’t need to cover up. Isn’t a big part of the crow uniform making statement against enemies?” Neve pipes up, a hint of amusement in her tone.

Rook narrows her eyes at the woman before turning back to the armour before her. Neve wasn’t wrong about crow fashion, and the quality was really nice but it was just so… exposing.

“if I showed up in Treviso in this Viago would burst into laughter and then kick me out… again.” Rook mumbles.

Taash groans in impatience, they’d been standing here for the better part of twenty minutes as Rook looked at the merchant’s stuff, “come on Rook, we have a ring to fight in! just get it! Show off some skin for once.”

Rook blushes at that, everything she wore usually covered her up. Even her casual clothes she wore back at the lighthouse was the most she’s ever shown.

“Why don’t you try it on and see how it fairs in the ring? I’m sure Isabela would be more than happy to introduce you in your new outfit.” Neve offers

Room sighs, she didn’t know why but ever since she talked to Neve about her very limited knowledge on beauty and fashion and Neve and Taash have both been very insistent on her trying out new styles.

“Fine… We have plenty of gold anyways.”

She doesn’t notice the victorious smirks Neve and Taash share over her head.

———

“Lucanis.”

“Davrin.”

Silence rings through the library of the lighthouse as the two men greet each other. Both pretending to look at the various titles in the spines of books. Lucanis swirls the coffee in his cup and clears his throat before taking a sip.

Davin finally speaks, “So… You and Rook hey?”

Lucanis pulls his gaze away from the bookshelf, turning to Davrin with a raised eyebrow, “we have been over this no?”

Davrin shrugs leaning against another bookshelf, “just double checking, leave it up to both crows of the group to end up in a nest together.”

Lucanis chuckles, “we have not ‘nested’”

There’s a pause before Davrin continues, “You two haven’t really gone out alone have you? Outside of our work against the gods i mean.”

Lucanis blinks at the question and pauses to think, “well uh… no not really.”

“Why not?”

Lucanis sighs, it had been weeks since their near kiss before he cowered away, and while they continued to show clear attraction on both sides, it’s not as if there was an official label on their… relationship. Would it be too much to spend time alone? With no goal in mind?

“it’s complicated” He finally says stiffly.

Davrin chuckles, “I can see that,”

The familiar whoosh of the eluvian from below can be heard, “perfect timing,” Davrin hums.

The doors to the eluvian room creak open and the murmur of chatter can be heard as the three make their way up the stairs.

Neve surfaces first and a sly smile crosses her face when she makes eye contact with lucanis.

Well that can’t be good, he thinks to himself as he takes a sip of his coffee,

“Welcome back,” Davrin greets, “How was the ring?”

Neve shrugs, “Isabela’s out another 60 gold. We would’ve been back sooner if someone didn’t take their time shopping.”

Rook’s laughter can be heard as she climbs the staircase, “I didn’t take that long neve.” she says as she reaches the top of the staircase.

Lucanis chokes on his coffee.

“Sooo what do we think?” Taash says as they walk up behind Room. A large grin on their face. They put their hands on Rook’s shoulders and spin her around like a doll, ignoring her sounds of protest.

Davrin throws an amused look back at Lucanis, “What do we think Lucanis?” he turns his gaze back and crosses his arms, “I think you’re missing a shirt Rook.”

“According to the merchant I’m not.” Rook says with a sheepish chuckle. Suppressing the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

“Thing fits like a glove though, she fought in the arena with this armour on and left perfectly fine.” Neve says, nudging Rook with her elbow.

“Mierda, you fought in that?” Lucanis finally chokes out. Barely recovering from the initial shock of seeing the woman he was already extremely attracted to wearing… That.

“Like a badass.” Taash confirms, smirking at the sight of Lucanis’ face, “well Neve you had to show me that… thing right?”

Neve nods, the mischievous smile never leaving her face, “right of course. would you like to come with Davrin? For the thing?”

The elf smiles knowingly, “I’d love to.”

the three waste no time in leaving the library of the lighthouse, the door swinging shut behind them.

Rook chuckles nervously under Lucanis’ stare, rocking back and forth on her feet.

“It’s a bit much right? The merchant said a renowned crow once wore this armour but I think he just lost the shirt.”

Lucanis rakes his eyes up and down her body. Trying desperately not to focus on her chest.

But how could he when she was wearing a variety of necklaces that led his eyes even further down? For once he could see almost the entirety of the tattoo she had on her chest, who put that there? Who had the pleasure of seeing the full expanse of her soft skin before he could-

“Lucanis?”

Lucanis jumps as his train of thought is broken, he clears his throat as he tightens his grip on his coffee cup, “you look…”

“VERY NICE ROOK.”

There’s a pause as Spite’s voice rings through the library. Lucanis suddenly wishes that the device spinning above their heads would malfunction and he would be torn up by the fade.

Rook, in all her kindness laughs, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, “thank you Spite but I was asking Lucanis.”

Her eyes meet his again and he swallows. There’s a pause before he takes a deep breath, calming the shock in his mind.

“I think…” he started slowly, stalking his way up to Rook, “you look beautiful, though I would advise against leaving some of the most important parts of you… vulnerable.”

Rook doesn’t know if the dip in his voice is intentional but it makes her shiver nonetheless. Her eyes trained on the free hand that comes up to feel the plumage on her shoulders.

“T-that’s what I told Taash,”, she says with an awkward chuckle. Suddenly feeling very warm.

Rook breaks her gaze away from his hand and nearly gasps when she meets Lucanis’ eyes. Dark and intense, with a heat in them that was starting to become familiar to her.

Flustered, Rook breaks eye contact. laughing awkwardly as one of her hands comes up to fiddle with the chains in her neck. Lucanis tries to not make his stare so obvious.

“I-I should change, no need to be in armour here right?” Rook steps away awkwardly, not waiting for an answer. Nearly tripping as she quickly ascends the stairs towards her room.

It’s only when Lucanis hears the creak of a door opening and closing does he slouch and inhale shakily, his hand reaching towards a bookshelf to steady himself, “mierda.”

[sunkissedliterarylightofchrist]

So. I think The Line is part of the Clancy Saga. And more specifically, it takes place right in the last part of Paladin Strait. Also for the purposes of this post, I'm throwing out all the Arcane imagery and solely focusing on Clancy. Sorry show fans.

Here's my take.

First we've got the setting. A mystical, dark place, full of stars. And everything in there seems very blurry and unfocused. Even when the camera is focused in on Tyler's face, its never clear, it seems like there's some sort of distortion or filter over it, not enough to fully point out exactly what's wrong, but enough that you can tell something's wrong.

I think it's describing Tyler's headspace. Or, more specifically, Clancy's, as he's in his own head, Nico smearing his throat. It's unfocused and dark and he's questioning everything that has lead up to this moment, struck with fear.

Next we've got the mysterious person, who's in Clancy's mind with him. Listening as Clancy speaks. And comforting him.

We don't get a clear picture of who it is. But I am convinced its the Torchbearer. Even if the silhouette isn't his. Because the lyrics are ever so clearly a cry for help. And what has Torchbearer done this entire time for Clancy? Helped him.

Then we've got this moment right here. The figure is walking away from Clancy, and I think they're almost beckoning Clancy to follow. When they go behind, Clancy's head is jerked unnaturally to the side, before it comes right back up into its normal position.

I think Clancy is fighting with himself here. He's asking for help, while also telling the person to stay away from him and his brokenness. Which would perfectly match up with these lyrics being a cry of help to the Torchbearer.

Now we have this.

Tell me it does not look exactly like seizing. I don't care if it's matching up with what is going on with the characters in Arcane, this is Tyler Joseph we are talking about here. Everything in this video was 100% intentional.

This could be representative of how Nico is in the middle of smearing Clancy. But I'm leaning towards how it could be how the Torchbearer is now saving Clancy from himself, by getting into Clancy's mind even more than just being in his headspace with him. He's got to pour his spirit into Clancy to save him. (Sound like the Holy Spirit anyone?)

The next sequence is interesting. Along with his eyes going white, his hair does as well. Which I think strengthens my theory that the Torchbearer is going inside of Clancy to help him. Then he rises up into the air, along with all the other figures of light.

I think the strongest case is that they're the Glorious Gone who the Bishops were using to fight the Banditos moments before. And who Clancy was perhaps about to join, with Nico smearing him again. This is it- it is finally over. He was going to die, or be trapped in the cycle forever. Again we've got the analogy of light, and him holding up his hand to block it from his face.

But then while all the other people are becoming more and more light and ascending, he rather returns to his normal self and comes back to the ground, and looks up. Contemplates. And then disappears.

The Torchbearer saved him from himself. And then Clancy leaves that bad mental headspace- and opens his eyes to face Nico, where the Torchbearer is ready to now physically save what he just spiritually saved.

[suddencolds]

a personal milestone 🥳 + author's note

i finally made it 😭 (there is probably another 10k sitting in my drafts, but i have always tracked word count for this project as a sum of already-published installments)

also a (somewhat long) journal entry below:

—

This has been the main project in my life for almost two years, now (I started writing on 1.26.2023). It's my first proper attempt at a novel, and it's one of my first times ever posting original work anywhere 😭

It's hard to say how I feel now, perhaps because I feel too much.

Where to go from here? I considered dropping the series entirely before I hit the milestone because I was very tired. In a way, I felt like I had said everything I wanted to say. But I think I also love this series a lot more than I can properly verbalize.

To be completely honest, writing this series was so lonely. To work for so long on something that I could not show to nearly anyone irl (not family, not close friends, not peers, not strangers I met who I talked to about art); to spend hundreds of hours on something that I could only ever post to a small subset of people... all of that was very lonely. I'm sure other creatives have felt this way too.

And at the same time, hearing what people on snzblr thought became probably the most potent source of happiness in my life (is that pathetic? Maybe so.) I don't think this project was self-sustaining at all; I think to some extent, I wrote it because I wanted to hear people tell me that they liked it. I realize this is a terrible and unsustainable reason to create art, but that's the truth.

On some level, though, I kept writing because I loved Y+V. They've been at the forefront at my life for almost two years now 😭 I spent a long time teaching myself how to write them, and a lot of the themes & choices in the series are quite personal. Embarrassingly, I still want to talk about Y+V all the time.

When I posted to ask if I could send my unfinished/unpolished WIPs, some people reached out to offer to read them... and then I never sent anything over to anyone. I think a part of me could not get it through my head that people would be willing to read something completely unpolished, because... well, frankly, a lot of my drafts are just pretty unreadable; I typically only post things that I have already cleaned up. More importantly, I felt like sending my drafts to people—even people who had given me explicit permission to send them!—was selfish and troublesome.

On some level, I also felt the same about asking others to brainstorm with me: I felt like I was asking them a favor which I did not know how to pay back. Perhaps this is just another way in which I have been cruel/uncharitable to myself, but I never imagined people enjoying receiving my drafts. I could never convince myself that for those people, giving feedback/discussing ideas might not actually be a chore. I was always scared to make writing less of a lonely process because I could only think about how easy it would be for me to ask too much.

This is probably the most honest I've been about this particular subject 😭 I am not good at gauging what constitutes 'too much.' I feel like I can get carried away when someone expresses interest, so I try to preemptively position myself as someone who does not impinge on others... I think that even outside of this series, I have defaulted to this pattern of trying to give and trying not to ask. In that particular sense, I am perhaps to blame for my own loneliness.

Anyways! Recently, I've gone back to (tentatively) writing after months of not writing. I'm not sure if I will post another installment here (maybe if the drafts are 'good enough', I will?), but it's nice to write without worrying so much that what I am writing needs to be publishable/presentable.

If you have ever left tags/comments on my work, and you are reading this, I am grateful beyond words to you for keeping me company + for making me feel like what I was spending so much time on was a little more meaningful :') I always go back to reread them when I'm in need of encouragement. Thank you sincerely for the happiness. ❤️

[guavacaado]

DL!Pearl x Arachne!Gem

Fair warning, I don’t know how people usually go about posting fics on tumblr but some quick disclaimers:

-Mildly suggestive(physically)

-Descriptions of violence

“My webs do have a tendency of snaring little bugs in.”

“Little bugs?”

“Little bugs.”

=======••••=======

“I know you’re here with a purpose.” Gem chittered. Her mandibles clicked along to the trill of her voice. “So what was it? To plunder my friends? To steal my belongings? Because you’ve certainly achieved your goal if that’s what you meant to do.”

“I was only trying loot this mineshaft.” Pearl tugged at the webs. It didn’t want to come off. “This mineshaft that I didn’t even know was occupied.”

“Does that change the fact that you’ve caused me damage though, moth?” Gem’s tone stayed dark, though her eyes trained on Pearl’s hands with a hint of amusement.

Pearl felt herself burn under that gaze. Judging from how her skin would sooner tear off her body than it would the web; and how the arachne loomed over her with a keen interest that was closer to predatory than it was curious—the odds weren’t in Pearl’s favor.

Still, she couldn’t allow her dignity to go down like this. “I have a name.”

“You look like nothing more than a moth to me.”

The arachne had an attitude, it seemed. Pearl would’ve loved to play around with someone like this if she wasn’t in a life-or-death struggle. “Not to be egotistical, but people fear the mere sight of my axe. I’ve killed for less.”

“I don’t see an axe, nor a fearsome killer.” The arachne’s front appendage tapped against the floor, and the rhythm was eerily similar to the ticking of TNT.

It wasn’t difficult to see why. A soft hissing shadowed her every word, and a sharp rap came of those spindly legs—tick, tick, ticking.

Pearl tried to supress her shuddder.

As if by mercy of the watchers above, or perhaps by the arachne herself, the tapping stopped. Pearl wasn’t looking at her to see the way that the arachne’s brows furrowed. “…that name of yours, moth, what was it?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“You were so eager before. Why rescind now?” The arachne leaned forward, with a grin that Pearl thinks burns her skin in a way that no flame can. “My name is Gemini Tay. Call me Gem.”

“Pearlescent Moon. They call me Pearl for short.”

At that, Gem hummed. “They. So there are more of you plunderers?” She straightened back up.

Pearl had the urge to laugh. This woman was so wary, especially for someone whose only threat for most of her time has been cave-lurking mobs. “Like I said, I’m not a plunderer, and they certainly aren’t either. That bunch of ‘em have souls more golden than I.”

Gem cocked her head. “So you are wicked?”

“It’s subjective.”

The arachne shot her a tentative glare.

Pearl didn’t know much about spiders other than the way that their heads severed at the end of her blade. She’s only familiar with them in the way that their blood splattered across her armored chest. Never given the creatures much thought.

And yet she seemed to be giving her plenty of thought now. The urge was ever-present—to dissect things, to rip them apart, and to study them all from the most grotesque to the most intact parts of their corpse.

That was the same kind of look Gem was dissecting her with. Violent curiosity. The same kind Pearl held for her.

“You look as if you wish my neck were between your fangs.” Gem spoke up first.

“You look like you want me as your next meal.” Pearl responded in kind, unaware of when exactly her heart decided to spite her and hammer a wild rhythm in her chest.

“If I freed you from those webs,” Gem’ four eyes were all lasered onto her. “What would you do, Pearl?”

“I could give your treasures back and leave you be.”

“Why? Is there anybody waiting for you on the surface if you leave?”

Pearl’s expression dropped. She ignored the sourness trying to crawl up from her stomach, acidic and vile. Even Gem’s words could cut, it seemed.

“What’s your point, Gem?”

“Tell me more,” The arachne invited herself into Pearl’s personal space, of which the moth was helpless to combat. “Tell me about you, about the surface.” One, scythe-like spider leg prepped its blade up to the peeling, stringy web. “Do that, and I’ll cut you free; but you won’t be rid of me for a while.”

Pearl eyed her diamond axe, the single glint of the torch’s light stared back at her. “Don’t hurt me?”

Gem found herself looking at the axe too. “Don’t hold back on me.”

Pearl smiled. “Deal.”

The sound of the webs tearing were the same as when she cleaved through fabrics with her axe. Like a puppet whose strings were cut, Pearl fell.

Gem’s ginger braids filled her vision before she felt the impact of landing on the arachne’s chest. “Careful,” her voice took on a softer quality. Was this how she spoke to all the mobs in her keep? It was invigorating, shameful as it was to admit.

Pearl, always a curious creature, wrapped her arms around Gem’s waist. It was the point where Gem’s spider and human half met, which was a strange mix of textures; and it brought about a confusing clash of bloodthirst against instinct.

The moth wanted to run. The wolf wanted to hunt.

She ran her hands over Gem’s fuzzy hide, and slowly, brought it upwards to feel at the skin of Gem’s waist under her top. Was there a vulnerability here somewhere? Did it have less durability than the rest of her body? Pearl wondered.

Her wrists were seized. “Are you not pulling away?” Gem’s mandibles clicked.

“You aren’t pushing me away,” Pearl shrugged. She quite liked hugging Gem. Yes, hugging, because she had the face to admit that’s what she was doing. An embrace, albeit with ulterior motives.

Gem sighed. “Are you always like this?”

“What can I say? I like being difficult.” Pearl hummed. Though there was a limit to her ability to be thick-skinned, so when Gem let go and lifted her arms to accommodate Pearl’s, she finally peeled away.

[oneinathousand]

I've assembled some lesser-known quotes about Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee, I hope there's at least one in here that most of you have never seen before, though the super-fans among you have likely seen them all ;)

Lee fancies himself playing Aragorn, the archetypal heroic figure of the piece - he would probably be cast as Sauron, the Satanic figure in Tolkien's Middle Earth - but he feels that only a Walt Disney feature cartoon could possibly do justice to the work.

-"Cinemafantastique" Vol 3 No 1 (Fall 1973)

I knew that Lee wanted to play Gandalf when he jumped on board the LOTR movie trilogy, but I didn't know he apparently originally wanted to play Aragorn! My guess is that once he got older, he figured he would be better as Gandalf, though of course he didn't get it. But Lee as Aragorn... if he played the part in the late 50's, 60's or early 70's, I could see him pulling it off, what with his swordfighting abilities. Did he ever comment on the Ralph Bakshi adaptation?

After the liberation of Germany, he [Lee] visited a number of the concentration camps, including Dachau, a deeply disturbing experience which, he says, provided him with such a close-up view of the charnel house side of real life that he is unaffected by anything he sees or does on the screen.

-The Dracula Scrapbook, Peter Haining

I have decided now to tell a tale a bit "out of school" regarding the relationship between Peter and Helen Cushing, especially since this is a lady who remains a bit of a mystery to most Cushing fans - like a figure out of an Edgar Allan Poe tale, considering the way Peter lionized her as if she was indeed his "lost Lenore." During the latter part of 1977, I saw quite a bit of Christopher Lee as he and his family were living in Los Angeles where he played golf (and made the occasional film or television movie of the week.) One afternoon, we were at lunch, and the subject of Peter and his wife came up in conversation; Christopher leaned over to me and said, "You know David, Helen Cushing was a bit of a psychic vampire in life; she kept Peter very close. It was as if she could read his very thoughts before they had them. They really were soulmates of the first order; make no mistake about that! I don't think Helen ever really trusted me where Peter was concerned - even after he and I had made several films together. In fact, Helen used to say to me, "I know you think you are now bigger than my husband don't you?" Well, I just looked at her, smiled and said, "Well Helen, I am taller than Peter you know." Christopher felt that Peter had such guilt - imagined or not - about anything he might have done when they were married; if for example he ever found himself attracted to any of the Hammer glamour girls; whom he worked opposite, it all was now too much to bear. On the other hand, Vincent Price responded to Peter's intense mourning with his usual brand of humor. During the filming of Madhouse, he observed Peter discussing ways of communication from beyond the grave by perhaps installing a phone in the crypt; Vincent listened to all this and then replied with that unmistakably deadpan voice, "Well Peter, what if she's out?"

-David Del Valle, "Diabolique" #16

A few of you may recall seeing a quote posted here from Lee calling Helen a psychic vampire. I tried to find the source for that, but I couldn't. Instead I found this other version, possibly by the same person, which seems to give more insight about what Lee actually thought of Helen, and it comes off as much less harsh on his part than the other one.

A while back, I looked up interviews about the making of The Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires, and I swore I saw a magazine or something where Roy Ward Baker, the co-director of the movie along with the Shaw Brothers, said something about Cushing during the making of it to the effect of: “He was absolutely miserable, poor bugger.” But I forgot to take a screenshot of it then and for the life of me I couldn’t remember where it came from, I tried to look through my search history but couldn’t find it. I swear that I saw it, though!

Oh well. Next up is a quote about Lee and Cushing watching Looney Tunes together for the last time, get your tissues out...

In the early 90s I worked for Hammer Films and was asked to organise a voiceover recording for a Hammer Films documentary. Both Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee had agreed to work together one last time. Christopher Lee had asked me to organise one thing: a television and a VHS player in a private room and to have some alone time with Peter. After the recording, I cleared the studio and left Peter and Christopher alone with the TV. They hadn’t noticed that I was still at the mixing desk so I waited to see what they were going to be watching. I saw Count Dooku and Grand Moff Tarkin sit watching Looney Tunes cartoons – each doing perfect impersonations of Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Pie – all line perfect! I can’t remember exactly – but I think Christopher Lee was Tweety Pie and Peter Cushing was Sylvester.

-"Popbitch" 2015 Annual, the quote is just credited to a "JH", but IMDB lists a Jane Hughes as having worked as an assistant director in the Canterbury studio where Lee and Cushing recorded their voiceover, so this is most likely her. I personally would like to believe that Lee was playing Sylvester and Cushing was Tweety because Lee said he was always Sylvester to Cushing, and come on, Cushing MUST have been Tweety, that character would fit him like a glove!

For this final quote, I'm gonna do something different and copy-paste a whole interview done with Lee by a guy named John Exshaw about Cushing a year before the latter died for the magazine Cinema Retro, the interview being put up on their website. The formatting on the interview is all messed up, so I fixed the apostrophes and em-dashes and will put the whole thing here for your enjoyment.

I find this interview fascinating not so much for what Lee says about Cushing, but for how it implied he saw himself compared to Peter:

I didn’t meet him until we did the first Hammer movie. I’d seen him. Of course the thing which I’d seen which impressed me most, understandably, was 1984, which was remarkable. He was wonderful in that… Live TV! [shudders]

Total dedication; and this is the answer to why Peter Cushing is an actor. Total dedication. Total! The most professional actor I have ever worked with. And I’m not going to say underrated, because he isn’t underrated. He’s highly regarded all over the world as a brilliant actor, and deservedly so. The record shows that… Also, one thing that we do share, I think, more than anything, which is more important than anything else - I think we share the same dedication, I think we share professionalism, I think we share the same feelings about doing the best we can - one thing we certainly share is the same sense of humor, which of course the general public is totally unaware of. If they knew what we got up to on the set in every film we’ve made… the imitations that I used to do… Oh, we used to dance together in the rushes, yes; me made up as the Frankenstein creature, a sort of, a sort of, what do you call it - buck-and-wing dance, you know. And in years and years and years he and I have shared this idolatrous love of the Warner Brothers cartoons, you see, and Sylvester, and Tweetie Pie, and Yosemite Sam. And I’ve always imitated them, you see, and he’s done the same. And we used to do that on a set; people used to think we’d gone out of our minds, and we’d make each other laugh. Sometimes it’s so important - in a way, it’s absolutely essential - but we’re both of us ice-cold when it comes to doing it, even if we’ve been been laughing a few moments before. And that’s a thing we also share, total concentration.

And what can I say about Peter Cushing that I haven’t said before? I mean, consummate actor, brilliant technician, and a marvellous human being. I’ve always said, you know - I’m sure you’re aware of this - that he should have been a priest… Because there is a great love for his fellow man. There’s an almost superhuman loving kindness in Peter, and it’s always been in there. I’ve never heard him say anything harsh about anyone. He’s also a deeply religious man. Those are the two things we don’t have in common. I’m afraid I do say what I think. I’m not tactless but I am a more direct person than he is. I don’t have his tolerance. I don’t have his gentleness. I don’t have his faith; I wish I did…

He is not an easy person to get to know, believe you me. There’s a lot about Peter that I don’t know… But of course, as you know, Helen died in the 1970’s and that is his only desire left in life. And it’s genuine. He has stayed alive because he’s a man who would never take his own life because that would be a great sin, and he has stayed alive through some pretty terrible experiences, you know. He’s had cancer, and problems with his legs, his hips, breathing, and all sorts of medical problems, but the spirit is unquenchable and the speed of thinking and the mind haven’t changed at all. I mean, it’s another cliche - the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. The same thing with Vincent [Price]; mind like a rapier, both of them. Only the physical disabilities of getting old…

But he’s certainly one of a kind, and of course this business of staying alive, simply existing, which is how he looks at his life - existence. He’s only waiting for that moment; only waiting for it. And he’s been waiting now for twenty-three years. It must be terrible to be so admired and so loved and so respected but to impose, I feel, on yourself, deliberately, a sort of monastic seclusion which he seems to prefer. He seems to; I mean, you wouldn’t think of it if you saw him with a group of people but I think he prefers to be alone. I don’t think the house is full of people. I don’t think there’s many very, very close, intimate friends - but nor have I, and nor have many people.

Acquaintances, yes; admirers, yes - scores of thousands all over the world, people who feel they know him, people who feel that he’s a friend - all that. That’s on a professional basis; I think on a personal basis, I get the impression that he’s a person who keeps his life and his relationship with his wife very much to himself. It’s locked up in a cupboard of which he has the key. He doesn’t open that cupboard and release anything unless he chooses to. But I don’t either.

[regency-monster-love]

Part 7 of Colin and Susannah | Master post

Male werewolf x female human | Regency era | NSFW: hand jobs, semi-public sex (not caught), references to knotting, references to biting (vague)

Colin and Susannah's wedding date was fast approaching, and there was an important matter for them to discuss before then. Colin had gotten his pack's assistance once again to distract her parents and let him steal her away for a few minutes of privacy to talk. They were sitting together in the same study where he had proposed, the door closed.

He picked up his fiancé's hand. “You have heard me say that we are mates. Do you know what that entails?” he asked carefully.

She gazed into his golden eyes. They always seemed to have a faint glow to them, but at times their light burned with more intensity, as they were now. It always set off a fluttery sort of warmth within her when his eyes looked like this. She swallowed. “Well. I know it's a sort of bond that some werewolves share with their spouses, but not all.”

He nodded. “That's right. The bond can only form if both parties feel love for each other.”

She smiled softly. “Like you and I.”

His eyes warmed with his own smile. “Yes, butterfly.” 

“Even if only one of us is a werewolf?”

“Even so.” He paused. “But love is not enough. There is something else that must occur to fully bond a pair as mates.”

Her brows lifted, curious and waiting for him to tell her. He shifted slightly closer to her on the settee.

“The soul connection of a mated pair must be expressed as a bodily connection as well,” he said slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on her face for her reaction. “They—we—would need to lie together as a husband and wife do, and we would need to bite each other. And I would be in my wolf form while this occurs.”

Her eyebrows had climbed even higher. “Oh. I see,” was all she said.

He smelt no fear coming off her, but could not read her expression. “Would you…permit that?”

“I think I…would like it,” she admitted.

The werewolf felt a rush of relief—and then the scent of her desire hit him. She truly would like it—the thought alone was arousing her! The knowledge of that aroused him as well, and he pressed himself even closer to her. “Do you know how we will lie together? What I will do to you?”

His voice had become hoarser, his gaze more piercing, and both somehow contributed to the increasing agitation she felt in the pit of her belly. “I know the generalities, at least for humans,” she said, and was surprised to hear that her own voice sounded more hoarse as well.

“It is not very different for werewolves.” He pressed his hand onto a bulge at the front of his trousers. “This part of me will fit into your body—”

“Here.” She finished his sentence and pressed her hand between her own legs, grown bold by his words, his voice, and that alluring fire in his eyes. A jolt of pleasure met the touch of her hand, and she wriggled her hips in an unconscious effort to induce even more.

He groaned watching her. “Yes, in your quim. I'll stick my cock in your quim.”

His vulgar bluntness increased her desire further. “Oh Colin,” she whimpered.

He threw his arms around her shoulders to pull her close. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, and he dropped his head to angle his mouth against hers and kiss his mate for the first time in his life.

The sensation of the kiss enlivened him. It was like the feeling of transforming on a full moon, a feeling of release and rightness, of becoming something closer to whole. His instincts told him what else to do to truly become whole—mount her, knot her, bite her—but for now, this was already so much more alive than he'd ever felt before.

Susannah was perhaps even more overwhelmed than he, for just a minute ago she had never kissed anyone, and now she was feeling her mate's tongue sweeping against hers, his large hands running over her back and arms, his thigh pressed against her's, all of it unfamiliar and stunning.

Colin's kisses drifted lower, and when he reached the spot where her neck met her shoulder, her breath caught at the burst of pleasure his lips set off there. “This is where I will bite you,” Colin rasped against her skin, mouthing at the sensitive spot with just the faintest scrape of his wicked teeth. She gasped and twisted in his arms, mindlessly torn between wanting to get away from the overwhelming pleasure and wanting more of it.

“I can smell your desire. You're wet,” Colin said in a dark tone that seemed to rumble down her spine to settle between her hips with a pulsing heat that obliterated any mortification she might have felt from his words. Perhaps the mating bond was making her mad as well, but if it was, she did not care.

“Yes. Please,” she pleaded, knowing she needed something more or she should burst.

“You need never beg for me, darling mate,” he purred, and tugged up one side of her skirts, before his hand disappeared underneath.

He found where she was wet, swirling his fingertips through it, making her moan at the riotous sensations it set off in her body. One of his fingers dipped, feeling as though it was starting to sink into her, but he went no further, merely held it at her entrance while his thumb flicked against the sensitive bud at the top of her slit, making her throb with want.

“There is one more thing I will do to seal our mating bond,” he murmured in her ear. “I will spill my seed in your cunt, then knot you to lock it inside.”

“Knot me?” she hiccuped, nearly at her peak already from his decadent caresses and lewd language.

“A bulge at the base of my cock. Can I show you?”

“Yes, show me,” she pleaded.

He groaned in approval at her eagerness and quickly freed his cock from his trousers, watching Susannah's eyes widen as she stared down at it, and breathing in the scent of her arousal that had surged. But a hint of fear prickled at the edges of it now as well. “It's too big, isn’t it?” she asked.

“No, butterfly,” he cooed, caressing her folds soothingly. “You're my mate, built to take me.” No need to tell her that it would be even larger when he was a wolf. His hand cupped his knot, which also wasn’t at its full size; that wouldn’t happen until it was inside her. “You'll be able to take my knot as well. I'll fill you perfectly, mate.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Please.” Her touch was tentative at first, but he showed her how to pump him, restoring her eager lust, and soon both of them were feverishly stroking each other while they kissed deeply once more. Colin could scarcely believe how good Susannah's warm, wet cunt felt on his fingers, and imagined how much better it was going to be to sink his cock into that same slick heat. It made his knot throb and swell just to think of it.

“We will be so close when we are knotted, Susannah,” he panted. “It will tie our bodies together for some time. Can you imagine that? Having me joined with you, unable to separate, fully being one?”

“Yes,” she moaned, squeezing his cock tighter in her fist, “I want that!”

“Soon, butterfly. Soon I'll mate you the way you need.” He mouthed at that spot on her neck again, relishing the way it made her shudder and gush onto his hand. “You need me, don't you, little mate? Need this cock inside you, need my teeth in your flesh?”

“Oh God, Colin, yes, yes!” she sobbed. “Need your cock and your bite!”

“Oh fuck,” he growled. It took all his restraint not to pull her onto his cock this instant. It was aching to be buried in her, red and angry and throbbing with primal need.

He plunged a finger inside her instead, making her cry out, before she bit down on her lip and darted her widened eyes toward the door. But even though there was an undercurrent of fear in her scent at that moment, the spice of her arousal had thickened to an even greater degree.

Colin pumped his finger in and out of her cunt and gave her a wicked smile. “It excites you, the possibility that we will be caught doing this.”

She only whimpered in response. What was wrong with her, that something so perverse and dangerous should excite her? But she could not deny that it did, most ardently. That thrill, combined with the movements of Colin's clever fingers on and in her, were rushing her towards a shining precipice of ecstasy, and then suddenly, something burst inside her and she soared over that peak, clutching tight to Colin as she fell through the air as though weightless. She had no idea if she made any sound, because Colin’s mouth was on hers again, his tongue undulating like the waves in her cunt.

Her climax was intoxicating to him. He wanted to drink up her pleasure, swallow every wanton cry she made into his own throat to relish, let her scent seep in and saturate every cell of his body so it would become a part of him. Her hands still moved against him, one rubbing his knot while the other tugged on his shaft, the rhythm faltering and jerky now, but the touch still heated, and before he could warn her, his own climax ripped into him. He moaned into her mouth as his seed barreled up his cock and shot from its tip, covering his human’s sweet little hands in its creamy whiteness.

They slumped against each other, panting for a few moments while they recovered. Colin huffed out a short laughing sort of breath. “This was not my intention in getting you alone, I assure you,” he told her.

She smiled. “I would not blame you if it was, for it was most agreeable.” Then she flushed, suddenly conscious of how improper this all had been, especially for her. “You do not think less of me when I say I enjoyed it, do you?”

“Of course not! I am delighted to know that my mate enjoys my touch.” He stroked his wet fingers over the inside of her thigh, making her shiver, then withdrew his hand. “I am already desirous of giving you even more of it. But we have been away too long as it is. Your parents will notice you are gone.”

They quickly cleaned up as best they could, then Colin sent Susannah out ahead of them, to not arouse suspicion by returning together. He did not tell her that it was only her parents’ suspicion they could avoid, because every werewolf out there would smell what they had done together. He did not want to embarrass her with that knowledge.

When he returned to the drawing room by himself, a couple minutes after Susannah, she was speaking to her parents as if nothing had happened, and did not even look at him. But his packmates shot him secret smirks thanks to the story that his scent, and hers, clearly told them. He didn't mind it. He was proud to have Susannah's scent clinging to him, and his on her, telling everyone that she was claimed, that she was his mate.

Or, at least, very nearly so. Mount her, knot her, bite her. Then she would fully be his. At last.

~ 🐺🎩 ~

End of part 7 of Colin and Susannah

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing.

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 8: Checkmate Atheists

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

The party looks around the vault. It's spoopy in there, creppy even, and Henry and George are creeped out. Everyone begins to examine the coffins in the vault, only to find that the older coffins are so fragile that they crumble to dust with a touch. Finally they find a coffin plate with the name of the ancestor they are looking for, who is now named Marmaduke instead of Runnagate for some reason. It's been detached from its coffin, so they scan the coffins with no plate to figure out which one it came from. Eventually, they find the matching coffin; the death date is off by a century, but no one comments on this, so it appears to be a mistake by the author.

The coffin opens easily, and appears to be empty except for a few rotten scraps of cloth. Chillingworth confirms that no dead body appears to have ever been placed in the coffin, at least not one that underwent any amount of decomposition. This news is greatly disheartening to Henry, George, and Marchdale, but not to Chillingworth, who makes the bold claim that he would not believe in vampires if one bit him on the neck. He goes on to say that he also does not believe in miracles, because he believes every phenomenon has a scientific explanation.

The group leaves the vault. Henry remarks that his family is cursed by Heaven, which Chillingworth scoffs at. As they close up the vault and leave the church, Chillingworth attempts to counsel Henry, telling him that the best thing to do is stubbornly refuse to accept his situation, and get really angry instead. Henry comments that this approach sounds a lot like defying Heaven, to which Chillingworth replies that it is nothing of the sort, because if God didn't want us to defy our circumstances He would not have given us defiance in the first place. He then makes the mistake of saying all religion which cannot be rationally explained is merely allegory, and Henry straightens up and gives a moving religious speech, God's Not Dead style, which stuns Chillingworth into silence. The narrator then soapboxes a whole bunch about how religious people always win arguments with atheists because their arguments are so much more true and correct.

My god this chapter is wild. Can you believe the part where they break into a grave looking for a vampire is the boring half of this chapter?

Last time I commented that Henry and George seemed not to know how decomposition worked. This time, it becomes obvious that Rymer himself does not know how decomposition works.

"Some of the earlier coffins of our race, I know, were made of marble, and others of metal, both of which materials, I expect, would withstand the encroaches of time for a hundred years, at least." [...] When, however, they came to look, they found that "decay's offensive fingers" had been more busy than they could have imagined, and that whatever they touched of the earlier coffins crumbled into dust before their very fingers.

How fucking old are these coffins, Rymer??

Next we get a stunning display of just how much Rymer Does Not Care about consistency. First off, Runnagate Bannerworth has changed names - he is now Marmaduke. I don't know how Rymer bungled the name this badly. The name "Runnagate" is never mentioned again.

(Eagle eyed readers may note that I tagged Dad Bannerworth as "marmaduke bannerworth" a couple chapters ago. This is because Rymer later changed his mind on who Marmaduke is.)

The coffins in this vault consist of two layers, an outer and an inner coffin. The outer coffins are mostly wood, with coffin plates affixed to the top, while the inner ones are metal and have inscriptions engraved on them directly. The coffin plate and coffin inscriptions for Marmaduke Bannerworth are as follows:

"Ye mortale remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman. God reste his soule. A.D. 1540."

"Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman, 1640."

Most probably one of these is a typo; I find it hard to imagine even Rymer forgetting which century a guy died in within the space of a single page. It could also be that he truly gave that little of a shit.

Chillingworth roots around in Marmaduke's coffin for a bit before dispassionately reporting that it contains no body, nor any signs of one having decomposed. It's at this point that the chapter really starts to get interesting, as Rymer takes Chillingworth's established character as a skeptic and dials it up as far as it will possibly go, culminating in a Christian-vs-atheist debate between him and Henry and a fairly lengthy editorial from Rymer himself. It isn't clear to me just what Rymer is trying to do with the character of Chillingworth; at all other points in the story, he appears to be a voice of reason and a cool head, with his viewpoints and actions largely considered to be sane and reasonable ones, examples worthy of emulation. Yet here, for a single chapter, Rymer puts him on a soapbox and uses him to make a point about how much he, the author, hates atheism. Evidently Rymer's careless inconsistency extends to the themes of the text and the treatment of the characters; Chillingworth is the model of reason until Rymer needs him not to be, then he becomes a strawman who believes in skepticism like a religion, and whose cold objectivity is evidently meant to come across as harsh and unreasonable.

"Then you are one who would doubt a miracle, if you saw it with your own eyes." "I would, because I do not believe in miracles. I should endeavour to find some rational and some scientific means of accounting for the phenomenon, and that's the very reason why we have no miracles now-a-days, between you and I, and no prophets and saints, and all that sort of thing." "I would rather avoid such observations in such a place as this," said Marchdale. "Nay, do not be the moral coward," cried Mr. Chillingworth, "to make your opinions, or the expression of them, dependent upon any certain locality."

Interestingly, Chillingworth is not a true atheist, professing to a belief in Heaven. I'm not sure if this is because true atheism wasn't really a Thing yet in the 1840s or Rymer just chickened out.

"I am satisfied," said Henry; "I know you both advised me for the best. The curse of Heaven seems now to have fallen upon me and my house." "Oh, nonsense!" said Chillingworth. "What for?" "Alas! I know not." "Then you may depend that Heaven would never act so oddly. In the first place, Heaven don't curse anybody; and, in the second, it is too just to inflict pain where pain is not amply deserved."

Oddly, even though the entire back half of this chapter is setting up Chillingworth's extreme skepticism for Henry to get a sick Christian dunk on at the end, the narrative still seems to want to position Chillingworth's point of view as an admirable one:

Mr. Chillingworth's was the only plan. He would not argue the question. He said at once,— "I will not believe this thing—upon this point I will yield to no evidence whatever." That was the only way of disposing of such a question; but there are not many who could so dispose of it[...]

Rymer is definitely trying to make a point in this chapter - he has all the subtlety of an elephant playing a church organ - but he's muddied it so much that it's difficult to know what to take away here. Am I supposed to like or dislike Chillingworth? Am I meant to agree with him or scoff at his viewpoints? The author himself seems unable to make up his mind.

As we approach the God's Not Dead Epic Dunk, Chillingworth imparts some advice to Henry which would be right at home on Twitter:

"Now, when anything occurs which is uncomfortable to me, I endeavour to convince myself, and I have no great difficulty in doing so, that I am a decidedly injured man."

He has a very high opinion of his own opinions.

"I know these are your opinions. I have heard you mention them before." "They are the opinions of every rational person. Henry Bannerworth, because they will stand the test of reason[...]"

And now we come to the climax of the chapter, when Henry finally speaks out in defiance of Chillingworth's opinions. With apologies for the long ass quote:

"I consider so, and the most rational religion of all. All that we read about religion that does not seem expressly to agree with it, you may consider as an allegory." "But, Mr. Chillingworth, I cannot and will not renounce the sublime truths of Scripture. They may be incomprehensible; they may be inconsistent; and some of them may look ridiculous; but still they are sacred and sublime, and I will not renounce them although my reason may not accord with them, because they are the laws of Heaven." No wonder this powerful argument silenced Mr. Chillingworth, who was one of those characters in society who hold most dreadful opinions, and who would destroy religious beliefs, and all the different sects in the world, if they could, and endeavour to introduce instead some horrible system of human reason and profound philosophy. But how soon the religious man silences his opponent; and let it not be supposed that, because his opponent says no more upon the subject, he does so because he is disgusted with the stupidity of the other; no, it is because he is completely beaten, and has nothing more to say.

I hope my flippant jokes throughout this commentary haven't given the wrong idea here; I have no desire to knock on religion as a whole. But Rymer's soapbox at the end of this chapter is laughably pathetic. Henry's "argument" really isn't arguing anything at all; he's just stating a declaration of faith. The author's two paragraphs of lecturing the audience directly read like bluster. This is a really sad defense of faith; whether you are a believer or not, I think we can all agree that this passage is pretty cringe.

Rymer has one last psychic gutpunch to deliver before he closes the chapter out:

Mr. Chillingworth, who was a very good man, notwithstanding his disbelief in certain things of course paved the way for him to hell,

"Chillingworth is a good guy. He's going to hell though."

What the fuck, Rymer.

Next: FLORA'S GOT A GUN, YOU BETTER RUN

[a-tale-of-legends]

( random conversation I thought of, not sure if it's something that I would consider canon. Might be ooc for characters)

Blue: Aaaaand that's everything that happened today! Which.... isn't a lot but whatever.

Red: ....

Blue: .....( Leans back) Sooooooooo. How's things for you? You haven't, ah, really said much since you came back down Mt. Silver...( Tries to perk up a bit,forcing a smile) You're usually such a chatter box, you know?! Gotta be something interesting for ya today, right?

Red: .....

Blue: ........( Grimaces slightly, still trying to keep smiling. His voices lowers, as if the whole world would hear if he goes any louder) Come on Red, you- throw me a bone here, something-

Red: ( his eyebrows furrow slightly) .....

Blue: ( immediately back pedals) O-only if you wanna, I don't - you don't - ( he sighs, exasperated) Green? H-have you at least talked to Green?

Red: ( he flinches at that. The punch to his face still fresh in his mind. It was a year ago. And even so-) .....

Blue: ( he should back off. He really should-) Your mom? Have you at least talked to your mom?

Red: ( that causes him to outright glare at his....friend? Rival? Babysitter? What are they now? He doesn't know. But he doesn't like this conversation.) . . . .

Blue: R-right! Right, of course you- ( he takes in a breath. Why does he feel so sweaty.) Sorry. Sorry, that was just- Let's just forget I said anything, yeah?

Red: ( his glare softens, looking at his....whatever they are to each other, with concern. He doesn't know if he'll get used to Blue Oak apologizing for anything ever. He raises his hand to sign-)

Blue: ( he raises his hand before Red does, eyes pleading) Let's just forget I said anything, okay? ( Please )

Red: ..... ( He lowers his hand. He hates the look blue is giving him. He blames himself for it, as always) ( Okay )

[icewindandboringhorror]

It's always interesting to hear about people's weird/unexpected "alternate life paths". Like, something that you could have done with your life, a job you almost took, a school you almost went to, etc - that was still actually realistic enough that it could have happened, but NOW it seems to not suit your current personality.

Like for example, I currently hate advertising (how manipulative it is, brands trying to be 'relatable', social media amplifying it to an obnoxious extreme, etc.) so much that even seeing a little ad before a youtube video is grating to even witness, but there was a point in time where I was genuinely seriously considering going into marketing/making commercials as a career lol. Or like, I have a relative who was very inclined to be a pastor when they were younger, even though today they're a super strong atheist, etc. etc.

[sisterdivinium]

Little update for anyone counting: VtM doctor superion AU is still in rewriting phase. I'm at page 32 of 106 and it is the equivalent to page 52 (of X) in the new version.

[lususnatura]

🎤 🎤 🎤

a song that i associate with my muse meme!

AHH, hey, ramone!! thank you for sending in this prompt :D since you sent in three of the mic's, i shall now be treating you to three songs that make me think of blamore when i hear them / that i associate with it. an explanation of why i chose them will be in the tags <3

hozier - who we are.

icehouse - crazy.

depeche mode - personal jesus.

[neuromantis]

aw2 gave me perhaps, one of the most important realizations of my life. just now. "how do you run from an idea?"

the world i created when i started writing. i liked it. and i liked my characters. they were real to me. but. i could escape there. but i couldn't live there. with my family and friends and loved ones, the only ones i've had then.

i needed to stay outside and keep writing them. i could never join them. so i kept writing. every day i would write more of it, obsessively. and with that came a realization of the genre of the story it was shaping up to be.

i keep calling it "automatic writing", because i really never felt like i was in control of it. ideas just used me as a conduit. the story was telling itself. and it wasn't. a nice story. not one with hopes or happy endings.

i once told someone a long time ago that i couldn't stand writing anymore because i loved those people. loved their world. but if i made more of it. they'd have to suffer for it. so i quit. i kept meeting new ideas and characters and i only wrote down the barest of outlines. because the narrative would inevitably doom them, there had to be no narrative anymore.

i think what also made me stop it, was meeting Adam. a guy i knew like 10 years ago who suddenly messaged me. he re-sent me my own message to him from 2013. "well what about the fact that perhaps there IS a god, but he just specifically hates you?"

the last couple of years made me accept it. Adam is me. N(adam)ian. The one who made it all. The one who set up the rules. The one they'd be suffering for. And I don't want to be that. So I chose to leave them. They don't let me. But at least I can not write.

[cloudwisp]

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 · 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦

contents: smut. minors dni 18+. reader wears a nightgown to subtly get the message across. attempt at seduction. lots of teasing and kissing. first time with him. size difference. fingering. borderline overstimulation. vaginal penetration. mostly sweet lovemaking but implications of leading to rougher sex. sylus has a huge dick (he is standing at 6’2 after all). 2.9k wc.

꒰ note ᰔ based off of this arranged marriage sylus x wife!reader post but can be read as a standalone. smut writing is never one of my strengths but I had fun with this one!! and I can only hope it’s an enjoyable read to those who were anticipating a sequel 🤍꒱

“Doing a little late night reading?” Sylus glances at your form through his peripheral as you enter his bedroom with a light skip in your steps. He’s perched at the end of his bed with a high profile report in hand, and with a tilt of your head and prying eyes you hover over the document between his fingers as you stand before him. You skim through a few lines before he tosses it aside, murmuring that it’s nothing of importance when something more interesting happens to catch his attention and you feel the heat of his gaze doing you a once-over.

Your cheeks warm and you feel a tad shyness wash over you when he quietly appraises your body clad in a gorgeous silk slip with lace embellishments. He hums in appreciation, a slow smirk curling on his lips before he reaches out to grasp your waist and pull you forward onto his lap. He secures one arm around you to keep you in place and his thumb sweeps over the delicate sleepwear and the bare skin of your thigh in a soft, languid motion. “You’ll catch a cold in just your nightgown, kitten. Or did you wear it for me?”

“Maybe I just wanted to change into something a little more comfortable.” You respond with a coy smile and playful shrug of your shoulder which causes the thin strap to fall from just a whisper of movement. He enjoys your little display and act of innocence if this is your way of telling him that you want to deepen the relationship through shared intimacy like normal marital couples do during this time of night. And truthfully, he’s been waiting far too long for this moment to come but he didn’t expect you to offer yourself on a silver platter. What a sweet and precious wife you are.

“I’m sure you could find something more suitable than a flimsy nightgown.” His knuckles brush up along your arm and hooks the fallen strap around his finger to slide it back into its proper place. “But then, perhaps you wanted to tease me, too?”

You click your tongue in disappointment. No matter what you do he was always two steps ahead of you—it’s thoughtful yet infuriating especially when you want him to act more surprised. “Nothing ever gets passed by you, it seems.”

His large hand slips under the lace trimmings of your nightgown and moves closest to your backside for a firm squeeze. “You should know by now how badly I want you, sweetheart. And with you sitting in my lap, looking breathtaking like that. I’m tempted to just rip this little thing off of you.”

You purse your lips into a small pout that’s adorable to him and grunt in disapproval. “What if this night dress is one of my favorites? Don’t I get a say in what you can and can’t tear?”

He arches a brow as though to challenge you by putting the theory into practice. You keep forgetting that he could read you like an open book, and he loves nothing more than proving you wrong at every chance. “Are you saying you wouldn’t enjoy it if I did? I’ll buy you new ones. Better ones.”

You mull over at the thought. “Sounds troublesome. I’ll have to keep making these frequent shopping trips.”

“I just mean the nightgown is in the way of me seeing all of you. You’re more than welcome to wear it any other time, but right now… I want it off.”

“Well, it’s only fair you make the next move.” He groans lowly when you shift your weight in his lap and rest your head against him. You drag your manicured finger down his chest and gently flick at the silver chain looped between his collar. “I did come all this way just for you.”

He understood your meaning and leans down close enough so his warm breath fans over your lips when he tilts your chin to look at him. “If you want me to take off my clothes, you’ll have to undress me yourself.” The soft spoken words in his deep voice send a tingle to the back of your brain, and the lingering kiss he places on the corner of your mouth adds a fluttering sensation in your stomach.

“Still making me work for it? And here I thought I would be cherished and wouldn’t even need to lift a finger.” You bring yourself upright and shove him down onto the bed to climb over him and straddle him. He gives you a knowing smirk at the sound of your cute gasp when you feel just how hard he is for you against your clothed cunt. You make quick work of undoing the underlay of buttons tucked beneath the thick fabric of his tailored dress shirt and remove it entirely to reveal every bit of lean muscle. His build akin to that of a spectacularly sculpted marble statue down to the details of his veins on his strong arms.

“Making you work for it is half the fun, kitten. But just remember who will be putting in the most work tonight.” His hand wanders up your thigh again and moves along the curve of your waist, the expensive silk bunches under his touch and he gropes the fullness of your breast. You feel the strap loosen around your shoulder once more. “Are you liking what you’re seeing? You’re allowed to mark what’s yours, you know. But I’d like to be able to mark you as mine too, wife.” His hungry eyes slowly roam over your matching panties and midriff before he returns your gaze.

Your smaller hand covers his knuckles meanwhile his thumb brushes across your nipple and he revels in the feeling of the bud hardening over the material. “You’re just always so straightforward, aren’t you?” You sensually wrap your finger around the other strap that’s perfectly intact and at your cue Sylus glides his hand down to the small of your back and watches as the dress cascades down to your midsection.

“And you’re so beautiful.” You’re a heavenly sight to behold with the way his amorous stare commits your very existence to his memory, particularly the swell of your lovely breasts that’s heavy with lust and begging for more of his attention. He gently reaches for your wrist and his fingers smooth under your palm to bring your hand up to his face. His thumb runs over the wedding band that binds you to him laying a light kiss against your knuckles, then places your hand over his shoulder waiting for your next move.

You don’t waste another second closing the distance between you two and crash your lips against his for a needy and desperate kiss. Your fingers tangle into his silver locks and your heat grinds against him hoping for some semblance of relief from the ache that’s building inside you. You feel him envelop your breasts fully with each caress and tender squeeze and a little bit of nipple play.

Sylus tastes faintly of sweet, tannic notes from the lingering aftertaste of red wine as your tongue meets his through parted lips. His arms and hands alternate between hugging your body and grip tightening on your hips, bucking himself up into your heat. You feel yourself needing more, wanting more and being closer to him so you hurriedly unbuckle his belt and suddenly the sound of fabric tearing reaches your ears.

You muffle in surprise against his lips and push him back just enough to see him wearing a smug expression. “I should’ve known you’d go against my wishes.” You scoff in disbelief and yet there’s a grin playing across your features that betrays your earlier words. You hate to admit he was right from the start—that you’d find the ripping more attractive instead of being carefully unwrapped like you both have all the patience in the world.

Sylus discards the now ruined piece of clothing aside. He lifts you with ease and your back embraces the cool sheets when he drops you down on the mattress and returns to his full height. “I was never one to follow rules. Besides, you look perfect like this.” You support yourself up on your elbows to follow his movements, and any smart comeback you have dies in your throat when he picks up where you left off by unfastening his belt and stripping out of his trousers. His boxer briefs follow suit and he thinks it’s adorable how you look mesmerized from this performance alone.

Your eyes settle on his huge cock. Almost gawking at it and you unconsciously clench your thighs together. It’s perfectly proportioned to the rest of him—long and notably thicker with an upward center curve and a few prominent veins here and there. He flushes a pretty shade of red that’s gradient from the head down and his pubes are neatly trimmed.

“You don’t have to look so scared, kitten.” He rasps an amused chuckle, and he feels you tense slightly when his hand scales up along your knee to your inner thigh and he dips his fingers between your legs. “I’ll take my time with you so you can handle me.”

Your breath hitches when he feels how drenched you are through your panties. He offers a gratified hum, his handsome face and broad shoulders become your main focus as he closes in on you. “Spread your legs wider.” He murmurs into your ear, and as soon as you give him more access he delves into your mouth for a bruising kiss and chases you down onto the bed. His ministrations on your clit feel absolutely sinful yet so wonderful and your arm wrap around his back meanwhile your hand explores the muscled panels of his upper body and the areas that are within your reach.

A string of saliva connects you both then disappears as your lips come apart. But he doesn’t stray far when the exquisite look on your face is a breath away and he pulls your panties aside to collect your arousal with two digits sliding through your puffy folds. Your lustful sounds escape in a warm exhale as soon as he slowly inserts his thick fingers into your tight pussy, and you’re quite the vision arching your back so tastefully.

“Mmh, that f-feels so good, Sylus.” Your eyes glaze over when he steadily pumps in and out of you, curling so deliciously at your sweet spot and he marvels at the way your cunt is greedily sucking in his fingers. There’s nothing else like him, the way he stretches you and reaches the deeper parts and hits the bits you can’t yourself. He adores the breathless sighs and mewls of his name when he pushes you to the edge even more while kissing you senselessly.

“You sound beautiful. I love the way my name tastes on your lips.” You can feel him smirk against you, but you’re too immersed in your pleasure to respond in words that aren’t broken syllables. He trails open-mouth kisses down to your jawline and along the column of your neck, grazing his teeth and softly sucking on your skin until hues of velvet purple form. Your head burrows into the soft cushion of the mattress, hips squirming as your hand clutches onto his forearm from tension coiling inside you.

“M’gonna come soon, Sy—!” Your pretty moans and pants grow heavier each second, and he loves feeling your body quiver when you’re pressed under him. He’s still knuckles deep inside you with every intention of bringing you up to heaven and back down to him. After all, he doesn’t believe in doing things halfway but can’t pass an opportunity to tease his darling wife.

“You’re getting so close already? I barely got started with you, sweetie.” He chuckles lowly yet his cock twitches as precum oozes and leaks down from the slit of his tip. “Don’t hold it in now. Let go and come for me.”

He’s met with your gorgeous o-face when the euphoric bliss courses through your entire body as your walls tighten around his fingers. Your moans turn into squeals and you try to shove his hand away to soften your orgasm but he doesn’t budge from being much stronger than you. The feeling is more than you can handle when your thighs clamp together to stop his movements. But you don’t want the addictive sensation to leave just yet when he borderline overstimulates you, turning you into a trembling and writhing mess.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath when a chortle escapes you from watching him bring his fingers coated in your cum to his mouth for a curious taste. “Mm. Sweet, just as I thought. You did great, kitten.” He leans down to plant a chaste kiss on your forehead, and the first wave of your drawn-out release slowly ebbs away. “Don’t you think you deserve one more?” Sylus pulls your soaked panties down your legs and casts them aside, leaving you completely bare under his gaze.

“I should hope so. Been wanting for you to stuff me with your fat cock tonight.” You’re still a little breathless when your finger glides down his toned chest in a sensual and playful manner. He makes a content hum at the sound of that with an upward quirk of his lips.

“What a bold and resilient wife I have on my hands. As long as I have you, I’ll never be bored again.” He gladly hoists your leg to wrap around his waist and spits down, giving himself a few strokes making it slick before aligning himself to your dripping cunt. His precum mixes with the remnants of your previous climax with the heavy drag of his tip from your opening up along your clit. He revels in the way your body responds with a little spasm. “I won’t have you going back on your words now.”

The flutter of your lashes steers away from his deep and enigmatic eyes, a nervous gnaw of your lower lips as you anticipate the painful stretch from taking him. “Go slow, okay? Because you know…” He knew you were implying about his sheer size, and you feel him grab hold of your hand and press your interlaced hand against the bed beside your head.

He captures your swollen lips that feel entirely too sweet and intimate, replacing your worries with a gentle tangle of his encompassing love and adoration that seeps into your soul. “I wouldn’t dream about hurting you. That’s a promise. But you have to let me in first.” Your breath hitches when his aching tip probes your entrance, yet the tension doesn’t leave your body until he tells you to focus on him with the exchange of kisses laced with a growing insistence. “You’ll let me know if it hurts, kitten? I want to make you feel good.”

With that said, your sharp nails dig into his shoulder blade and draw red lines at the burning stretch that feels too much yet so good at the same time. Your soft sighs and whimpers fill the hazy room and he’s fucking you slowly with just the tip to help ease the initial discomfort. He searches your face every now and again making sure you’re okay before he continues, letting out a guttural moan when he slips in a little more with each thrust until he carves his way into you completely.

“You’re in too deep—hah. Feel so full and good.” You shudder when he stills his movements, throbbing cock nestled inside you to the hilt and kissing your cervix. There’s a carnal desire brewing in his stomach seeing you pinned under his weight keeping him nice and warm. He wouldn’t mind spending the entire night with you, any plans and commitments he had prior be damned the moment you swayed in through the double doors. “Want you to m-move, please.”

The sound of your polite begging makes him twitch involuntarily, and he could only imagine what desperate pleas you have in store for him tonight and he’s looking forward to it. When your pretty lips implore him to fuck you faster and harder he won’t be able to hold back. After all, he has always been ready and waiting to give himself to you that aligns with your willingness to accept him. There is no love purer than his, this craving he has reserved only for you. “You know you only have to ask, and I’ll give you everything you want. Just be careful what you wish for, sweetie.”

Sylus chuckles at your cute whine shortly after—such a needy little thing you are. He falls into a sweet and slow rhythm that makes you feel each thrust, the head of his dick down to its shape and following the shaft that caresses the underside of your pleasure endings so incredibly good. Your legs wrap around his back and you pull him in deeper because close just isn’t close enough for you. You need to feel the heat of his body sear against your skin as you hold him, and in turn you feel him squeeze your interlaced hand. “Tonight, you’re all mine. Forget anyone else in the world but me.”

[deathxproof]

technically I get out of work early (compared to my usual schedule) tomorrow so I’m…. Hoping to get some writing done. or I could pass out as soon as I’m home from work because wake up early. who’s to say.

[januaryembrs]

YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶

Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?

Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)

warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.

authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship

There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted. 

He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck. 

Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?

Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin. 

He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again. 

They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest. 

“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him. 

Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.

They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene. 

She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been. 

Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men. 

They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.

Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to. 

Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions. 

“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,” 

They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently. 

Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face. 

He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet. 

“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”

They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”

“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”

His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry. 

“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.” 

She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage. 

“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,” 

“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him. 

She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them. 

“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”

The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob. 

“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”

Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand. 

“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter. 

Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights. 

Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible. 

His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was. 

Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed. 

“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him. 

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands. 

“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,” 

“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”

She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip. 

“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”

He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. 

He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in. 

Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years. 

“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”

And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

—

She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe. 

She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe. 

It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second. 

“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing. 

But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late. 

“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them. 

She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed. 

“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”

“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new. 

“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”

“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”

But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them. 

Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them. 

He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently. 

“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”

She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands. 

“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt. 

His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building. 

Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him. 

–

She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’

She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use. 

He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard. 

They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign. 

He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?” 

She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,” 

And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes. 

Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested. 

But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again. 

It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible. 

He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything). 

The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright. 

He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet. 

“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance. 

She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock. 

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,” 

“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,” 

 “I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing. 

And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin. 

Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down. 

“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?” 

She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised. 

“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point. 

Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”

 “Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,” 

She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”

His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion. 

She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.

“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”

His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise. 

“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off. 

She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him. 

“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.

“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,” 

She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”

She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again. 

“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his. 

Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,” 

Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all. 

But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him. 

She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”

Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.