#something something having violence done upon you makes you a Good Victim and doing it to others makes you a Bad Victim

[nostalgiacored]

between this and the super hell comment I'm hm. hmmmmmmm. I don't like where that's going!

[luvrodite]

lover, be good to me. jason todd [3.4k]

synopsis. in the third summer of your love, you get sick.

cw. gn!reader, sickfic, mental health issues, descriptions of weight fluctuation, angst, hurt/comfort. medication. this one is a bit heavy so please exercise discretion. written from the perspective of chronic illness but nothing is specified beyond discussion of mental health symptoms.

There’s a ghost that lives in your home.

This thing lives between you and Jason, a haunting in every room, a presence you can’t not feel. You feel its baleful eyes on you in dreams and upon waking, strongest in the winter, when the East Coast chill sinks its teeth into your arms hard enough to reach bone. 

It goes like this: sometime in the third summer of your love, you get sick. There isn’t anything to point to what it is exactly, only that one June morning you don’t get out of bed. It’s nothing until it is, the next several weeks spent making a home in the four walls of your shared bedroom. 

A flip switches seemingly overnight, and you’re further from your lover than you’ve ever been. 

Jason - and the part of you that knows better, dormant now, buried beneath the rubble - watches in mute horror as you bring yourself to ruin. The desire to be good, the control you’ve held over yourself, slips free of your grasp in seconds. Invisible threads are picked at until you’re frayed at the ends and your beloved home, this reprieve the two of you had as good as built from the ground up, falls victim to it. 

You pick fights. You slam doors and hide in the bathroom for hours on end. You want to scream yourself hoarse, your fingers itching for violence, longing to shatter something if only to give life to this sickness that lives in you, as if by breaking, you’ll cast it out. The exorcism does not come, but a cloying feeling sits beneath your skin, strangling, blood sitting stagnant in your veins and rotting. 

There are moments of clarity, when you lift your head from the haze and the gravity of all you’ve done barrels into you like a freight train. Those do not last long, invisible hands pulling you back under before you can correct your course. It's as though you take the backseat, replaced by something entirely that takes the controls, watching in mute horror as you destroy everything around you.

Jason gives it back just as good but even then, even in the anger, there’s something else in his eyes. You catalogue it, feeling as though your very soul has split – it’s the you from before that weeps at this, reaching out for your lover in prostration, begging for forgiveness. The being that lives in you now, volatile, ever shifting like a burning flame, burns too bright to feel shame. He is there, and he loves you – enough to bear the brunt of your pain, apparently. Shards of shrapnel, your anger is explosive and shatters everything in its wake. It cares not for sentiment, for history and love. You hurt, and it is blinding. 

The doctor’s appointment is booked far later than it ought to be, after weeks of tumultuousness that have left a dour cover over your home, seeping through the cracks in the walls and into the surrounding apartments. Your neighbours must loathe you. You’re too detached, too selfish to care.

The night before is the most clear headed you’ve felt all month, haze lifting as if to show you – look what you’ve done, look at all you’ve wrought. The devastation floors you, the grief you’ve caused to the one you love most curdles your blood and you weep in Jason’s arms. Knelt before him, you press your wet face into his lap. 

I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll try to be better, I’m sorry. 

You can barely breathe through your tears, broken hearted, sure you must be dying. Has anyone ever felt such grief, you wonder, and the thought is immediately followed by a tidal wave of self loathing. Selfish, so focused on your own misgivings. This is no way to live.

He tells you he loves you and it feels like a kindness you don’t deserve. Too good a man for you, an exhaustion from the last month lines his features. The thought terrifies you, that you’ve veered too close to the precipice of forever splintering him, that under your hand he knows other, less gentle things. Yours has not been a peaceful love as of late, and you wonder if this will be the straw that breaks his back.

In the waiting room, his hand finds yours. A good man, one you do not deserve. He doesn’t let go. Not when your name is called, not when you tell your doctor what’s been happening.

You hope, foolish, desperate thing that you are, that they’ll offer a quick fix. It’s laughable, but the soft turn of the doctor’s gaze makes your stomach twist. So begins the year of doctor’s visits.

You become very familiar with waiting rooms, sterile rooms and the low buzz of the news channel playing on TVs, pale walls and water coolers, paper cups shredded in your lap. 

The first shrink you talk to is, at first, the answer to all your problems – Jason balks at it, in the beginning, and you hear him muttering to his brother on the phone but he doesn’t breathe a word of it to you. If it helps you, that’s all that matters. The man listens. He understands how hard things are and how your hurt is poisoning you. He makes the right noises and his cardigan lends him an air of sincerity, brown eyes framed by thick glasses that in the glare of the light feel kind, almost like kinship.

You’re desperate for a solution, even if it means taking the prescription pills that after about a week, leave you with hands that shake violently anytime you raise them, shedding too much weight, way too fast. The insomnia comes next, and then the pills that are meant to fix that. Orange, smaller than the nail on your little finger. The tremors do not go away, but in settles a new drowsiness, bringing with it vivid dreams that feel terrifyingly lifelike. You wake in a sheen of sweat to the already awake gaze of your boyfriend, eyes wide and wary, hands finding yours in the dark, whispering reassurances when you cry again. 

How many tears have you spent this year, and how many have you subjected him to?

His kindness feels like a balm over your jagged edges, and you shake your head when he first tentatively suggests that the medicine isn’t working. You’re determined to stick to your vow. You love him, you need to get better. You can’t keep living like this, can’t do the fits of rage, can’t do the mood changes. You can’t keep hurting the both of you.

Still, sleep evades you, a cruel thing dancing out of reach even when you’re told to double down on the dose. The dreams only worsen, virulent hues of fluorescent greens and red, blood and viscera on your hands. 

It feels like a condemnation when Jason mutters one night, after you’ve woken from yet another dream, body stiff with fright and reaching out for him, less hesitant now in the face of your tears, “This isn’t working.”

Bitterly, you find you can’t argue with him. Worse, you’ve shelled out a horrifying amount of money simply to vent to a yes-man. The pills are disposed of in the morning and another appointment scheduled.

Back in the waiting rooms, back to discussing other, not-shrink options, Jason’s hand finds yours once more. You watch the news, watch tired parents wrangle their sick children, watch the colourful plastic toys. 

“I hate this,” you whisper, leaning into his side. 

You’ve been unwell for a month and then some, by now. The waiting room feels like a taunt – you are sick, you are suffering. The sickness festering in you, the rot you can’t explain, makes you feel smaller than ever, frail in a way you haven’t known before. 

Before, you used to like that Jason was so much bigger than you, that he could protect you. This, though, he cannot save you from, a fact you’re sure frustrates him just as much as your weakness does you. There is the anger, of course, but there is also fear. What is to become of you now? Your life, through your failing health, has been torn from you. You feel robbed, feel a distinctly you-shaped loss in your frame that leaves you teetering on a precipice. How quickly things had taken a turn, and there was nothing you could do about it.

Jason sighs, turning to press his mouth against your hairline. “I know. I know, baby.”

You’re sent off with forms for another blood test. Maybe it’s something different, and there burns a beacon of hope. It is also entirely possible you’ll spend another six months on medication that doesn’t work. 

You don’t care for this. There is a hopelessness and vulnerability to feeling sick that you do not care for, catching sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror and doctor’s office scales and fluctuating weight – you begin to turn your head away from the numbers at this point like you're being stuck by a needle, meeting your lover’s eye while the doctor takes his notes and finding comfort in teal irises, in the small grin he gives you when you’ve done something he thinks to be brave. You don’t care for any of it, but you must. For him. 

He hasn’t breathed a word of contention to you – a good man – but you know it weighs on him. You’ve woken once or twice in the night to find him watching over you, something in his eyes like he fears you’ll slip away, a hand always in yours, or holding you close to him. 

Guilt, ever-cutting, roils in your stomach. The anger cedes these days to make way for it, and your eyes burn, shame becoming a familiar friend.

“I’ve put you through the wringer, haven’t I?” you whisper on one of these nights. He blinks, unaware you’ve woken, and it speaks to how tired he must be that he’d not noticed, too lost in his thoughts to feel your eyes on him.

He cradles your jaw tenderly with one hand, kissing your temple. “No more than I’ve worried you.”

It’s true that you’ve faced your own set of troubles with him. Still, it feels distinctly different – his anger had been the product of fear, a genuine terror at the thought of letting you get too close. There’s decay in you, one you aren’t sure has entirely left, despite your placidity these days. 

“I’m sorry.” You apologise and he narrows his eyes, but you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a good man.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles. “Obviously I’m going to fuckin’ look after you.”

Do I deserve it? You think.

“Wish you’d let me do the same for you,” you whisper, instead. It’s a truth you’ve often spoken, but feels like a lie in this moment, a deflection of your feelings. Guilt, once more, settles on your tongue, cloying against your tastebuds.

He kisses you sweetly, and you wonder if he can taste it. Something in the slant of his lips tells you he knows. How could he not? Once, twice, he brushes his mouth over yours. Chaste, loving. “Just get better. Then, maybe. I’ll consider it.”

Your eyes burn, fear like the tide, washing in once more. “What if–” your breath hitches, a lump forming in your throat.

“What?” His voice is soft, encouraging.

“What if it isn’t–if I don’t–” you can’t make out the words. The pad of his fingers brush over your lips.

“You will,” Jason whispers, voice thick. His eyes are bright in the dark, you realise, horrifyingly, sapphires covered in a sheen of liquid. “You will, ‘cause you promised me. And I’m holding you to it.”

You hear it for what it is – I’m here. I’m here and I’m not letting go of you. Don’t let go of me.

He’s asked for so little. Good men are rare to find in Gotham and you’ve got the best of them. You reach up and clutch his wrist, hands turning until your fingers slot comfortably between each other. 

“Okay,” you tell him, and you know he knows. I’m going to get better. 

The diagnosis comes eventually. In your relief, there is also bitterness. Another step forward, it still feels entirely too late. It should have come before, you think. Before you’d taken a sledgehammer to your love, before you’d fractured yourself and Jason from the inside out, before you’d put scars where there had been none, invisible lacerations lining the walls of your chest.

The medication – pills, pills, always pills – is difficult to adjust to at first. It leaves you short of breath, and more anxious, reaching for Jason to ground you. You cry a lot and though it isn’t anything new, there’s a misery in Jason’s eyes that only makes you weep more. You want to be okay again. You want to smile at him without the weight of all you’ve done, without knowing you’ve made him cry when he thinks you’re asleep, tears bleeding silently into the space of the pillowcase above your head. You want to go back so bad it makes your hands shake.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Jason, on his side, brushes a finger over the swell of your cheek.

“Can I say something.”

You hum, sliding your eyes over to him. He gives you a tentative smile - the barest quirk of his lips. 

“Maybe I’m being hopeful, I don’t know,” he mutters, eyes tracing the slope of your nose. “Tell me to shut up if I start talking too much.”

This bashfulness makes you laugh a little. It’s so much like before, and you ache for it. For a moment, you can pretend nothing bad has happened, that the two of you are just in love and home. 

(You wonder if you will always be reaching for before. If you’ll ever get it back, if you’ll always long for it. You wonder if Jason does too.)

“What?” you breathe out.

“Think the meds are working.”

Your breathing shallows and you blink at Jason. Hope is a fickle thing, and it feels tremulous, dancing just before your fingers, as if coaxing you to reach out. You trust him more than anyone in the world, but you’re scared to hope. “What?”

His knuckle brushes over your cheek. “You don’t look as tired.”

You avert your eyes. “Maybe I’m just sleeping better.” Tell me. I’m selfish, I know, but tell me I’m doing better. I need to hear it from you.

He shakes his head, and you quietly marvel at the bloom of pleasure in his face, a contentment you haven’t seen in months in the crease around his eyes. “It’s not that.”

The doctor confirms this when you go back a few weeks later and Jason, so like himself for a brief moment, meets your eyes over the man’s head and mouths, I told you. You bite back a grin, still wary, barely out of the woods. 

“You’ve gained weight,” the doctor says when he gets you on the scale, and he sounds so pleased the sound shoots straight through to your heart, flintstone striking a light, kindling hope for the first time in months. You look down to the numbers flashing back at you, to your lover – but he’s already watching you, eyes creased in silent pleasure. 

You are the last to accept this tentative beginning to peace, to healing, but he waits for you at the threshold, hand outstretched. 

There is no tangible evidence of the destruction you’ve wrought in your home but it lingers, even as you begin the slow crawl out of the woods. You see it in the lines of your lover’s face. There are corners of the room you cannot bear to look at for the first few months following your appointment, too reminiscent of words you’d bellowed in a rage induced haze, captive to your own body. 

This history is one too fresh, too tender to accept just yet, wounds still pink and raw. You cannot face yourself yet. There is too much to do, too much work to do, too much at stake to jeapordise if you slip and fall now.

But Jason is a good man. Much better than you think you deserve – but he’s said the same about you, so perhaps…just maybe…you think it might even out. 

He doesn’t shy away from the worst bits of you, the ugliness you’ve bared to him does not run him off, not like how you flinch from it. You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. He’s hard to shake off, but you don’t want him to. You’re thankful, even, for the dog teeth he’s sunken into your forearm, bound together in blood.

There is grief in beginning to heal. 

Perhaps heal is not the right word, and yet there is no other for this, overcoming the last few months feels like it ought to be called healing. But this is a forever thing. You will know this deficiency for the rest of your life, will know doctor’s appointments and bloodwork – strictly cautionary, we need to make sure the dose is right so we can adjust it accordingly. 

There is grief in finding your footing. It lingers, the horror of falling victim to a biological response – that your mind should so easily be lost, it feels indicative of something greater, a weakness you need to cut out at the root. Jason shakes his head when you voice this one night – you are only ever honest like this under the cover of darkness, sleep softened and gentle enough to be frank with him. 

“You’re not weak.” He says this with love in his voice, but a thread of steel weaves through his words. “Don’t fucking say that. You’re here. That counts for a fucking lot.”

He tugs you closer and you feel it again, that fear that grips his heart. Like you might dissolve in his arms in the middle of the night. 

“I feel better–than before,” you tell him, peering up at him, eyes burning. You press a hand to your heart. “But I still feel it. It’s still here.”

He presses his forehead against yours. “I know.”

And you suppose he would know. “Is it gonna be like this forever?”

He takes a moment to think, and you have to tuck yourself into his neck to hide your tears. Raw – this year has left you raw. You’ve spent a fountain of tears, but they’re yet to run out. You find solace in the hollow of his throat; if you could, you think you would attach yourself there permanently.

“Yes, but no.” You make a questioning noise and he smooths a hand down your back. “‘S gonna be different, now. Not always going to be bad, or good, just – different.”

“Different.” The word fits oddly in your mouth, and whether it’s the late hour or your grief, you can’t make sense of it. He shudders out a breath, weary, and you press closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers into your hair. 

“I just–” you swallow with some difficulty, a lump in your throat. What is there to say that you haven’t already? “I hate this.”

His lips twitch into a tired, sympathetic grin. “I know, baby.”

Silence follows his words, where you mull over all that there is to say, sorting through the jumble of words in your head. You shift until there’s a little room between the two of you, looking up at him.

“Hey.”

He hums, and you feel his hand raise from your back to cup the back of your neck, thumb sweeping over your nape gently. 

“I’m gonna –” your breath hitches, stumbling over the words. “I’m gonna be good, I’ll – I’ll be better. I promise.”

And he knows you’re not talking about your health. This is a forever thing, after all. Your words point to the hidden cracks in the walls, the foundation of your home and heart – I’ll be better. 

Tourmaline eyes crack open a little wider to look at you, tired, but hopeful. “I know, baby. We’ll be alright.”

Ah. Of course he knows. You grin tremulously up at him and press forward to smudge a kiss against his jaw, breathing your promise once more against his skin, hoping it takes root. 

Jason waits at the threshold of your new normal, arm outstretched, knowing you’d join him eventually. He’d known, of course he had – every inch of your soul was his. He holds his hand out. 

Out of the woods, you take it.

fin.

this fic has been in my drafts since 2022 and it always felt too vulnerable to write and finish. like there needed to be a big ceremony about it. this fic is incredibly personal to me, and i always thought i had to be 'ready' to finally finish it, whatever 'ready' means. but it's a sunday night and the semester begins tomorrow, and i'm writing this in bed listening to whatever my spotify plays for me. i'm not sure if this will make sense to anyone but i hope it makes you feel something regardless.

this is a love letter to myself first and foremost, because i'm no longer afraid of reopening an old wound!! i carry her with me always and i love her and i'm taking care of her. i love her and i love you.

[gremlingottoosilly]

[If you need to be mean] chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Your date with a new guy isn't good for you. Konig is inclined to show you that. TW: Konig being a huge pervert, Canon-Typical violence, Dub-Con, Innocence kink, Age difference(Konig in his yearly 40, Reader in young 20)

Pairing: Konig x fem!Reader Tags: Fluff, Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Size Kink, Possessive Konig, Yandere Konig, Creepy scary stalker Konig, written mostly from Konig's perspective TW for this chapter: Drug use, Attempted date rape. Please, proceed with caution.

He can kill a person in under 10 seconds. 

Time cuts in half if he is allowed to use weapons – but it would go up to ten minutes if the victim is particularly bitchy, he has an ax to grind, and he wants to take his time with a knife to gut the person’s insides out of their body. 

All time in the world wouldn’t be enough to torture this unforgivable, terrible, disgusting son of a bitch who decided that he can just come out and take what rightfully belong to him. A man whose desires are literally printed on that stupid grin plastered on his face. He transfers it in the movement of his hand when he holds your waist too tight, when he smiles and laughs at your – adorable, funny, perfect – jokes and. 

König prides in always being the silent one, the calm, collected guy who is capable of holding his emotions inside of him until they would eventually die down and leave him without any big, terrible feelings. He uses battlefield as a way to reveal his emotions, to unveil it in a more healthy way – and sometimes he visits his therapist, explains all of the horrible stuff he sometimes wants to do to people around him, or someone from his past, and then waits for a new portion of sedatives that he won’t use because he is stronger than this, who they think he is? 

König takes pride in never talking if something isn’t right – he would simply change the situation, make it better, always the type to do stuff and not talk about doing stuff – but then he looks at the bastard who took you on something that can’t be anything but a date, and he is fuming. They aren’t supposed to kill civilians, of course, soldiers are here to protect them, to hunt for terrorists who prey upon innocent victims, just like your fragile self – but for god's sake, if he never had to restrict himself more than right now. He has to do something about it, he can’t just let his girl, his perfect future wifey to just…whore herself around to other people!

Yes, you are not yet aware of his plans, but he knows that you are faithful – just, perhaps, a bit dumb and not realizing yet who you belong to. It’s fine, he can’t just let you have agency over something that is just beyond control of your silly, fragile mind. He is fine with you being a bit too naive – he doesn’t need you to be smart or capable, or even independent, he would take care of everything as long as you are pliant and docile for him. As long as he is willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe, of course. 

He can disassemble a body in under 5 minutes. Bones are usually the toughest part, especially if he doesn’t have a proper bone saw in his arsenal, but he can always dispose of it by using the strength of his enormously big body – he is working out for a reason, and he has done lots of unforgivable things to conceal the truth behind some of the crimes he committed in service. He isn’t proud of this, but if his skills would help him dispose of the body of this guy, he would do it in a blind of an eye. 

His size isn’t allowing him to follow you two properly – and, unfortunately, he only saw you in the end of this supposed date, walking down the street with your body already shaking from alcohol intake. This is completely unsafe, he thinks – you are so soft, so fragile right now, you shouldn’t even be walking on the street like this. You can get hurt, someone can take advantage of you, you are still wearing the dress that is too fucking short to be walking out in the street at this hour, and your makeup is adorable and nice, but he doesn’t even want to think about all that unwanted attention your wasted body can attract right now. 

If you were with him, he would call a taxi already, make sure that you are at home safely – or go with you, take you to his place and prepare some water and hangover medicine. He wouldn’t just parade you like that, allowing you to giggle drunkenly and cling on his body. He would…okay, maybe he would take your body in his hands at first, but then he would find you a nice and comfy place to sleep, so he could gently touch your hair the whole night and watch as you would sleep softly, only sometimes waking up so he could hold your hair while you are puking your insides out. 

If you were with him…but you aren’t. You’re on a date with some douchebag, smiling and clinging on his hand, allowing him to hold your waist and let his hand slip to your butt. König almost wants to laugh – he forgot how dumb civilians might be, how naive, how weak. He should feel betrayed that you, a perfect little lady of his dreams, is out with someone else – and he would be, he ought to punish you for this later, but he knows that he can’t really blame you. You are weak, docile, your pretty head has no thoughts besides sunshines and maybe rainbows – just like a normal civilian. You can’t really be blamed for not understanding yet what relationships you two have, and why you can’t break it to be with another man. 

*** You are not having fun. 

It wasn’t as clear at first, when the guy – Tomas, of course, you studied his nametag for a week at least before he finally asked you out, even though you really thought it would just be a friendly gesture. He asked you for a few drinks, said something about your colleagues also being here – a little friendly gathering with your coworkers, a nice way to relax from all the terrorist threats and that shitty manager you have. It was supposed to be a fun thing, nothing serious, and you really like that guy – maybe even in a romantic sense. He is handsome, kinda cool, your age and works with you – a recipe for nice little fling, yes? 

Then no one came and you were messaging all your colleagues who were close to you – and no one knew anything about a friendly gathering at the local pub. 

Then he proposed to pay for your drinks and you agreed – a nice way to save some money, you would repay him later, maybe in the next pub after this one, so it won’t drain both of your paychecks. 

Then the drinks started to feel too heavy. You never got drunk so fast before, only one cocktail already made your head buzz with alcohol, and you almost want to change your order to a virgin mojito, but then you would probably seem like a buzzkill. You don’t want to be a buzzkill, poor guy is sad enough that no one comes to his makeshift party. Besides, if one drink is kicking you off so hard, it can also save you money – so it really is just a win-win situation and even if his hand slights a bit too deep in your thighs, and the pub seems too sleazy and empty for a friendly date, you are already too wasted to tell. 

Then you drink, and drink, and he doesn’t seem so weird anymore – besides, you did like him a lot. Besides, he paid for your drinks and it’s really nice, he even proposed to watch over your glass while you are out to the bathroom. You would try to splash water over your face to feel a bit more sober, but that would ruin your makeup – so you just cool your hand in some cold stream while hoping that this is just a moment of weakness and you would be okay after a few minutes. 

Then you aren’t okay and you really, really don’t want to be a buzzkill, but you quietly ask him to just go home – and he is walking you to his place, so you won’t have to suffer through hangover alone. It’s really nice of him, he supports your weight and you would just call an uber, but no one wants to work so closely to the curfew, and you can’t really break it again – unless you want that creepy scary terrifying handsomely weird colonel to catch you again, but in even more guilty state. Your state of mind isn’t clear, but Tomas helps you walk and he gently rubs your waist and you don’t even listen to him, just giggle from his compliments. He asks if you want him to stay – and you laugh because you don’t really feel good, you feel out of control mostly, and your body feels too light and too heavy at the same time, but he holds your hair and asks again and you almost begin to panic but hey, there really isn’t much to panic about, he is  good guy, right, and then…

You are not sure if you want him to be this close to you, but every time you try to make a small distance between your bodies, he clings on even more, and you aren’t sure how long you can keep doing this. He is a good guy, and you don’t want to be rude, he is probably just worried about you – you are so dizzy, you can just fall any second and this will be your fault completely. He pushes you deeper in the alley and you feel nauseous – he is too much, too close, he holds you too tight and you feel like you are going to puke. Tomas holds you close and you almost panic – but you shouldn’t, it should be fine, he is just worried about you, but it feels so weird, sick, you don't want to be here suddenly. Don’t want to feel so weak in his grasp. 

— W…wait, Tom. I don’t feel so good, I…sorry, I shouldn’t be drinking so much. 

You are in front of his house – he cuts the way through the alley, basically dragging you over to the place, and you don’t like it anymore. You want to be at your home, puking in that shitty bathroom of yours – all alone, at least, drink some emergency medicine and hope that you could still go to work tomorrow. 

— Hey, are you alright? 

He is attentive and nice and you feel bad for being such a bitch about everything, you totally ruined his evening by being such a lightweight – there is something dark in his eyes, and you are scared that this is contempt of you. That he hates being around you so, so fucking much because you are nothing but a buzzkill to him. 

— I’m…sorry, I think I should just call a ride home. 

— Come on. You really think this is what’s best now? 

— I don’t feel so good, sorry, I…

—A guy deserves something for being nice, no? I paid for your drinks after all. 

You want to say that he only paid for one drink that got you drunk too fast. You want to say that this doesn't feel right, that you shouldn’t be so wasted out of one cocktail, that you feel wrong, weird, that you really, really don’t want to be with him right now. He holds you too close and you try to ge tout of his grasp, but you feel too fucking heavy. 

Something is wrong. 

Suddenly, he doesn’t seem like such a good guy as before. 

— Sorry, I don’t…I think I need to go to the hospital, I…

His grasp on wrists became bruising. You don’t want to be here anymore, you want to yell for someone to help you get the fuck out of here – but your mouth feels like its full of water and dry at the same time, you don’t want to yell because what if you are just overthinking, and he is genuinely a nice guy. What if you will only disturb people around here – his neighbors probably need to sleep already, you don’t want to be a nuisance. 

— Well, sorry I’m not that fancy army guy. 

— It’s not like this, I don’t even…

— You just love behaving like you’re too good for this place, yeah? Sorry for disturbing you with our poor vibes, princess. 

He is angry now, and you are not even sure why – you can’t even master a normal sentence when your head is spinning and your throat can’t even master a tiny breath anymore, you are barely even able to talk. 

— I…

— I’m getting really sick of waiting for your majesty to pay attention. Think I deserve something nice for my patience. 

He grabs your hands even tighter and drags you to his apartment – your body feels heavy, you don’t want to be here with him, he is talking nonsense and blaming you for someone that you don’t even know – you barely remember him by now. He is speaking, talking about something – until he isn’t. 

Then you hear something crack and this is what the curtain call for your tired, exhausted mind to shut off finally. 

*** König can kill a person in under 10 seconds – even less if he has a weapon. 

Fucking asshole who tried to force himself on you doesn’t even deserve his sadistic streak – he don’t want to waste time on killing him, precous minutes that he can spend tending to your needs. If it was under different circumstances – if your limp body weren’t lying on the ground right now, gently pushed down by his reaction when you first started to fall down – he would think about torturing this guy a bit more. 

Firstly, he would break his fingers – one by one. It’s not as effective a way of torturing someone as pulling their nails off, for example, since a person can die much easier from that kind of pain – but he would do it anyway, just so he can get the kick out of destroying the hands that were touching you. 

Secondly, he would do something with his face – maybe burn the fuck out of his filthy mouth, that dared to speak to you in such rude manner. He would pull his tongue off, slowly break each of his teeth – right until pulling them also, enjoying the sight of blood dripping from his broken lips. you would be terrified probably – so he won’t make you watch it, would just ask you nicely to sit somewhere and smile until he is doing all the dirty work. He would love doing this for you – and you could just lick the blood from his hands later. 

Guy would probably be unconscious by this point – a good way to toss him like a piece of garbage he is, leaving him to slowly bleed out somewhere secure, where no one would ever find him. Then, König could return to you – and your innocent little smile, your trembling hands and cold body in need for warming up. 

But he doesn't have much time right now – he just snapped the bastard’s head while not even caring if someone is watching. If there is someone who saw the scene and didn’t help you – he would go for them too. Protector of his country can have a bit of collateral damage, as a treat. You are his biggest priority and right now you are laying on the ground, barely moving – he only sees your chest moving up and down, the only thing that helps him not to panic from thinking that you are dead. He gently holds your body upright, making sure to support your head – like a small baby, even though he was never holding one. 

He has quite a few experiences in taking care of his drunk comrades – he would usually just toss them out of the bar and into whatever taxi was available. If he is feeling generous – and they are out of car service available in the area – he would even drag them on his shoulder, given that even with men in full gear and a wall of muscles, he is still larger and stronger. 

But he can’t just toss you around like a bag of potatoes, you are fragile! And helpless, and adorable, and he wants to kill that bastard a second time because you are clearly intoxicated and he doesn't even want to think about what could have happened if he wasn’t here to save you. You look perfect, placed in his arms like a good and obedient girl. He is almost caught in fantasies again, but the weight of your body in his hands is bringing him back to reality. 

You smell like alcohol and something sweet, a nice fragrance that you used for this day – jealousy is eating him from the inside, because his adorable little lady didn’t put perfume for him. For that asshole instead, but at least he is dead now – neck twisted and head snapped, quick and silent job. He just tossed his body in the nearest trash can, knowing that even if police did try to find him as a convict, they would be forced to look away if they don’t want to have problems with the local military. 

König remembers the path to your house like he came here every day. He wants this to be true, but this rathole isn’t safe for you. He needs to get you out of here, to place you in the safety of his lap, where he could hug you and cherish you and worship the paradise you are keeping between your legs, waiting for him to come and ripen you. No one is out in the streets at this hour, and he moves fast enough that he covers the ground fairly fast. 

You stir slightly in his grasp and he moves his hands a little, hugging the curve of your ass a bit more. Your thighs are soft and he pushes his fingers deeper in the plumpness of your flesh, enjoying the sensation – you are wearing some skimpy dress and a short jacket, once again not being dressed up to the weather. He almost wants to give you a good spanking, bend you over his knee and beat the flesh of your ass until you learn his lesson. The image of your adorable crying face, begging him to stop and meowling about being a good girl for him makes his pants tighter – and he drags you closer to him, heating your body with his. 

You are addictingly small in his hands, he has to use all what’s left of his self control to not grab your body in inappropriate places. He pushes you closer to the door of your apartment once he is trying to search for the keys in your pocket – it’s hard when you are still unconscious but still moves in his hands, trying to resist even if he is not doing anything. He wants you to cry under him, to get crazy from stimulation as he slams his hips in yours, breeding you like a good little puppy you are – but he wants you to beg him to do this, to allow him to. He almost manages with his anxiety over the years, but the deeply rooted fear of rejection makes him self-conscious. 

— W…wait, don’t ‘ouch me…

König almost freezes in place. Your voice is small, broken, he can sense the tears in your tone as he gently rocks you in his hands. Your place is even worse on the inside, and he absolutely can’t have you staying here for long – but he also doesn’t want to drag an intoxicated and probably drugged girl to the base, leaving his reputation to become even more monstrous. He can invite you to his quarters later, when you both would have time for a very harsh conversation about safety – and why you are a dumb little civilian who shouldn’t ever be thinking for herself if she knows what’s good for her. He can be there for you, and deliver the well-deserved punishment on your body. 

— Quiet, mein Schatz. It’s alright now. 

— No, wait, I…wait…

You are still half-asleep when he gently moves your limp body to the couch, touching your hair even so gently. You are so pliant right now, so docile – afraid of him, of course, it breaks his heart, but it also makes his pants tighter. König enjoyed having you so weak in his arms, just like a good sweetheart should be – not making him feel anxious with the possibility of rejection, not making him angry for not listening to his demands. 

He can have you now – not like you would be able to resist. 

His large hands moving your head to the pillow, softly placing your face to the side so if you would feel sick, you won’t choke on your own vomit – he has too many experiences of very good soldiers almost dying from such mundane reasons, and he can’t have his little bunny suffering from such disgusting fate. He can’t help but touch your hair constantly, enjoying the feeling of it under his fingers – he tangles up with the strands of it, massaging your scalp only to make you let go of a small groan and frown in your sleep, unaware of the stimulation. 

Your apartment is tiny, even more so – for him. The ceilings are dangerously low above his head and if he wasn't hunching down constantly, trying to make himself smaller, safer for you, he would already bump into your ceiling lamp a few times. He smiles under his mask, happy that even if you were awake, his expression is concealed – he has a wide, scary grin on his face and it only grows larger every time you shift slightly in your sleep, but ultimately allows him to touch your body as he seems fit. 

He can lose control - so easily. You are helpless, limp on the couch even as your eyes are fluttering awake and you take in your surroundings. Your dress is dangerously short, and he can’t help but stare at your curves – your legs are making him go crazy with desire, fantasies about spreading them and burying his face in the sweetness of your cunt are flooding his mind. It would be so easy, just make sure you wouldn’t be able to resist and…

— Wh…what happened? 

You are so fucking fragile – like a fine porcelain doll that his mother liked to collect. All wrapped up in your own weakness, face flushed and eyes filled with tears as you realize that you are laying on the couch in your home, and he – the man who scared you more than any terrorist or war ever can – is softly touching your hair, playing with any loose strands. 

You want to panic – but he softly pushes a finger against your lips. König doesn’t care what your neighbors would think if you cried or screamed, but the walls here are thin, and he doesn’t want to deal with the police and showing off his military badge to any corrupt scum that lives in this country. Your eyes darted to him, terrified – and he doesn’t want this, no, he can’t have you afraid of him. A little bit of fear is okay, it’s normal, he can train that out of you – but he would prefer his wifey to be madly in love, not madly terrified. 

— It’s okay. I took care of that Arschloch for you. 

Your mind is still dizzy, your throat is dry as you try to master at least some meaningful words. Drug is still not out of your system completely – you understand that it was a drug now, you couldn’t be so drunk from just one cocktail, no matter the alcohol content. Tomas tried to do something to you – but you blacked out before he even got you to his apartment, and now you are home, at your favorite shitty couch, with a monster of a man holding you close. 

You want to cry, but his hands are oddly warm and you lean closer to his touch. 

You want to panic, but he pushes his fingers against your lips and you slightly calm down. 

— Tomas? Is he…

— Ja, meine Liebe. He’s dead. 

You are feeling sick. The knot in your stomach, anxiety mixed with alcohol and drugs is making you nauseous, you are scrambling on your feet as you try to get out of the couch – your place might not be the best choice out here, but you pride yourself in at least keeping it clean. He helps you get on your feet, supporting your limp head as you desperately try not to puke on the carpet. 

He killed him? How did he die? Did he do something to you while you were asleep? Did he…

— Let me help you, ja? 

— I picked up a shift in the morning…

— You are not working here anymore. 

— But…

— Don’t fight me, lamm.

He drags you to the toilet and holds your hair as you empty your anxieties away, and the scene is disgusting – but he can’t help but to relish in how adorable you look. All helpless, your body is barely holding together when he tries his best to be gentle, rubs circles in your back and pats your head softly. 

König has a lot of experience in dealing with stuff like this – mostly for himself, when his nerves got the best of him and he couldn’t shit them off. He used to be drunk – one of the reasons why he isn’t taking his meds is just so he could drink enormous amounts of alcohol, enough for his body to finally get drunk. He knows how terrible the intoxication feels when you’re alone – so he wants to take care of you, brings you a glass of water as you hug the corner of your bathtub and tries your best to calm down. 

He looks at your trembling form and fights the desire to kiss you. He knows that he can, you won’t be able to do anything against it – but he wants you to like him, wants you to be as into him as he is. If he wants his proposal to be perfect, you have to like him – so he gently rocks your body from side to side, allowing you to cry on his shoulder. 

You feel terrible – dirty even, weak, afraid of what else might happen with you while you can barely control yourself. Thoughts of what might happen if Tomas had his way flooded your brain – but the gentle hands on your back supported you, warming you up. Your head is still dizzy when you drink water that he bringed, cold liquid helps you a little. You feel his hands on your body, as he takes off your dress – you try to panic, to cling onto your clothes, but he is too strong, too large, too…

He moves you to your couch, placing you on the sheets softly. 

He is tucking your blanket over your body and opens the window for better ventilation. 

He roams through your medkit and places Ibuprofen and a glass of water on your bed stand. 

He moves his body slightly so he can kiss your lips – not even caring that you are not exactly in the best condition for kisses. 

You fall asleep right when he moves you to the side again and closes the door behind him. 

König can only thank your intoxicated state that you didn’t even notice how he took your underwear when he undressed you – a small prize for his help, no? Perhaps, the only thing that can keep his hands off your adorable, precious body. 

He should start looking for rings already.  (Comments and asks are appreciated. Tell me what you liked about this work!!) ---------------------------------TAG LIST--------------------------------- @shigbby @honeeybeezzz @herefornanami-s-cake @pendalikespasta @lucylou302 @yxllowtxpe @sunbathed-sweetgrass @sarah-ardini @teenagegever2k22 @lastwordsofadyingstar @lavenderskye29 @karrotsforyou @inlovewithcodmen @onegami @keithehe @lilahbunny @ameneminimo @beepyboopbop @ms-munchkin @dinonacho @undeadgod @dizeesstuff @mingkiiii @midwesternwitchery @yxllowtxpe @flammenwerferpanzerkampfhund @keithehe @iytatsworld @r02eg0ld @cumikering @ysljoon @m1ndbrand @captain-heebie-jeebie @bluenredndeath

[hobie-enthusiast]

NO BC MORE PPL NEED TO TALK ABT PROWLER HOBIE!!! - 🕷️

— oh 🕷️ anon i completely agree and shall deliver

— cw; not comic accurate 616 hobie, a mix between him and 138 hobie, canon typical violence, mentions of making out

alright, so before a life of crime, the two of you were high school sweethearts. the talk of the school, everyone adored your relationship. voted most likely to stay together, the works. you worked like a support system; hobie having had to raise himself and needed more love than others, along with the hardships you may have faced during your upbringing. hobie originally had a really hard time letting himself be vulnerable around you, but he got used to it, letting you in to help him through what he needs to.

despite having great support, things were rough on him after high school. when he lost his job, the equipment he essentially invented for it made him turn to crime for a shot at protecting the innocent, especially you. you were essentially a victim to the terrible mistreatment of such a fascist country, being terribly poor while with hobie. with such a corrupt government, and tons of heros who defend it, it seemed to be up to him to fix it all. so, he took his inventing skills and became a villain, deeming himself 'the prowler'.

and he felt like he was protecting the people. stopping those bloody cops from hurting the innocent, or punishing officials who've done bad. he was a villain with a good cause, but not many saw it that way. they saw their beloved spider-man as the one who does the good, not some scary villain in a scary suit. essentially, the constant battle between the prowler and spider-man began.

hobie tried to keep his second life a secret from you, he really did. but the one day he was out, you managed to find his prowler suit and mask. along with that, all sorts of gadgets that seemed far too advanced for some regular civilian. upon confronting him about it, he admitted to everything. what he’s doing, who he is, and where he goes.

it’s.. tough at first. learning your high school sweetheart was a super villain isn’t the easiest piece of information to take hold of. but you stayed. you knew he was fighting for a good cause, so you kept him close to your heart. how could you not? hobie always wanted better for you, for the people, for himself. so you stuck your support, staying right by him through it all.

hobie can also find himself in a habit of stealing from large corporations. it’s his thing as the prowler. it would range from stealing food for the local shelter to stealing a nice knick-knack to gift to you. though you feel some guilt at first, it soon disappears upon remembering that these places won’t ever miss what hobie steals. they’ll just find something to replace it.

some things hobie does not do as the prowler (that normal villains tend to); hurt the innocent, steal from small businesses, cause commotion during charity events or rallies of protest, have an innocent be his “person on the inside”, kill like, anyone.

the most he would do to hurt anyone (which is government officials and fascist politicians), is beat ‘em up and give them a good talking to. he reminds them of who’s truly running this country, who’s actually the one feeding them their money, and that normal shuts them up. hobie hates the way they plead with him to not kill them, it honestly makes him laugh. he has the same reply every-time.

“you beg t’ not be offed, but kill ‘ur citizens everyday. think ‘bout it.”

even as the prowler, hobie always makes time for the things he loves. you, for one. he’s always taking you for a night in the city or to hang with his friends. dinner dates at home are a must for the week, he’ll never miss it. he eventually does propose to you, which consists of him just asking out of the blue in bed if you wanna get married. he gives you one of his rings and says, “boom, married. g’night, love.” yeah, you never got official documents. but who cares?

hobie’s other commitment lies with his band. never misses a show to play. he’s sticking with them, even as the prowler. he loves the high he gets from performing onstage for the people he fights for, listening to their enjoyment. he loves laughing with his band as they keep a high energy show going almost all night. and the best part? he sees you after his shows, warm smile on your face as you congratulate him (either verbally or with making out. your choice). he would never trade those nights for fighting as the prowler.

overall, hobie as the prowler is not like every other villain. he’s committed to doing good in the wrong way. and even when spider-man convinces him to find a different way to get his message, he never gives up. he retires his prowler costume in exchange for one that advocates loudly, leading protests and riots at the front lines. he had to admit, it was a lot more refreshing than being painted as an evil villain. plus, it help that you find this option much safer :). he’s content with life as the prowler, even after he retires the persona.

[leviiackrman]

WHAT DOES YOUR SOLE LOOK LIKE & TYPES OF CANNIBALISM;

I was tagged by @faerune @chuckhansen + @corvosattano to take this uquiz for some kiddos, and I also threw in the most recent uquiz tag cus I’m slow tehe! Thank you sm beloveds🤍

Tagging (anyone and everyone cus idk who’s done what lmao): @risingsh0t @bbrocklesnar @roofgeese @unholymilf @florbelles @arklay @captmactavish @shellibisshe @simonxriley @queennymeria @marivenah @nokstella @mrdekarios @thedeadthree @jacobseed @jackiesarch @heroofpenamstan @dameayliins @carlosoliveiraa @shadowglens @fenharel @alexxmason @tekehu @malefiicarum @brujah @solasan @arthrmorgann @garaviel @baldurians @jendoe + @nightbloodbix

A BIRD IN A COVERED CAGE;

They left without you. Put you out of sight and therefore out of mind. You sing every morning like nothing's changed, talk to the walls to keep yourself company. Just you, the darkness and your own denial that you are completely alone. Nurse your wounds, get yourself some water.

RITUALISTIC CANNIBALISM;

eating others as a religious act, a form of human sacrifice or tradition in the name of a deity. you care a lot about your grades, or used to as a child, and would cry if you got a b in English. you are a people pleaser. you are good at self discipline. you desperately want to achieve success, in whatever way that means to you, and feel the need to devote your life to something you find bigger than yourself, in order for your life to have meaning. you probably had an eating disorder. or an anxiety disorder

BLOOD IN A LAMBS WOOL;

You're the victim, right? It hurts, everyday it hurts. It's obvious you're tainted, pulled into hell as soon as you stepped upon earth. You'll never know peace, you'll never know a life without violence. Im sorry. Wash your face and your hands, don't let your wounds carve deeper.

SURVIVAL CANNIBALISM;

eating others to prevent starvation and not as a part of a cultural practice, usually as a result of an emergency or a famine. my sweet baby angel, you have not been touched by the darkness. I'm sorry if this scared you. you are a normal person with normal person problem. you want to get married. you dance with your friends. and you would never ever eat them (right?) it's surprising what can happen to a person, when pushed to the extreme though. have you ever wondered about that?

A PILE OF BUBBLES, AN IRIDESCENT MESS;

Well aren't you just all over? You're appealing but you're fragile, one wrong move and you lose all that you are. You were meant to be stepped on, broken, but the joy you bring to onlookers is unmatched. Do with that as you will and take very good care of yourself, have a snack.

AUTO CANNIBALISM;

the practise of eating parts of ones own body. you consider yourself an introvert. private and reserved. you don't like asking for help, even when you need it. secretly your biggest fear is being abandoned, which is why you abandon others first. in the end you will be your own destroyer. you stay in a dark room, curled up like a worm, eating yourself.

DOG TEETH;

You're vicious, but you're afraid. You have to make the first punch, and make sure your opponent can't land one. But you need to stop seeing everyone as an enemy. The only one being violent is you, your anger and your defensiveness is killing you. Take a nap, rest your head and clear your mind. Come back in the morning.

FILIAL CANNIBALISM;

the eating of one's own offspring. eating offspring has been documented in a variety of mammal and bird species – as well as fish, insects and spiders. hunger and quality control are among the many reasons proposed for this counterintuitive survivor of natural selection. you think of yourself as a logical person, and you probably went through a hardcore atheist phase. you consider this logic a virtue. to you, logic and emotion are two opposites, where one is superior to the other. wait until you find out that logic is an emotion. you are a great problem solver. your partiality towards objectivism though, is often less helpful than you realise. you have a hard time taking criticism.

[atimburtonfan]

Small anocdote on Catwoman from Tim Burton's Batman Returns:

"Upon saving a woman in an alley from an attacker, Catwoman shoves the victim against the wall and says, "You make it so easy, don't you? Always looking for some Batman to save you." The indictment against the victim that she could or should have done something to predict the violence against her and was somehow culpable for it, is ethically fraught on many levels and can be read in many different ways.

Catwoman now has the power and freedom to act in ways that she could not before. But while she saves the woman, she does not represent any sort of female solidarity in the face of a subjugating power structure, nor does she demonstrate empathy regarding the plight of a woman in a situation in which she could have found herself before becoming Catwoman.

While Catwoman's victim blaming is not defensible, it is explicable in light of both her past attitudes toward herself and the search for existential authenticity.

The old Selina Kyle would have never said something so cold and unfeeling to someone in danger because that isn't what nice people do. If one isn't nice, then society will censure that individual in ways great or small for going off-script. In other words, by not alingning one's behaviour with prevailing societal standards, one risks being ostracized by others.

Of course Selina was nice, the world was not particulary nice in return and she wound up dead. She is, therefore, little interested in conforming to the expectations of others, whether or not others frame those expectations as virtuous or desirable."

-from the book: The Philosophy of TIm Burton.

(I find the whole anecdote quite interesting as I always had dubious feelings about Catwoman, she is an anti-hero operating in a morally grey zone. I personally find such characters much more interesting than the superheroes who are pure good.

[crashandswirl]

MUSE INFO

Name: Tiffany Valentine

Tiffany comes from the 1998 film Bride of Chucky. Some influence from the 2021 TV show Chucky. When interacting with her, there might be violence, blood, gore, murder/death, torture, and references to toxic relationships. Except for violence, all of these things will be tagged as cw: [subject] when applicable.

Eyes: Dark brown (human form); green (doll form)

Hair: Dark brown; dyed blonde

Face claim: Jennifer Tilly

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 40

Height: 5'7"/170 cm (human form); 2'6"/76 cm (doll form)

Sexual/Romantic orientation: Demisexual/biromantic

Occupation: None. If Tiff needs money, she just takes it from the people she kills.

Personality: If Tiffany is anything, it's passionate and inconsistent. When she sets her heart on a goal, she throws herself at it completely. However, her goals have a good chance of quickly changing if something goes wrong. She gives as good as she gets.

She started killing for the fun and the thrill. In her own words, it's an addiction for her. She can also be likely to murder (or enact some other form of over-the-top revenge) when she feels she's been abandoned or betrayed, though. If you come away with your life and "clean up your act"/make it up to her, she'll be happy to forgive and forget.

Tiffany is borderline unable to grasp the true severity of her crimes. She did it for your own good! Why are you so mad? That murder was just a little slip-up! It's okay, everyone has those! Why are you freaking out so much?

Tiffany had fantasized about murder for a while, but she didn't commit her first one until she met her boyfriend, Charles "Chucky" Lee Ray, the Lakeshore Strangler, during a hookup. He intended to stab her to death, but when Tiffany grinned and encouraged him to do it, he ended up stabbing the other woman in the room instead. He asked Tiffany if she wanted to join the fun, which she gleefully did. The two of them entered a relationship that became rocky before long. Eventually, Tiffany grew fed up with the fact that Chucky no longer seemed like he wanted to kill with her, and she tipped off the police about a place he was heading to. She has a low opinion of the cops and figured the most they'd do was give Chucky a good scare and/or injury, but a detective ended up killing him. Right before he died, Chucky transferred his soul into a doll. News about claims of a haunted doll from one of Chucky's victims, Andy Barclay, floated around and Tiffany followed them for years. In 1998, she successfully found the remains of Chucky's doll body and brought him back to life. However, upon finding out he didn't intend to propose to her like she thought, she locked him in a crib. Thoroughly pissed off, Chucky broke free, scared her in the bath, and she ended up being electrocuted to death when her TV got knocked into the tub. Chucky transferred her soul into a doll, leaving her trapped in it until she could find a suitable replacement.

Some other stuff:

I always default to using human Tiffany when replying to asks/tags, so if you'd like to interact with her doll form, please specify!

Tiffany's preferred murder weapon is her metal nail file, which she often keeps in her bra. When she's looking to get things done quickly, her go-to is to slit throats from behind.

[reikiajakoiranruohoja]

Mini-Essay: Without Light

WARNING: Discussions of dystopia, gore and cannibalism.

One of the good things about having a wide taste in media is how you can run into the oddest comparisons that still have value.

One of those is between the Project Moon games and Werewolf the Apocalypse 5th ed.

I know I have been focusing on W5 a lot this week, but the way it has messed up is something epic.

To explain to those who haven't played Project Moon games, they are set in a megacity surrounded by hostile wastelands. However, what goes in within the city's walls might be much worse than anything in the outskirts. The city is one of the absolutely worst places in fiction I know, and I know my Warhammer 40k. Cannibalism is so common the chefs have the choice of suppliers, barely human monsters roam the Backstreets to use their victims in various ways including as fabric (yes, FABRIC, not leather) and mega-corps and organized crime force citizens into bloody acts of desperation.

There is deep and profound despair in these games as the characters try to survive in this hostile world with their sanity mostly intact. Often being the greatest danger to each other due to their traumas.

In Werewolf the Apocalypse 5th edition, the Apocalypse is happening, the nation of werewolves has splintered and young werewolves try to hold onto something as they deal with millennia of wrongs their ancestors have committed. The old werewolves say the Wyrm, a force of entropy has gone mad and has been the main foe of the werewolves for as long as anyone can remember. What isn't helping these lost werewolves is that two tribes of their Nation have completely left even the scraps of society they have left. Cult of Fenris to fight the Wyrm at any cost and the Stargazers to think on things.

The only thing these young garou can do is to guard a sacred place of nature with their lives and hope to survive to the next day.

The thing that makes the Project Moon universe work where W5 doesn't, is how it approaches its darkness. The city is awful and there is little way to change it for the better. But where W5 spends page upon page decrying the werewolves and how bad they are at their job with very little in the way of solutions, Project Moon games focus on pushing through all that darkness for even a sliver of light.

It is not some power of friendship thing, either. A big part of the game Library of Ruina is to make peace with the wrongs of the past and move onward by letting go of old grudges for your own sake. The characters have done horrible things to each other and letting go is much much MUCH easier said than done, at times even looked down upon. Moving on takes effort from both the characters and the player.

There is hope, as small and fleeting as it may feel at times, but it is there.

Another aspect where Project Moon's world manages better is the way it treats its horrors. World of Darkness 5th edition has gotten a lot of flak from how it treats its horror carelessly and inserts things based on current events when doing so would be tasteless.

In Project Moon games, for one, there is zero sexual violence. The setting manages to be horrible with zero mentions of SA and CSE. In fact, the evil in Project Moon games is banal. It is a job, a way to pay rent, a scholarship, a way to feed the masses and so on. One job literally entails scraping skinned people off walls and turning them back to normal. One way to pay rent is to obey random orders like stabbing the 58th person you meet on the street.

In both cases, the setting is dark and grim but while W5 focuses on the misery without giving the players a chance to affect it, Project Moon games focus on untangling the misery and trying to work out a solution among the horror and carcasses.

In terms of writing, you need hope to showcase the darkness as it is. Without light to shine even a little, you will never get a sense things could be better. This is something Project Moon understands and W5 lost in its translation to WoD5.

[colorisbyshe]

So, my anti-Jeremy Renner post blew up and as sometimes happens when posts blow up, a bunch of TERFs got in my notes. I do a fairly systemic purge whenever this happens. I go onto each one I can find in the notes of that post and go through their blogs, blocking any other TERF I can find on their blog and going through the blogs of any URL I see multiple times so I can block all of the TERFs on their blogs. Literally blocked over 500 people, from big name blogs, to just some frequent rebloggers. ANd many, many pathetic randoms who can’t get a single note on their posts but desperately try anyways.

I have been a bit vague and flippant about this because bitching about them only ever fuels their victim complexes and often fuels their desire to engage and get attention. Me saying I don’t want TERFs engaging with that post made multiple TERFS ignore my boundaries and lack of consent, engage, and laugh about it. I know there’s no “winning” with them, so I don’t like arguing with them. It is identical to arguing with MAGA freaks--the level of delusion is impenetrable and it often only ends up traumatizing the people most hurt by them, by making them witness hatred and ignorance.

I instead try to be a positive force and just speak out in support of trans women to make where I stand clear.

But apparently I haven’t been clear enough because through this systemic weeding of my notes I have discovered multiple TERF followers, some because of the anti-Jeremy Renner post but some have been here a while. They weren’t obvious via URL or bio but going on their blogs made things clear quite quickly.

So, I just want to say it here.

I am a nonbinary woman. I am AFAB. I was born with a puss puss and I naturally grew tits with puberty. I am by every TERF’s definition “a woman” and it is with that clarified I will say--Trans women specifically have been more foundational to my understanding of gender, myself, and the world at large and my LOVE of my gender, myself, and the world at large than most other groups of people.

Trans women have done more good for me specifically and the world at large than any trans exclusive radical feminist ever has.

Reading the words and experiences of trans women has actually brought me more in harmony with the “woman” part of “nonbianry woman” and it has done so more than any fucking uterus-obsessed, menstrual blood-smeared, trauma-based one-dimensional nonsense TERFs have shat out and have forced the rest of us to witness.

Understanding transness on the whole has made me better appreciate the diversity of human experience and the boundless ways we can love each other and ourselves. It has made me dig deeper on how my life and society has shaped me and made me willing to stand up against societal expectations. I am the one who gets to define who I am. Not what I was born with. I am not a human seeking out the perfectly shaped hole to crush myself and lose myself inside. I am a million different things in vessel waiting to expand outwards and inwards at the same time, bound by fucking nothing.

Transness is beautiful. It is nuanced. It allows each person to get closer to the infinite.

Hatred of trans people in general but trans women specifically has no fucking place in my life, on my blog. I seek out liberation against all oppression and leave no woman behind in that.

I’m not going to give in to what any shit tier human being wants and wish violence upon y’all like you want. I’m not going to feed your martyrdom. I am just going to say I wish you a broader understanding of the world and deeper wells of empathy and love.

I don’t know if it’s simply a power trip y’all are on, eager to finally have a group you can punch down on, or if something truly went wrong in your lives where you have to have a fear response to someone more vulnerable than yourself. But get the fuck over it, grow up, and do better. You deserve harsher words but I will not give in and give them to you so you can lay yourselves upon the cross and weep about it.

Womanhood doesn’t benefit from this shit. Society doesn’t benefit from this shit. And frankly we’ve had enough fucking suffering without self righteous bigots making it fucking worse while pretending it’s progress.

Trans women are women. And trans women belong in “woman only” spaces more than trans-exclusive bigots ever will.

[voidpumpkin]

You always have interesting opinions, and apologies in advance if this is too specific of a question, but, in your perspective, what do you think is a children's movie that had a moral/message that you disagree(d) with or think was poorly executed? Not something people say all the time like Beauty and the Beast and kidnapping and whatever, but like, I've seen people argue on the message/theme of Ratatouille (cannot recall what this argument is for the life of me), but just as an example.

nah, you touched upon something I've been hoping people would ask. I unfortunately don't have one for kids movies, all the ones that come to mind work, or work whilst being flawed, or do in fact work it's just that the popular analyses' are dumb

so I'm replacing 'movie' with 'tv show' and talking about steven universe as its the only thing I can think of that fits your question

It's messages of non-violence, communication and forgiveness are undermined by the setting. By using war and colonialism as the framing device all of its messaging takes upon weird implications and falling into tired tropes of sympathesing for colonisers. The diamonds have done a LOT of shit than is too one to one to real world atrocties that people directly affected by it saw the implications of forgiving them and took umbrage, also the sheer amount bad stuff they've done and the lack of time and effort put into their redemption also results in people just not liking or believing it. Not helped by the fact that the story gives more time to the colonisers than their victims

(the missed opportunity that was trying to slowly heal and learn about the corrupted gems will always make me angry)

Then there's pink diamond, the revelation of rose is pink ruins any and all sympathy you have as the diamonds go from 'women who tragically lost their daughter' to 'women dealing with the consequences of their own actions because their daughter fled their mistreatment and opposed their colonialism'

there's also the fact the final arc is rushed beyond belief meaning any and all nuance is squandered, and if one replies 'they didn't have time, the show was cancelled', my response is, 'if they didn't have time to make a good story then they shouldn't have at all.'

It's messaging about nonviolence has always had weird implications due to the episode that started it, bismuth, has Steven telling a black coded women that killing oppressors to end their oppression makes her as bad as them. This reasoning is never dealt with again and looms over all future messaging.

also in a post trump world the pre trump conceived story of 'reaching to redeem/change your bigoted relatives' has aged extremely poorly.

tl;dr i can't think of a bad message in a movie but I can in a show. Steven universe, it's high stakes setting and post war/colonial backdrop creates weird/bigoted implications for its messages

[renee-writer]

Baby Girl Chapter 12

AO3

Fraser and Fitz stand at the site where the last body was found. She was posed on a park bench, like a mannequin or a doll. There were no signs of violence so they are waiting on the autopsy.

 

“Who found her?” Fitz asks the detective.

 

“The O’Leary ‘s. They we’re walking their dog and came upon her.” They all over to the shaken couple.

 

“At first we thought it was a display or something.” Mr. O’Leary is saying.

 

“Paddy he, he knew. He stopped still and peed all over himself. Let out the most awful sound ye ever did hear.” His wife adds. Paddy, a huge Irish Setter, sits huddled between them.

 

“We only touched her neck. Felt the cold flesh and…”

 

“Agent Fitzgibbons and Agent Fraser from Scotland Yard. Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?”

 

“No. We walk this path everyday before I head off to work and she heads home. The children are off to school and this is our time before…”

 

“We understand. Any vehicle that seemed out of place, a person you don’t  recall seeing about?” Fraser asks.

 

“No nothing but… who could do such a thing?”

 

“That is what we are going to find out.”

 

At the morgue

 

“She has been in a coma.” The mortician tells John and Gel. “Induced by a series of drugs, just like the last victim.”

 

“The cause of death?” Geillis asks.

 

“The COD is the same, potassium. It was given through an IV to induce heart failure.”

 

“Any sign of sexual abuse?”

 

“Yes. Tearing and bruising. A rape kit was done. We will see if this bastard left any DNA.”

 

“Was this also consistent with the other victim?” John asks.

 

“Eh, he seems to be making his own living sex dolls.”

 

“Hey handsome, I have some missing persons that match the other victims. Two that look especially promising. Dana Ferguson, missing a week and Windy George, missing ten days. Their info is sent to all of you.”

 

“Thank you Baby girl .” He runs his hand through his hair as he paces around in a circle.

 

“I have faith that you guys can get him.”

 

“We have to. He is making living sex dolls out of them.” Claire closes her eyes as a shutter goes through her.

 

“Good Lord!”

 

Mary addressing the press.

 

“This man is abducting women, tall with long dark hair, aged in their early twenties. The buddy system is your friend. Stay together. Be on the lookout for men that pay unusual attention to you. Check your vehicles before you get in them, including under them. We don’t yet know how this ladies are being taken so stay vigilant.”

[adamwatchesmovies]

Death Wish II (1982)

While I didn't enjoy this film, that doesn't mean you won't. No matter what I say, the people involved in this project did it: they actually made a movie. That's something to be applauded. With that established...

I’m fairly sure everyone involved in the making of Death Wish II knew they were making trash, which begs the question: why was this movie made? This is exploitative, cynical filmmaking that does little more than re-iterate everything that was said and done in the first but worse.

After Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson) comes home to find his maid and daughter raped and murdered by the thugs who stole his wallet, he returns to his vigilante ways.

Woah, Woah! Slow down Death Wish 2! TWO of Kersey’s close ones get raped and murdered? Save some of them for Death Wish 3! I mean, otherwise what crime will the incompetent police force fail to solve, forcing Kersey to take the law into his own hands AGAIN? If you’ve seen Death Wish, you’ve seen Death Wish 2. There’s something particularly vile about this action film, and it isn’t only the excessive amount of female nudity as the hooting criminals gleefully lick their lips while ripping off the women’s clothes. Say what you will about the first but it was exactly that, THE FIRST. You needed to show those trauma-inducing moments to make you understand why Kersey would take the law into his own hands. This time, director Michael Winner's only objective is to exploit the audience. It's so manipulative you'll be tricked into wanting to see violent revenge fantasies brought to life by a man that’s way too old to play the role he’s playing. The criminals in this film do nothing BUT victimize women and torment innocent people. They're cartoons.

This picture has nothing to say, even if you haven’t seen Death Wish or its innumerable clones. We do not explore the toll this violence has upon Kersey beyond his lust for revenge. There are no moral dilemmas about the vengeance he rains down upon the thugs (which, if it interests you, includes a young Laurence Fishburne III). The topic of vigilante justice is never shown in a balanced manner. I can’t even say the action scenes are particularly exciting, or the deaths satisfying either.

Is there ANYTHING good in this film? Well, two I suppose. The first is that because the film is obviously lewd and lurid from the first few scenes, it’s never actually as impactful as it should be. It’s the most backwards compliment I’ve ever given but it’s true; by being crappy, the film manages avoid becoming offensive. This makes it “better”. Even so, it still contains gratuitous amounts of rape so maybe I’ve just become numb to it. Your mileage will probably vary on this issue. The second “good” aspect is a scene so bad it becomes comical AND checks off an item on my list of things I’ve always wanted to see in a movie. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when a character jumps out of a window when they have no idea what’s outside. In Death Wish II, someone jumps and lands on something that kills them instantly. I’ve wanted to see that ever since I sat through 2005’s A Sound of Thunder.

Trashy, lazily written, unimaginative, tired, cheap... there are many unflattering adjectives which would comfortably fit Death Wish II. It’s wretched and I can’t imagine the next in the series will be any better. (Full-screen version on DVD, November 4, 2018)

[rookie-critic]

Decision to Leave (2022, dir. Park Chan-wook) - review by Rookie-Critic

Decision to Leave is a tense noir-ish thriller with a ton of style and great performances. The newest from Oldboy director Park Chan-wook, the film is a subdued effort from the filmmaker, who is normally noted for the striking brutal violence in his films like the Vengeance series and Oldboy. While the difference in tone and intensity is noticeably different, the visual style of the film is still unmistakably his, and it's great. The cinematography of this film is gorgeous, and one of the biggest triumphs the movie has is the lighting. All of the decisions regarding the way things were lit and framed in this film feel very intentional and like it was done with purpose. It's a truly beautiful film and everything on the technical and visually artistic level is near perfection.

On the flip side, while the story is also very good, it feels like it can't quite keep up with that stellar style. There are a good handful of scenes that definitely feel like they are done with a style-over-substance mindset, and while there's nothing inherently wrong with that, it can be done to great effect, here I found it more distracting than anything. The story of a respected, hard-boiled detective that gets too emotionally invested in the personal life of a suspect in a murder case (the victim's widow, at that), this movie screams film-noir from a plot perspective, equal parts Maltese Falcon and Casablanca. It plays out with plenty of twists and reveals that are all very gripping, and the film manages to keep the audience's attention through most of its runtime. I can't really say the film dragged or rushed itself at all, but there was something about the way it all plays out and that semi-frequent sacrifice of style over substance that kept this from being truly great for me. In the spirit of full transparency, I did see this on a day where I was particularly physically and mentally fried, and I don't think I really gave this film the full breadth of my attention and mental focus, so maybe upon a re-watch (which I do plan on doing at some point) I will change my tune, but for now, I will give it this score, which is still pretty great, if you ask me.

Score: 8/10

Currently streaming on MUBI.

I really do hate when I feel like I haven't given a movie everything I've got prior to writing its review, and I thought about not even putting this up right now until I did have that chance to re-watch. So, with that in mind, I might make an amended review once that happens.

[joannechocolat]

White feminists, I’m looking at you.

Another week, another raft of Press articles by self-professed white “feminists”, defending their own prejudice by bashing other women. It’s as if they can’t stop themselves, these women of a certain age, a certain class and a (very) certain privilege, who seem quite happy to see women abused, as long as those women are different from their own privileged circle of friends.

These are the women who “don’t see” race, and who think that counts as a virtue.

These are the women who “don’t see” class, or disability, or neurodiversity, or gender, except perhaps for that one friend, who represents all others, and will be used as proof of their tolerance and lack of prejudice whenever the question arises.

These are the women I interact with every day, many of whom I think of as being decent, well-meaning people.

But in actual fact, not seeing race (or gender, or class, or disability) just means you don’t see your own prejudice. I get it: it’s very convenient not to be able to see how one’s privilege impacts on others. Because as soon as you can see that, things start to get uncomfortable. Criticisms people make of you start to seem more justified. It becomes harder and harder to hide behind your comforting circle of friends - all of whom are telling you that you’re right, you’re good, you’re kind, in fact, you’re the real victim if ever your prejudices are called out– your friends, who think just like you.

But here’s the thing. We’re all privileged. We all have unconscious bias. Just because we’re women in a patriarchal society, doesn’t mean we’re not capable of punching down at someone more vulnerable, or causing another person – or group of people - to do so. And let’s face it; those people are usually men. Misogyny loves it when women attack other women. And it’s intersectional. Look closer, and you’ll find how often it leads to racism, ableism and transphobia.

I’m looking at you, white feminists. Using the patriarchy to confirm your own social and racial prejudices, rather than hearing the voices of those women who most need your support. Women of colour. Trans women. (And no, I’m not going to let you deflect by arguing about what exactly makes a woman – there are plenty of people who have done that. Read them if you want to.) What really matters is not whether someone looks or thinks or behaves like you. What really matters is who suffers harm, and who benefits from your actions.

Women are in a majority. Sometimes we forget this. We fight against sexism and prejudice as if we were a minority group. We’re not – or at least, we wouldn’t be, if we didn’t keep splitting into factions, attacking each other, then looking all surprised when the patriarchy keeps rolling on, harming women everywhere. And the saddest part is that we have so much potential energy. If only that energy were directed to bashing the actual patriarchy, rather than by heaping blame upon the women who are its victims, we might be making progress instead of tearing each other apart.

I’m looking at you, white feminists. I know how angry you must feel when people call you prejudiced. I know you’re used to the moral high ground, to the feeling that you’re the real victims of a system that’s loaded against you. And I know that when people call you racist, or ableist, or transphobic, it feels like abuse. It feels that way because you’ve never really considered your privilege in all this. You’ve never really considered the impact your words – amplified by social media, or published in the national Press - might have on real-life people.

You really need to do that. And no, it isn’t easy. First, you have to suppress that urge you have to tell the world that you’re special and different, and therefore have no unconscious prejudice. You’re not, and you do. The fact that you don’t think you have any is precisely because it’s unconscious prejudice. Unconscious prejudice is like a black hole: only detectable through its actions. And if your actions cause POC harm - or trans people, or autistic people, or any other marginalized group likely to receive abuse, or worse, because of something you said, or did – then you need to understand what you did, and acknowledge it.

The first and most important thing is to understand is that this isn’t about you. Too many people fixate on whether or not they’re really racist (or sexist, or ableist, or transphobic) instead of looking further. I get it. It’s easier to focus on the words and what they mean, rather than the reason they were used in the first place. So stop thinking about the words, and think about what you did, instead. Consider whether you said or did something that was harmful. You’re not in the best position to judge. (Unconscious bias, remember?) So listen to your critics. Instead of feeling offended that someone used an ugly word, ask yourself why they used it. Look at their reasons, not yours. Understand their perspective.

That means first putting aside all your excuses and justifications. This isn’t about you, remember? No-one cares why you made a mistake. You might have done it by accident. You might have done it out of ignorance. You might have stuff going on in your life that made you careless or vulnerable.  But this isn’t about you. No-one cares why you caused harm. All that matters is that you did. The harm might be direct – causing offense to someone through your words or actions – or indirect – for instance, reinforcing harmful stereotypes, or attracting the kind of negative attention that might result in trolling, doxxing or violence.

Whatever it was, if that happens, the first thing to do is to acknowledge it. Own it without making excuses, or arguing over semantics, or talking about your feelings, or making the process about you.

And no, it isn’t easy. It involves centring the conversation around someone other than you. You may not be used to doing this. It may make you feel uncomfortable. It may even upset you. But remember, this isn’t about how you feel. The fact that you’re instinctively trying to make this about you, even now, should be telling you something.

So yes, get over your feelings. If you said or did something that’s likely to cause harm to someone, own it. Educate yourself. Apologize. Move on, with a greater awareness of what you need to do to improve. That’s all. We’re none of us perfect: we all make mistakes. But when we do, we need to put ego aside, and try to stop repeating them.

Only then will feminism stop tearing itself apart. Only then will feminism be truly deserving of the name - when white women finally understand that if they continue to support and care for only the women who look and think as they do, then the patriarchy wins, and that they are doing its work.

White feminists, I’m looking at you.

White feminists, I’m looking at me.

[yoongsisbae]

You Asked for Help, He Asked Your Name | PJM

You ran away from your responsibilities, but they caught you and tried to lay claim to your body. If your life was never going to be yours anyways, you decided might as well give it away and make a deal.

BTS Fantasy AU. fairyprince!Jimin x reader

Warnings: 18+ dark themes, this story discusses triggering topics, SA, arranged marriage, PTSD, religion, dubcon, violence against women, murder, blood, gore, reader manipulation, oral sex f+m, sex, inexperienced!y/n

Word Count: 7.4k

---

‘I tried my best,’ you thought.

‘I knew it might not work,’ you thought, ‘but at least I tried.’ 

Grass and flowers and mushrooms crushed beneath you and you lay crushed beneath him.

‘The sky looks pretty passing through the leaves,’ you thought, looking up. ‘The sun looks bright, like fire.’ 

Days after you think upon this moment, that is what you remember the most, the way the light came through those leaves, the scatter of buds barely blooming across the branches, a light shade of yellow that seemed to glow under the sun so vividly, and the vivid pain in your heart. 

Then you closed your eyes, held tight to that image of light, and silently screamed. 

You weren’t aware of where you truly were, of where you had mindlessly ran to hoping to break free of the cuff around your finger, but you had fallen upon the entrance of a portal between your world and another. You didn’t know your thoughts could be heard. 

So when you heard a velvety voice respond in the deep recesses of your mind, you thought it was just your own self, comforting you when no one else could.

But the voice belonged to something else, not anything of this world. He watched the sight before him passively, curious, and though he did not follow the laws of good and evil, though he was not accustomed to the traditions of this world, as he watched he felt the wrongness of what he was witnessing, as visceral as you felt it.

‘Help!’ You thought.

‘Do you want my help?’ the voice asked.

---

Your life had been a series of decisions made by people who claimed to love you but never really actually listened to you, never asked what you wanted, what you needed, only told you what they expected of you. Nothing was really yours in the end, not your future, your decision to marry, and certainly not your body.

You weren’t happy, even as those around you gave their blessings on what should have been your happiest day. Your tears were not for show, you cried of despair, because you knew the life that really had never been yours was now tied to a man until death. 

It was only when you had truly given up hope that you decided to escape everything. You planned your escape quickly, carelessly in desperation. You took a bag of jewelry, gold you hoped could buy you freedom. And one inconspicuous night, after he was fed and pleased and taken to sleeping like a satisfied pig, you left.

But he and his brother searched after you. You knew you had no one on your side and he had everyone. So when they found you, you thought of nothing but running. You ran until pebble turned to grass, only hoping to lose sight of them, only wishing to be free.

‘Give me one last chance,’ you thought when they finally caught you. ‘This cannot be!’

It was unforgivable what you had done, you had disrespected your husband. Angry, humiliated, and disgusted you would betray him, you were victim to the temperaments of violent men who wanted retribution.

‘Not again,’ you thought, ‘no no no no no.’

You closed your eyes and silently begged, screaming your thoughts so loud, trying to drown out the heavy grunts and disgusting jeers that splintered what was left of your faith with every injury to your body. You begged for help, for anyone to come save you. You prayed for a miracle.

Quiet sobs and whimpers escaping, your soul screamed. 

It was your last bit of fight, unwilling to let them destroy all of you. You didn’t know your screams were heard. Your thoughts were being listened to. 

‘Help!’ You thought, ‘Help me!’

Again, the velvet voice said. ‘Do you want me to help you?’

‘Yes,’ you begged, ‘Yes!’

‘Do you want me to stop them…to kill them?’

‘Yes, kill them, kill them, I wish they felt the pain they’ve caused.’ You imagined your captors sliced from head to toe, bodies brutalized so they could never hurt another woman again. You cried.

‘What is your name?’

You bit down sobs, screams threatening to escape as the dull ache becomes piercing once again, dimming the light behind your tightly shut eyes.

‘Die die die. Let them die, they deserve death.’ 

‘Your name?’

Your lungs burning, you allowed your name to travel past the tight lump in your throat, one small barely audible whisper in answer choked out.

‘Wonderful! How beautiful, perfectly suited to you!’ 

The voice repeats your name over and over again. And you repeat your wishes over and over again. ‘Make it stop now, make it stop, please…please!’

Against the harsh scrape of wood, your head knocking into tree roots, you felt something new, something warm next to you apart from the coldness of the dirt, a delicate hand so softly placing a tiny flower behind your ear. Too afraid to open your eyes, you thought of glowing yellow petals. 

The man above you pauses and you finally had courage to look.

The sight was what you wished for, red cascading down, drops falling on your cheeks mixing with your tears. The handle of an intricate knife lodged deep in the center of your husband’s throat.

You follow the handle to its wielder, arm outstretched, forearm flexed, his head tilts down and he sends you a dangerous smile before he pulls the blade out as quick as it entered.

You gasp and he smiles wider, stabbing over and over again, blood raining down on your aching body, you might as well be drowning in it. 

“Y/n.” The stranger’s words snap you out of your stupor, his voice the same tone you had heard in your mind, now so clear and crisp, eyes shining with happiness. 

“I kept him alive for you, he is yours.”

Yours? His life? His fate? 

You had lost yourself, but you had gained more.

You pushed yourself up, staring at your husband, his bloodied chest heaving, gasping for air. Something hard pressed up into your palm, you felt the smooth handle of the stranger’s knife appear like magic. Your fingers dug into the ruined earth, your hand now gripping the knife tightly.

The stranger was gone like he never was. Had he even been? The knife in your hand was your only clue now. It was you and your husband alone. His brother gone too, taken to running away in fright. 

You gripped the knife tighter until your fingers stung, the subdued ache in your muscles that you’ve forgotten in your shock now returning as well. It made you angry.

He looked up at you, coughing up blood. His ugly face, now perfectly matching his ugly heart. You gripped the knife tighter. You gripped it tighter, it was real, it was your freedom in the palm of your hand. It made you cry, made you angry, made you happy, made you stand up. 

Your husband lay crawling away in the dirt, like a wounded pig. Even on shaky legs you were able to move ahead of him, foot pressing into his skull to stop his shameful retreat.

You bent down, held the intricate beautiful handle of the knife in both hands, pressing it down into the back of his neck. The blade glided so smoothly, it surprised you how easy it had been. You grit your teeth, twisting the dagger, “How does it feel?” you ask, “to be penetrated against your will?” 

Your husband, your attacker, grunted, shallow breathing slowing down, and you begin to hear a soft melodious laughter filling the woods behind you.

You knelt down like you had done so many times before in prayer, pressing your head to the earth, mouth next to your husband’s ear. “May you die knowing it was a woman who took your life. May your last thought be of me, knowing that it was I, not you, I was the one who took away your chance at paradise.” You would have screamed your words, but like your pleas, you held your pain in still, whispering low, your eyes full of wrath meeting his terrified stare, he heard you loud and clear. 

You dragged the knife out of him, satisfied he will never have the opportunity to hurt you in this life or in the afterlife. “Die.”

-

Your muscles ached with every step you took, your body following the music echoing through the trees. It was slow travel, but you felt…light. Your heart was unburdened. You maneuvered your way between branches until you saw what you thought you had merely dreamed up, a man so alien in appearance, so beautiful and ethereal, smiling at you as if you were the best of friends. Pointed ears, striking bright eyes, and the same dangerous smile, he was real. And at his bare feet...the shivering whimpering brother had not outrun his sins after all. His body curled into himself, his hands held above his head together in prayer, now begging you not to end his life.

The stranger’s eyes travel down your bloodied hand, falling upon the knife you still braced. “Y/n! I brought you another gift.”

The brother wailed for mercy, reciting stuttering prayers, spewing words out quickly to cover the length of his sins. You scoffed at the pathetic sight.

Prayer is meaningless in this place as it was in your home. How many times did you kneel and pray, did you ask for help? How many days did your head touch the earth, hoping one day to be able to prostate in a better place? And yet you ended up here. Right here. Covered in bruises, covered in blood, your heart broken and your body broken, your faith finally broken.

It wasn’t prayer that saved you, not really, you know this when your eyes meet that stranger’s shining gaze and his devilish smile, clothes glittering so strangely in the sunlight. It surprised you, the tug of your own lips you felt, unable to stop the smirk lifting up.

Does he think he will be freed? Did he think he will be sent to paradise now? When there is no realm in heaven fit for this animal. This man and his false sense of superiority was now begging you for mercy, suddenly with an understanding of it. 

No! Judgment is a cold dagger, given by a trickster, bestowing power to a powerless woman.

“Y/n, come.”

You looked up, away from the blood, pulling the knife from the brother’s body one last time and nodded. What else could you do but follow? Committed a sin, you turned your back on the world that treated you so unjust.

Paradise is a ring of mushrooms, a creature so beautiful you can’t look away, who looks back at you as if you were precious treasure, hand outstretched the same way as when you first saw him.

And this time you decided the course of your life, reaching with your own hand for something more.

---

The hand you took belonged to no ordinary creature of the otherworld, he was a prince among his kind, a legend even to the legendary. Prince of the Faes, Jimin’s curiosities lead him away from his Kingdom, pulled by the cries of…a human?

The two worlds have always been separated, but as human interest grew away from the magicalness of nature and into rigid concrete structures and metal fixtures and technology and electricity and everything his kind despised, it was less and less likely for the two worlds to meet.

As royalty, Jimin had everything in his world at the tips of his fingers. But his power was also intrinsically tied to his world, he could not pass the boundaries with his powers…unless…

It was the first time he felt his realm breached. And then a far lonely cry, soft and pleading, calling out to him.

It was only when he had a human connection, a name, your name, could he fully step into the human realm and unleash his power without any restraint, with out any worry, and how much fun it had been!

You were magnificent! A worthy ally, the perfect vassal. Oh, it was a delight watching you transform in front of his eyes, taking every opportunity he had presented.

You could not even look upon his first gift, so his second gift came swift. The sudden outrage he felt witnessing the true cruelty of mankind contained to the precise tip of his dagger, for him it wasn’t a gift of vengeance, it was a tool to right the scales of balance that were so unfairly tipped. Because sometimes, for the Prince of Faes, righteousness was gratifying, and it was so delightful to be...vicious.

---

Perhaps you died, you think. There is no such beauty in the world you knew, no colors as bright as the ones that adorned the new garments that clung to your body. There were no musical chords that sounded as sweet as any note you’ve heard from...was it birds that passed you? Where are you?

The glamour around you made everything so alluring and new. And most enchanting of all, was the creature before you. Delicate yet masculine, calming and formidable, Jimin was an enigma of a man.

“Welcome, y/n.” 

“Where am I? What are you? A demon?” You felt the shine of your surroundings wear off just a tiny bit, your mind trying to process the events that occurred. 

He laughs a sweet soft chuckle. “No y/n, I’m not a demon.” He looks down at the jewelry adorning his fingers, turning the gold bands with his thumb. “A demon’s path is rigid, too strict for me,” he says dismissively. “Y/n, come.” You listened, your steps stiff and slow. “What’s wrong?”

“It hurts.” You wince, holding the pain in.

“Come here.” He held out his hand again, but this time you paused. You weren’t used to being so close to strangers like this, your family kept you sheltered…isolated. You gripped his hand, warmth heating your cheeks at the contact…then warmth all over, you gasp and stumble forward, your sore tired body feeling revitalized, feeling anew.

“How did you-”

“It’s a gift,” he breathes, smirking, hands righting your body up, taking in the clumsiness in your movements amusedly. “Your kind breaks too easily.”

“And what is your kind?” you swallow.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” He spins around, looking over his shoulder. “A Fae.”

“I’m s-sorry, I don’t know what-”

“It’s okay, you’ll learn,” he smiles mirthfully. “You’re in my world now, so you must listen to me precisely. So you don’t break again.” He plays with the tips of your fingers while the anxiety rose inside you, a trembling he noticed immediately. “Are you still hurt?” He asks confused, you shouldn’t be, he thinks.

“No, I…Why did you save me?”

“Did I save you?” The knife appears again like magic, he balances the intricate handle on one finger, twirling it in the air before catching it. “Here, have it back. It's yours now.”

“T-Thank you, it’s beautiful.” You murmured, mesmerized by the small weapon. Your admission made him smile even wider. “How can I repay you?”

He clapped his hands together. “Y/n...y/n, you’ve already given me a great gift…but I can think of something else as payment, there’s time for that.”

You suddenly realized he knew your name but you had no idea what to call him. “What is your name?”

He paused. “For that, I will need something more.”

“For me to learn your name?” you ask, more confused than you’ve ever been. He nods, studying you again. “I-I have nothing…oh wait!”

Where were the clothes you wore? Where was anything of yours? How did you even arrive in his home, you can’t remember. Jimin's glamour was too powerful, once he held the knowledge of your name, it was like a key opening the door to your mind, the visitor had made himself at home, for you didn't even realize...you had invited him in.

So of course you couldn't remember either, how you've become a guest here in his home. You look around at your surroundings, it was beautiful, greenery twisting around every surface and butterflies resting peacefully, their wings fluttering slowly before taking off and finding another surface to lay upon, and the flowers, oh! You’ve never seen anything so lovely! Oh! “I had a bag-”

“Hmm, this?” The bag appeared so quickly before you, as if fallen out of thin air and into his palms.

“Yes!”

“Beautiful,” he looks inside at the gems, red, blue and green pieces of jewelry. “But not worth a name.”

“It’s all I have,” You huff, “How am I supposed to call you?”

“You could call me ‘Your Highness,’” he smirks. You noticed the shining jewelry in his hair, weaved together by delicate strands of gold. Could he?

“What? Are you really?”

He nods, thumb running across your cheek. You thought briefly of tears, of dirt. It made you shudder, cold memories entering your mind, making you pull away from him.

Jimin frowned. “I could take them too, if you’d like.”

“What?”

“The memories.” 

You don’t doubt he can, even if it seems too good to be true. “No, I want to remember. I want to remember all of it,” you muttered, unready to part with the familiar feelings that rushed inside of you. The rage, and the pain, and the victory you had felt.

“Why?” he asks, tilting his head. You continued to fascinate him.

“If I forget it doesn’t change what has been done, what has been done to me.” The life you lived flashed before you as a series of pained memories. That’s what it was, what it could all be boiled down to in the end, pain. It was pain that you were unwilling to part with, pain that strengthened you, that made you unafraid. “Even if it were to help in some way, to forget, it takes away from me…who I am. And I can’t...I won’t have anything more taken.”

“I accept your decision, y/n,” he nods, thumb running across his bottom lip in thought, “but if you change your mind…” He stares into your eyes, so intensely it made you feel self conscious under his gaze. “I could make it so you feel no sadness…or anger,” he reaches for your cheek again, “only joy, only happiness.”

But at what cost? you wonder.

---

Deals struck between one and another is what moves the lives of Fae. More precious than even gold, what is more valuable than our word in the end?

You don’t remember how long it’s been. Time felt like sand, it fell between your fingers so quickly you couldn’t grasp it, felt like sludge around your body, slowing your movements to almost a standstill, you felt frozen in time and pulled through its flow all at once.

“Is she your wife?” you ask Jimin, entering after watching a lovely fairy leave his quarters.

He smirks, “No, y/n. Why?”

You busy yourself by making his bed, dusting off a shimmering fabric fallen to the ground. He follows you around, so light on his feet you cannot even hear his footsteps apart from yours. 

“You must love her…very much.” You had listened to their declarations of love all day long, you thought, annoyed.

“Love?” Jimin laughs at that.

“Well, it sounded like you loved each other, quite passionately.” You chewed on the inside of your mouth, smoothing the silky fabric down. Jimin throws his body upon the bed, ruining all your work, craning his neck to look at you, amused by the annoyed look on your face. “Are you feeling…unloved? Would you like some love as well, y/n?”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Don’t patronize me.” You kneeled on the soft ground, upon branches and brush woven together to make the palace floor which you sat. Jimin leaned his neck over the edge of his bed, then reached his arms for the floor, flipping his body over to take a seat next to you.

“I don’t think this is a fitting position for a Prince,” you mumble.

“Do Princes in your world not sit next to their subjects?” he muses.

You snort, “No,” suddenly smiling at the thought. “Perhaps for a photo op-ed, to look like good samaritans,” you look over to Jimin as he listens to your words and tries to make sense of the meaning. “But willingly?” you laugh, “No, I can’t imagine that.”  

“Interesting,” he lies back, placing his hands underneath his head, watching as small birds flutter around the palace canopy, flying around one another as if they were dancing. He calls your name so you lie down as well, trying to relax your stiff awkward limbs. “And do Princes lie with their subjects in your world?” He turns his head, nose so close he can smell your sweet human scent, hear the whispering of your jumbled thoughts.

You meet his eyes hesitantly. “Well I guess they do, sometimes.” Being so close, you felt pulled in by his gaze, his beautiful bright eyes, his plump lips you imagined were as soft as they looked. Now stretched into a large smile, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling shyly back, quickly breaking eye contact before you let your urges take over.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Hold yourself back.”

“I-I am not.”

“You do it quite often, hold things in.”

You swallow, quickly sitting up, “And should I be like you?” You look down at him accusingly, letting your anger get the best of you. “And…” you huff, “cavort about all day and night?”

Jimin laughs, “And in your world does every subject speak so brazenly to their Prince?” he challenges, sitting up next to you. He bites his lips, tries to catch your eyes again, but you’re already pulling away, stumbling to your feet, offering your apologies.

---

How long has it been since that first night in the palace? Days? Weeks? You’re not sure, there were no clocks, light never seemed to dull in this place, even the moon lit the world here so beautifully. You had no idea how much time has passed since then, it was time you took to let yourself heal, to let yourself breathe. For so long you felt unable to take a deep breath, fill your lungs in fully. So anxious, so weighted down by your responsibilities, holding it in, like a scream ready to burst free, for so long you just couldn’t allow yourself to breathe.

You were used to the world running along without you, but did you like it? Did you like this place? Even if you could walk the halls of this palace freely, you felt secluded, you felt alone. Where was it that you were going? Back to your room? You were lost again, where were you? 

You admired the small insect crawling next to you, inching up the canopy. The gems on your dress catching the light and twinkling on the walls, it was almost as if the small caterpillar were following the shimmering flecks. You looked down at your dress, it was like nothing that you’ve ever worn before, showing more skin than you’ve ever shown. The shiny translucent fabric cascaded over your body. It’s beautiful, you admit, more beautiful than even your wedding dress, and you felt beautiful in it.

“You are beautiful.”

“Y-Your highness?” you turn around to see the familiar Fae studying you again.

“There’s a celebration in the West Wing, do you want to join me, y/n?” He holds his hand out again, and of course, you take it.

-

You felt the isolation again walking through the West Wing alone. Jimin had been whisked away by two handsome Fae and you were left to your own devices. You dressed like them, even given an intricate jeweled choker by the prince himself, another gift he said, but you were not like them, no matter how you tried to hold your head up high, you couldn’t act as gracefully as them, you couldn’t move as fast as them, you didn’t look as beautiful as them, and you couldn’t, for many reasons, celebrate as vicariously as them.

The faefolk danced and partied without inhibition. You moved awkwardly between them, and they moved to let you pass. Not one touch or look your way, you felt invisible to them. Why, you wondered, would no one even try to make conversation with you? And you were too timid, too shy to ask them to dance. You didn’t understand the laws of this world, that in this world power was traded, bargained cunningly, taken with words rather than force, and the most powerful word of all, was a name. You had already been spoken for by the most powerful of them all.

You watched the way the Fae rolled their bodies, clothes flowing around them, slipping off their shoulders, away from their legs, revealing their thighs, where eager hands glided across their smooth skin. You held your breath, watching, wishing it was you.

“Y/n, come.” A soft voice in your ear brings you out of your thoughts, his breath hot against your cheek.

“Where did you go?”

“Did you miss me?” He smirks. His hair looked more wild than before, his lips pinker, layers of his clothes you notice were missing. You rolled your eyes, turning away.

“No. I didn’t even notice you were gone, I was having so much fun.”

“You shouldn’t lie, y/n.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie again.

He hooks his finger underneath your necklace, pulling your attention to him.

“Is this the 'sarcasm' you were speaking of before?”

“Yes,” you huff, “Are humans unwelcomed here?”

“No,” he frowns, “were you mistreated by someone?” He acts swiftly, moving towards the crowds. His demeanor changed, it sent a chill down your spine, reminded you of blood and anger and revenge, and you quickly reach for him, arms pulling him back at the waist, clinging onto him to stop. 

“Don’t!” You didn’t realize how fast your heart was beating, pounding against his back. “I wasn’t!” you took in a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I haven’t even spoken to anyone since you left,” you mutter against his shoulder blades, saddened.

Jimin looked down at your hands, clasped together, holding him tightly. He ran a finger across your arm and felt goosebumps starting to appear. “Y/n, you’re upset.”

“Why won’t anyone else talk to me?” you whisper sadly, grip loosening.

Jimin turns around as you pull away, laying a hand delicately on your shoulder. He pulls the closest Fae towards him, a man with curly flowing hair, a striking jaw, and the same piercing shining eyes as Jimin. “Entertain her.” Jimin nods in your direction.

The Fae smiles wide, a large boxy grin, taking you in from head to toe. “Hello, Lovely.”

“H-Hello. Did you want to dance?”

He nods, bowing at you, but before you can step away Jimin is pulling you back, “You said talk, not dance.”

You swallow, “Everyone else is dancing, why can’t I?” You kept your head up, standing tall, attempting to move towards the other Fae again, but he keeps his head down, moving away at Jimin’s dark glare. You didn’t notice the way Jimin looked at him, but you noticed the way he retreated as you came closer, away from your reach. You huff, holding in tears of rejection. “Fine, I’ll just go dance with someone else,” you mutter, rushing into the crowd of Fae with Jimin following closely behind.

“Y/n!” he hissed in your ear, telling you to stop. The sway of the bodies around you made you dizzy and confused, you moved quicker past them, or were you being pushed? No, pulled away? The music became louder as the room spun around you and then everything became quiet, until you were alone and able to catch your breath.

“What did you do!” you gasp, holding your head. It felt like you had been spinning in circles, only stopping now that you and Jimin were alone. You stumbled, steadying yourself against a branch, your body still feeling the effects. 

“Have I ever harmed you? Hurt you? Have I not only given you what you asked for?”

You stumbled again, your body falling into vertigo. “I know-”

“Then why, y/n?! Why would you want to dance with someone else?”

Your legs buckled as your head continued to spin, a hand grabbing your wrist before you can fall to the ground. You hang, body swinging forward into Jimin’s legs. 

“Why do you dance with everyone but me!” you yelled your accusations at the ground, unable to look or stand upright. Your body was pulled up as if you weighed nothing, right into Jimin’s embrace. “Why do you lay with everyone but me?” 

Did you expect to be whisked away by a Prince and have a love story you have only read in fairytales? Not particularly, not when you were covered in blood, barely able to process everything that’s been done to you, everything that you’ve done. Did you expect maybe...something from Jimin? He had given you so much already, what were you expecting? What did you want from the Fairy Prince? It frustrated you, having an idea too fantastical for even a world of fantasy. It could have been, you would have taken it, you could have loved him.

Angry you were not in a love story, but a nightmare, you attempted to hit him, but the room had still yet to settle, and Jimin barely had to do anything to stop your strike, easily pulling you into him closer. Before you knew it, the Fae Prince was pressed against you entirely, from body to lips. Your vertigo subsided, grounded by his kiss.

You pull away, partly stunned, and entirely captivated by his presence. “You kis-”

Jimin’s lips pressed against yours again, softly this time. You pull away again, eyes widening. “What, that wasn’t a request?” Jimin whispers against your lips.

He teases you, entices you, annoys you so much. “Don’t kiss me, don’t touch me!” You yell, pushing him away, and before you can strike again he is gone like he never was, and you can hear his familiar laughter in the West Wing with the others. You did not look for him, you were too upset, left to sulking in your room, and even if you had gone to find him, Jimin's glamour would have never allowed you near the other faefolk that evening. You were not going to dance, or kiss, anyone but him.

---

You felt more like a teacher, a live-in tutor, teaching the Fae Prince all the things you knew of human history and human living. He danced around you while you slumped into the cushions of his love seat, mopey, tired of answering his endless questions.

“Tell me more about this electrical web.”

“Why are you so fascinated by this?” you groan, “Want to know real human nature?! We go into wars we cannot win, we take innocent lives over land we then destroy, and we do it over and over and over again-”

“Your kind is very good at that. Alright, then tell me more about yourself.”

“Well- I- What did you want to know?”

“What brings you joy other than killing?”

“Killing does not bring me joy!” You sit up, outraged. It was ridiculous, what he said, it wasn't true!

“Then what does?” he asks, smile hidden behind his knuckles.

You think of yourself as a child, singing along to the radio, you had loved singing to your favorite songs, your father telling you to quiet yourself, complaining how off tune you were, you had only been a child and you never sang again. You still danced, every time you heard music, you hadn’t cared who was around, who was watching. You remembered the faint cheers of your mother, her laughter adding to the musical beat. Some time between now and then you stopped dancing, you couldn’t pin point it, when you grew up and only allowed your head to slightly bob to the beat instead, foot tapping anxiously instead of just dancing. When had it been, the first time your mother told you to stop instead of cheering you along?

You think of the museum you used to visit as a child, the excitement you felt when you noticed the brightly woven baskets on display, relics of the past that looked so beautiful, you wanted to learn how to create those baskets too, if only they let you. The designs were so intricate, the colors so bright, the patterns reminded you of the dagger fastened to your dress, reminded you of it's handle, and blood, and death.

You shut your eyes and let go of the breath you've been holding. “Swimming. When I was a child my mother couldn’t get me out of the water. I still love swimming, it’s fun, I could still spend all day in the water, I think.”

“I see...”

You sigh, “You know what brings me joy?” Before your wedding, your friends visited you. They kissed your cheek, wiped your tears away and fixed your makeup. They made fun of your mother-in-law. They told you, it will be okay, your fiancé is old, they reminded you to cook with animal fat, so he can die sooner. They held your shaking hands and hugged you tightly, and promised to visit you soon.

“Seeing my friends happy,” you smile. “Can I now ask you a question?” The Fae Prince waits. “Can I know your name?”

“Y/n...” He paces his quarters, and your hopeful expressions falls as grains of the sands of time slip through your fingers once again. “How about we go for a swim instead?”

You reach the water’s surface easily, inhaling air quickly. You wade in the spring, looking up to watch the slow waterfall. It was peaceful, it made you smile.

A wave of water hits you, Jimin catching your attention instead. You splash water in his direction, laughing as he swims closer to you.

“Where are we?” You spin, following him as he swims around you. He ducks underneath the water, splashing you again. Two hands cover your eyes as you feel the Fae Prince resurface behind you.

“Close to the Palace,” he says softly in your ear. The spring water is cool and Jimin’s touch is warm. You pull one hand from your eyes away, holding onto him.

“Where is your s-shirt?” He surprises you, his usual soft curled hair wet and slicked back, chest exposed to you.

“Why are you wearing your clothes!” he laughs. The silky fabric lifts around you like a blanket, your jewelry heavy against your skin. Why did you jump into the water with your clothes, you can’t remember why now. You begin to feel anxious, moving your limbs faster to keep afloat, your legs exposed as the ends of your dress floats on the water’s surface. You push the front of your dress down, covering your virtue, and sink into the water as your limbs stop swimming.

Jimin joins you underwater, and he somehow seems even more beautiful floating in the water, hair wafting effortlessly and framing his face. He reaches for you, pulling you back to the surface.

“Your modesty is cute.”

You scoff, holding onto his shoulders. “Stop treating me like a child.”

“And how should I treat you, y/n?” his arms move from your waist to just under your bum, pulling you closer to him. You tense up under his intense gaze, unable to look down at him.

“Look at you!” he teases, laughing, “Always holding back.”

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“How dare you! You attempt to silence your Prince!” He laughs even louder, moving slowly into deeper water. He narrows his sparkling eyes at you, “The other Fae would have eaten you by now.”

“Oh yeah? I can’t imagine I would taste very good.”

“Such bravery and yet you are too timid to give into your desires.”

“I desire you to shut up.”

“Y/n, I can hear your desires always,” he lets you down back into the water, holding you close to his body.

You bite your lip in attempt to uncloud the haze you felt so suddenly. “So you know how much I desire to know your name.”

Jimin stops laughing, biting his lip as well, closing his eyes in thought. “I do know.” He could feel how much you desired his name, desired him, how you thought of his lips, his jaw, his bare chest, your fixation on everything about him only enlarging his ego, and enlarging...other things.

You watched his mouth part, his head slowly tilt back as he sighed deep. “Please, your highness.”

Jimin’s lips curled up. “Prove it to me, your devotion...hold your breath.”

You went underwater again, held tight in Jimin’s embrace. His hand cradled the back of your head, watching you as you held in your instincts to move, to break free, determined more than ever to learn something of his kind instead. You gripped his biceps, fingers digging into his muscles, holding on, and just when you feel your self slipping, Jimin’s lips press against yours.

You felt a rush of air fill your lungs, the rush of adrenaline cascade over your body where water should have been. It was only Jimin's frenzied touch instead, cool air hitting your wet skin, your drenched clothes pulling you down as the weightlessness of water disappears. “Where are we?” you gasp.

Jimin’s lips move across your jaw and down your neck. “Your room, of course.” He pulls the wet fabric away from your shoulders, you shiver from the cold and his touch. His hand travels up your thigh and you freeze.

“Should I slow down? Is this too far?”

“I’ve had sex before,” you say, annoyed, trying to relax.

“But you’ve never gotten pleasure?” Jimin did not need to hear you answer, it was written as clear as the day across your anxious features. His had cupped your jaw. “Breathe out, y/n.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath, his thumb ran across your bottom lip as you exhaled.

He kissed your neck again, lying his body down onto yours. “Breathe in, y/n.” You closed your eyes and leaned your head against his, enjoying the way he kissed and tasted your skin. Your hand reached for his, interlacing your fingers together. He squeezed your hand in reassurance, holding your against bedsheets, his mouth traveling down your body, searching for more to taste.

You moaned for the first time at Jimin’s caresses, gripping his hand tighter. He takes his time to savour you, your breath rapidly escalating. You felt Jimin move between your legs, the warm wet muscle of his tongue licking all over you, fingers massaging your most intimate parts, slowly, moving from outside to inside. You no longer felt cold, you felt feverish instead, overwhelmed, overstimulated, ready to burst.

Jimin slowly built up the pleasure inside you, and then with skill and preciseness, unraveled the tension away. You panted, in a trance, pleasure coursing throughout your body.

Jimin looked at you, hungry and eager, a vision of seduction you’ve longed to experience. You traced his muscles, reaching for him, legs angling over his hips.

You kissed him fervently, riding high on ecstasy, whimpering for more, insatiable until you felt his hardness meet your core, sliding against your entrance.

You shuddered, stopping, looking into his eyes. He smirked, pleased you weren’t shying away from him no longer, enthralled with the way your desires took over. He held your head and devoured your lips, entering you with one swift rolling movement that took your breath away.

You moaned louder, rolling your hips to meet his, forgetting your goal, what you wanted, crying out for him, unable to speak his name.

---

Jimin was not only learning of your customs. You were, slowly, learning too. Growing and learning, realizing the shine of this world covered secrets. As a group of Faefolk left his quarters, you recognized one and he winked at you, bowing his head as he retreated.

You frowned, pursing your lips, looking inside at the mess.

Jimin rolled his neck, pulling a shimmering robe over his body. “Y/n, come,” he holds out his hand, calling you over to his bed.

“Aren’t you tired?” you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Jimin rolls his eyes instead at your judgement.

“I’m never tired for you.” He tugs on your arm playfully. You fall next to him. He smells good, he smells of vanilla and wildflower and sex.

“I want to make a deal,” you roll your body over his, straddling his lap, pulling at his clothes. He sighs softly, canting his hips, pushing up against you. “I want to know your name...” He raises an eyebrow, “...wait...and listen...I want to know your name when we make love.”

He tilts his head, staring at you, smiling, intrigued. “Then you can take it away. Deal?”

“And what do I get out of this deal?”

You kiss his exposed chest, and then you kiss lower, and lower. “Me...screaming your name...as yours.” You look up at him, challenging him to deny you.

The Fae Prince widened his legs, pleased your infatuation had given him such a truly wonderful gift. He could hear his name leave your pretty lips and let you fall back into his spell. “Okay, y/n. Deal.”

He watched your lips part over his hardening length, sucking him into your mouth eagerly. You perched yourself back onto his lap, settling yourself onto his cock. So perfect, fitting around him tight and warm. You rolled your hips and moaned freely. “Y-Yes.”

He holds your hips, thrusting up into you, “Tell me, y/n, who is your prince?”

You heard a whisper materialize inside you, becoming louder and clearer the faster you bounced on his lap.

“Y-Yes-Jimin, yes!”

You woke up, kissing his chest lazily, already forgotten his name.

---

“What do you wish of me, your highness?” You murmur against Jimin, tired, sleepy, why were you so tired?

Jimin sighs, “It’s time.”

“Time? W-What’s time?”

“Your world corrupts the balance of nature. Humans will destroy every realm of earth with their greed, even mine.” Armed with the knowledge you’ve given him, the Fae Prince was ready to conquer the human realm, to play some more. Oh, how much fun his first visit had been!

You hum, agreeing.

“It’s time...to wage war. And you! You are my most beautiful weapon.”

But Jimin underestimated you. He saw your beauty, yes, but did not fully grasp the strength, the fearlessness, that to this day, you’ve never forgotten.

-

“Wake up, y/n.” A hand caresses your jaw, waking you from your slumber. “A debt needs to be paid.”

“Where are we?” Jimin holds you in his arms, placing your feet on the ground tenderly.

“You don’t recognize this?” 

You follow his gaze towards the ground, where a neat ring of mushrooms lie growing in a perfect circle. You knew this place was important, the reason why sat on the tip of your tongue, so close to understanding the reason it soured your thoughts. You remembered it like a dream, like a nightmare.

He steps inside, offering his hand. “The price is this.” 

Once you stepped inside the mushroom ring everything seemed to grow duller, heavier, grayer. You…hated it. You hated everything except the man beside you. That was until you stepped outside the mushroom circle, feet landing onto wet cold earth.

Then the glamour fully wore away and you were faced with the harsh dark reality of what happened to you. Everything rushed into your memory so clearly and vividly you fell forward, pulling away from the Fae Prince.

“Get up, we have things to do.”

“You! You kept me prisoner!”

Jimin laughs. “Did I? I did not chain you or force you to stay.”

“You did, you- Leave! Leave me alone!” You hug yourself, dig your nails into your arms, grounding yourself to this forgotten place.

“We are connected, y/n. It’s the price you paid. I cannot leave you as much as you cannot leave me.”

You pulled the jewelry off your arms, throwing his gifts at his feet. The Fae prince felt the offense within him. You felt something too, a risen memory.

“Stay away!” you scream.

“I can’t do that.”

You wanted to hate him, but you felt your heart break the more you resisted. It made you cry. He was right. You had made a deal and now you were tied to him whether you liked it or not. It made you scream.

Jimin pulled you up harshly, “Oh y/n, what’s happened? I thought we were in agreement.” Jimin didn’t understand why you suddenly resisted so vehemently, why his call didn’t pull you in as strongly as before.

“You…you t-tricked me, you used me!” You looked down at the crime scene at you feet. The blood was long gone, the bodies have since decomposed, been found, and taken away. For all the time you spent in his realm, the human world was moving at a far quicker pace, catapulting you into a future you no longer recognized. Everything about this place had changed, but you smelled the iron still, you could still feel the blood dripping down your body as if it only happened moments prior.

Jimin pulls your chin to face him instead. “I gave you a gift, a tool, I did not make you kill him. I did not make you do anything. It was your will, your decision.”

“All I wanted was freedom,” you cry bitterly. “But in the end I never had it, did I, your highness? I was your tool, I was your pet!”

Jimin’s fingers dug into your chin, “You wanted me, you ached for it, you loved it!” 

The knife, you remembered, was still hidden beneath your clothes. You now pulled it out, pointing it at the Fae Prince.

He look at the knife, then lifts his head, looking at you. “You will use my own dagger against me? Do you think that’s wise, y/n?” His tone was dangerously low.

“It’s my dagger, is it not?” you question, “to do what I please?”

“You are not scared, y/n?” Jimin stalks towards you.

“I…I was never scared. Only lost.”

“Then let me help you find yourself again.” He breathes out, eyes glistening in the shade, a haunting sight, the rosey tint of deception was gone and you could see his true self.

“And what’s the price?” you mock.

“This time, no price from you. We’ll take it together.”

“Take what?”

“Everything.”

You let the dagger go, let it fall into the dirt, where you touched it first, decades ago.

The Fae Prince, his cool exterior broken, looked into your eyes, smile unhinging, unprepared for the words you were to speak next.

A man marked your body one last time, but by your own hands, by your own will, for power you took all by yourself. Jimin never noticed the small stains of blood soaked into your fabric, the mornings you kept to yourself, the jewelry hiding the trick you played.

As you pushed away your sleeve, revealing the scarred letters you had carved into you over so many many nights, you wondered if he really noticed you at all. 

“And why should I share it with you, Jimin?” 

---

You know, even though this story was not a story for me or about me (though in some small ways, about me), I found myself crying so much for her.

Next story up, Seokjin being a ghostie.

Spring Fling Masterlist

[criminalmindzjunkie]

Hungry Eyes

masterlist

Summary: Spencer is tired of hiding your relationship. 

A/N: The idea for this fic came from a lovely anon that requested a fic based on She’s So Nice by Pink Guy. I also drew inspo from Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen (strange mix, but stay with me here.) So basically, a lot of Dom!Spencer goodness. I’d like to say a huge thank you for almost 1k followers, because wow. I never imagined 5 people would actually want to read my writing. I love you all, and I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future works!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Warnings: swearing, jealousy, degradation, spitting, slapping, oral sex (male and female receiving), spanking, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex

Word Count: 5.5k

           “That is one fine piece of ass. Don’t think I could get any work done with a sweet little thing like that prancing around my precinct,” mutters yet another sleezeball detective, beady eyes trained on you like a lion might study their prospective prey. It’s moments like these that Spencer has to remind himself that patience is a virtue – that he must bite his tongue because he’s at work and that means he has to act professional. Even if those around him don’t seem capable of affording him the same luxury.

           So, it’s with a clenched jaw and all the self-restraint that he can muster that Spencer forces himself to focus on the task at hand. Because Spencer is a professional, and there are more pressing matters that demand his undivided attention. The detective could be dealt with later – in the form of a complaint to the higher ups. But for now, patience.

           Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem. Years on the job had taught Spencer to remain level headed no matter the circumstance. Usually, Spencer could tune out the locker room talk in favor of immersing himself into the case. But when it came to you, or rather, people who dared to look upon you with eyes laden with lustful intentions, Spencer had a rather short fuse.

           It happens often, and he supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised. You’d certainly turned his head the first time he was fortunate enough to lay eyes on you. He’d nearly broken his neck trying to steal another glimpse of you as you walked past him on your way to Emily’s office on your first day. No one would ever describe Spencer Reid as forward, but on that day, he was the most brazen he’d ever been.

           Throwing caution to the wind, Spencer made a split-second decision stop you and introduce himself.

           It was the best decision he would ever make.

           So, yes – he understood why the head of everyone you passed turned your way, eager to bask in your unparalleled beauty. But that didn’t mean that he had to like it. In fact, every time Spencer caught some imprudent bastard leering at you, he had to remind himself that enacting physical force on another person with no real reason could cost him his job. That, and he was above resorting to violence – or at least he was, until you came around.  

           Part of his anger was rooted in the obvious lack of respect. It didn’t matter if Spencer held your hand in his as the two of you walked down the street, or if he kissed you on the lips in the middle of a crowded restaurant. All the PDA in the world did nothing to assuage the lingering stares, and Spencer felt his sanity chip away with every passing day.

           In the beginning, keeping his relationship with you a secret from your colleagues seemed like a good enough idea. Both of you were in agreement that you didn’t want to your personal relationship to affect your professional one, so when the elevator doors opened up and the two of you stepped out into the bullpen, you both were on your best behavior. And it was okay at first – Spencer was able to put his romantic feelings aside and focus on his work, all while still being able to make eyes at you from across the room. It was the perfect arrangement.

           Until it wasn’t.

           Because it wasn’t enough that you were gorgeous – you were also the most selfless person that Spencer had ever met. Always eager to lend a hand to anyone in need – always seeing the best in everyone, regardless of if they deserve it or not. It was an admirable quality to have, and he loved you for it, but on days like today he wishes you were a little more perceptive.

           That, and he wishes you’d chosen to wear anything but the tight little skirt and low-cut top that you were currently sporting. Not that he didn’t love the way the fabric clung to your figure like it was tailor-made for you – because he did - it was just that every other male in the precinct seemed to enjoy it as much as he did. And that made Spencer’s blood boil.

           The tipping point comes when, just as Spencer is trying to hunt you down and propose a quick lunch break, he finds you engaging in conversation with the very same detective that had been spouting lewd comments about you all morning. You’re seated at the breakroom table, clutching a fresh cup of coffee in hand as you look up at the man, a polite smile upturning your lips as you listen to him drone on about how his amateur baseball team had won some stupid fucking tournament the previous weekend. He’s smiling down at you, endlessly smug and way too pleased with himself at having captured your attention.

           It makes Spencer sick.

           His reprieve comes when your eyes flit to the doorway and you flash him a breathtaking smile. It makes him warm from the inside out, and Spencer wants nothing more than to plant kiss after kiss on your lips. Unfortunately, he can’t, so he settles on returning your smile.

           “There you are,” Spencer greets as he crosses the room before coming to a stop next to you. “I was thinking we could go grab lunch.”

           “Is it really lunch time already?” you murmur as you glance down at your watch. “I guess I let the day get away from me. Detective Yarborough was just telling me about the baseball game his team won this weekend.”

           “Oh, was he now,” Spencer feigns interest as he turns to face the man.

           “Yup,” you say, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable tension. “Didn’t you tell me you played in a baseball game once?”

           This piques the interest of Yarborough and he raises an eyebrow at Spencer.

           “You play?” he asks, tone laden with disbelief.

           “Not exactly.”

           The detective merely harrumphs in response, and an uncomfortable silence falls on the room.

           Your eyes dart between the two men and your brows furrow adorably as you try to make sense of the almost palpable animosity.

           “Okay… So, lunch. Did you have anything in mind, Spence?”

           “There’s a really good pizza joint two blocks from here,” Yarborough chimes in. “I could show you, if you like.”

           He acts as if the offer extends to you both, but the way he looks only at you when he says it tells Spencer otherwise.

           “The hospitality is appreciated, but that won’t be necessary,” Spencer breezes, clipped and to the point. He’s able to see in his peripheral vision the way your eyebrows raise in shock, but he’s too busy glaring at the detective to care.

           “Uh, yeah. Thanks anyways, Detective,” you mutter confusedly as you stand.

           “Anything for a pretty lady such as yourself,” he replies. “And you can call me Trevor.”

           Spencer’s hands are clenched into fists and he has to actually bite down on his tongue to keep from doing something he’d surely regret later. You bid Trevor ado with a smile and a parting wave, and then Spencer’s ushering you out of the room and down the hall, hand placed firmly on your back. He can’t do much in regards to initiating physical contact, but he allows himself this miniscule act of PDA. The feeling of your warmth radiating through your blouse is the only thing keeping him from giving into his primal instincts. Instincts that are screaming at him to put that smarmy bastard in his place.

--

           The hours after lunch pass by rather uneventfully. You accompany Tara when she goes to interview the victim’s family, and for the first-time all-day Spencer is able to repress his frustration long enough to focus on piecing together a geographical profile. By the time you and Tara return, the sun has long since disappeared from the sky and fatigue is rolling off everyone in waves. When Emily finally announces the end of the day, she’s met with absolutely no resistance.

           Spencer immediately scans the room for you, only to frown when he sees that you’re nowhere in sight. In fact, he hasn’t set eyes on you in well over an hour, too busy wrapping up the days’ work to notice your absence until now.

           “Has anyone seen Y/N?” Spencer calls out. His question is met by several shaking heads.

           “I think she’s busy,” JJ sing-songs, eyebrows waggling suggestively. Spencer’s frown only deepens.

           “Busy?”

           JJ nods.

           “Yarborough has been chomping at the bit to ask her to dinner. My guess is he’s got her cornered somewhere.”

           Of fucking course.

           Spencer’s out of his seat and stomping through the precinct in second, oblivious to the way his coworkers exchange curious glances as he storms off.

           He finds the two of you in much the same way as before, only this time Trevor is blocking your path to the doorway, hand in the air as he moves to tuck a stray piece of your hair behind your ear.

           “– C’mon, babe. Say you’ll go to dinner with me,” Trevor croons in a way that’s supposed to come off as seductive. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

           You lean backwards in an attempt to evade his touch, and you barely get the chance to open your mouth when Spencer intervenes.

           “She’s not interested.”

           The detective whips around, snorting in annoyance when he sees Spencer standing in the doorway.

           “What are you, her fucking keeper?” Trevor sneers, before turning back to face you. “Who does this guy think he is?”

           Something in Spencer snaps, then – the same something that has been swelling inside him for months, threatening to spill over every time he had to pretend that the stares didn’t enrage him. He’s tired of pretending, tired of hiding, and so, so fucking tired of not putting assholes like Trevor Yarborough in their place.

           Fueled by months of suppressed anger, Spencer manages to cross the room in about two seconds. He has several inches on the detective, standing at an intimidating six-foot one inch in height, so when he comes to a stop right in front of the detective, he’s looming over him threateningly.

           “I’m her fucking boyfriend, and if you so much as try to touch her again, I’ll break your goddamn hand,” Spencer spits out, and he’d be lying if he said the way Trevor’s eyes widen in fear doesn’t thrill him. “Are we clear?”

           “Uh, yeah. Sorry, dude,” Trevor splutters, raising his hands in surrender. “Didn’t know she was taken. My bad.”

           Spencer tears his eyes away from the detective and takes in the way you’re watching on with an amused expression. He reaches out, and you’re quick to place your hand in his. Without speaking another word to the detective, Spencer leads you from the room and out the back entrance of the precinct.

           “What was that?” you tease, eyes glistening mischievously underneath the street lights. “I thought we agreed that we weren’t taking things public just yet?”

           Spencer crowds you against the brick wall of the building, pressing his body flush against yours. He ducks down swiftly, pulling you into a frenzied kiss. His lips drag against yours relentlessly, and all it takes is one breathy moan before he’s licking into your mouth possessively. Spencer slots his knee in between your legs, simultaneously groping at your chest with one hand as the other tangles in your hair.

           When Spencer pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His lips leave a trail of wet kisses down your neck as you writhe against him, hands clinging tightly to his dress shirt. You whimper when his teeth nip at the tender spot right under your ear, and you can’t help the way your hips cant up when Spencer’s tongue brushes against reddened skin.

           “I’m tired of pretending,” Spencer murmurs as his mouth continues to move against you, sucking purple bruises against your flesh. “Don’t fucking care about how it will affect the job. Tomorrow, everyone’s gonna know that you’re mine. Gonna mark every inch of you tonight – gonna fuck you until you can’t fucking walk.”

           “Please,” you slur as you guide Spencer’s hand down until his fingers graze the end of your skirt. Spencer chuckles darkly against your neck when his hand brushes against the soiled lace of your panties.

           “Didn’t mean I’d fuck you right here,” he laughs, prompting you to let out an impatient whine. The hand that was previously tangled in your hair slides down until it’s wrapped around your throat, and Spencer’s cock twitches eagerly in his pants when you push your throat harder into his palm. “Such a needy little slut for me. Ready and willing for me to fuck you out in the open, where anyone could walk by and see how fucking desperate you are for my cock.”

           “M’ your slut,” you pant as Spencer’s middle and index fingers ghost across your center. “Only yours, Spence. I don’t care who sees, just - please fuck me!”

           “I fucking own you,” Spencer growls against your lips as he tightens his hold on your throat. “And as much as I’d love to take you right against this wall, the things I have planned for you would elicit quite an audience. I know how loud you like to be.”

           Spencer pushes your panties to the side and you let out a low hiss as he drags a finger across where want him most. You cry out in frustration when he removes his hand to bring it up to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick his finger clean.

           “Just needed a little taste to tide me over,” Spencer murmurs, smirking devilishly at you as he steps back from you. “Let’s head back to the hotel. I’ve got lots I wanna do to you, pretty girl.”

--

           As soon as the door to the hotel room clicks shut, clothes are flying off as the two of you make your way to the bed. It’s a mad dash as you both undress, and as soon as the last garment leaves your body, Spencer pounces on you. Your lips meet in a passionate kiss, and the way you immediately go pliant as Spencer’s mouth works against yours makes him hum appreciatively.

           “Don’t feel like being nice tonight. Are you gonna let me use that pretty little pussy however I want?” Spencer inquires, though he already knows the answer. He’s known how tonight would pan out ever since the first roll of your hips against his back at the police station.

           You nod fervently, hopelessly, and Spencer moves his hand up to grip your chin in his hand. The pad of his thumb traces over the swollen skin of your kiss bruised lips.

           “What about this?” he asks, tapping lightly against your lip. “Are you gonna let me fuck this slutty little mouth of yours?” Spencer slips his thumb into your mouth and you immediately close your lips around the digit, suckling lightly. Your eyes never leave his.

           “You’d do anything I asked you to, wouldn’t you, pet?” Spencer muses, pressing his thumb farther into your mouth until you gag around him. Spencer withdraws his thumb and his hand tugs hard on the hair at the back of your scalp. “Open.”

           You oblige immediately, and Spencer spits into your waiting mouth. You swallow without being instructed, and the visual of it makes Spencer let out a low groan.

           “Get on your knees,” Spencer barks out, and the way you scramble to follow his order makes him let out a chuckle. “So eager to have my cock in your mouth,” he hums as he taps his dick teasingly against your cheek. You open your mouth wide for him, and Spencer guides your mouth down onto his dick at a tantalizingly slow pace. You let out a moan as you hollow your cheeks around his head, tongue lapping greedily at the precum that gathered there before Spencer makes you take him deeper.

           “Everyone thinks you’re such an innocent little thing, but here you are, letting me use you like a cheap whore while you enjoy every minute of it,” Spencer says through gritted teeth as you moan wantonly around his cock. It isn’t until he’s halfway down your throat that your eyes begin to water, mascara running down your cheeks as he fucks into your mouth.

           Spencer lets out a choked sound when your nose brushes against the skin of his abdomen, and he has to fight the urge to throw his head back in pleasure. He doesn’t want to look away, not even for a moment. Not when you’re looking up at him like that, tears running down your face as you swallow around his length.

           He pulls you off him just the tiniest bit before he’s forcing you back down, a string of curses falling from his lips as your head bobs up and down.

           “You take my cock so well, pretty girl,” Spencer praises, prompting you to let out a muffled moan around him. The vibrations send a shock of pleasure through him and he can help the way his hips stutter. “Fuck, baby. You like it when I tell you what a perfect little whore you are, don’t you?”

           You’re unable to answer, because Spencer presses down on the back of your head until you’ve taken all of him again. The pressure he puts on you doesn’t relent, not even when you gag around him.

           “Fucking choke on it, slut,” Spencer grunts. “Don’t act like you don’t want this. You were just begging me to fuck you in an alley not twenty minutes ago, like some pathetic fucking tramp. You wanna act like a tramp, I’m gonna treat you like one.”

           Spencer’s lips curl into a debauched grin when your hands come up and grip the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer and further down your throat.

           “That’s what I fucking thought,” Spencer moans, giving several more harsh thrusts before pulling you off of him completely. Spencer reaches down to wipe at the spit that coats your lips as you look up at him with a shy smile.

           “You okay, pretty girl?” Spencer asks as he caresses the side of your face.

           “Mm,” you hum, nuzzling your face against his palm. “Keep going, please. Don’t hold back.”

           “God, I fucking love you,” Spencer sighs happily. “Get on the bed.”

           By the time Spencer fishes a tie out of his suitcase, you’re sprawled out across the bed, head resting against the pillows with your legs spread wide. Your teeth are nestled against your bottom lip as you watch him stalk towards you, eyes running up and down his naked figure appreciatively.

           Spencer crawls onto the bed until he’s settled in between your legs. You present your wrists to him, just like you’ve done a million times before, and Spencer feels that familiar thrum of excitement rush through his body. He fucking lives for moments like these – moments where all his problems melt away to nothing. Moments where he has no other thought than wrecking you, thoroughly and completely.

           Once your wrists are bound you hold them above you, and Spencer sits back on his heels, eyes raking up and down every inch of you.

           “M’ so fucking lucky to be the only one who gets to see you like this.”

           Spencer pinches your right nipple in between his fingers and you let out a squeak, hips bucking up, desperate for some friction. He kneads your breast in his hand as he lowers his mouth to the other one, tongue laving around you. A light nip from his teeth is all that it takes for you to cry out, eyelids fluttering closed.

           “Spence, please. Need you to touch me now, pl-”

           Spencer’s hand connecting with your cheek stops you from finishing your sentence.

           “Do not tell me what to do,” Spencer seethes, once again gripping your chin to keep you from looking away. “Ungrateful slut. I should just leave you here, fucking dripping and desperate for a release that you won’t get. Maybe then you’d learn to take what’s given to you.”

           “Please, no! I’ll be good, I swear. I’m sorry!”

           Spencer narrows his eyes at you, contemplative.

           “Open.”

           You do as he says, and without another word Spencer inserts two fingers into your mouth, pressing down hard on your tongue.

           “Get them nice and wet, and maybe I’ll think about using them on you.”

           You do as he tells you, and by the time Spencer removes his fingers from your mouth, you’re trembling underneath him from anticipation.

           “D-Did I do good?” you stutter out, batting your lashes at him as you squirm under his gaze.

           “So good, baby. I think you’ve earned my fingers,” Spencer hums. “Need you to be still, okay? You’re not gonna like what happens if you try to move.”

           You nod enthusiastically, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers brush across your clit. Spencer spends ample time rubbing deliciously slow circles over your sensitive bundle of nerves, relishing in every gasp and whimper that falls from your lips. Lips that he’d very much like to kiss, so he does, and you’re more than happy to reciprocate. Spencer lets out a happy sigh into your mouth.

           You get lost in the kiss, so lost in the way that Spencer licks into your mouth that it catches you completely off guard when he slides two fingers into you.

           “Oh, God,” you moan when Spencer curls his fingers against your walls, fucking them in and out of you, slow and unrelenting.

           “S’that feel good, princess?” Spencer asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Tell me how it feels.”

           Your head falls back against the pillows as you struggle to keep your hips firmly placed on the mattress.

           “Feels amazing, Spence. Always feels so good with you. Never want anyone else, only you.”

           And fuck, if that sentiment doesn’t shoot straight to his heart - amongst other places. Spencer places a tender kiss to your cheek before he’s moving down to your neck and sucking a bruise right under your jaw.

           “Yeah?” Spencer prompts. “Not even that stupid fucking detective? I’m sure he’d love a chance to see you like this.”

           “So, you were jealous,” you chuckle between moans, and Spencer bites down hard where your neck meets your shoulder.

           “F-Fuck, Spencer!”

           “Should I be jealous?” Spencer speeds up the onslaught of his fingers, scissoring them at such an unforgiving pace that you can’t help but roll your hips against them.

           You regret this instantly, because Spencer’s fingers immediately pull out of you, leaving you empty and cold. Spencer tuts, shaking his head disappointedly.

           “Dumb little whore can’t even sit still long enough to cum on my fingers.”

           “Please, let me try again. I’ll do better, I promise!”

           Spencer shakes his head and scoots up until his back is rested against the pillows.

           “C’mere,” he commands. “Lay across my lap. Or can you not follow simple commands?”

           “I-I can,” you whisper as you crawl across him, splaying out so that you rest on your elbows with your ass in the air.

           Spencer grabs a handful of your ass and kneads it in his hands.

           “How many do you think you deserve?”

           You blush and smile shyly at him from over your shoulder.

           “However many you want to give me. I can take it.”

           Spencer returns your smile.

           “Good answer. I think you can handle fifteen. How does that sound?”

           “Sounds perfect. T-Thank you, Spencer,” you mumble, cheeks burning red. Spencer continues to caress the tender skin of your bare ass, admiring the way the skin is completely blank; the perfect canvas.

           You let out a whimper when his hand comes down hard on your ass before kneading the sensitive, reddening skin.

           “T-Thank you,” you gasp out, and Spencer is quick to follow up with another strike against the opposite cheek.

           It goes on like this until it’s time for the fifteenth strike, and by then you’ve devolved into garbled whines, ass bright red and marked up with the imprint of Spencer’s hands. His dick is painfully hard underneath you, and you’re in a similar state – arousal dripping onto Spencer’s thigh, coating it.

           “Last one, baby. Do you think you can handle it?”

          “Y-Yes,” you choke out. “Please, I need it. Hurt me, please.”

           The desperation in your voice does things to him, makes him practically feral with the need to fucking tear you apart, and Spencer is quick to deliver the final blow. You barely even have it in you to cry out anymore – a feeble sob is all that falls from your lips.

          Spencer’s hand ghosts down across your bruised skin until his fingertips trace over where you drip for him.

          “You like it when I punish you, don’t you, dirty girl?” Spencer hums as his fingers glide over your soaked folds. 

          “Y-Yes,” you mewl, shifting so that your cunt grinds back onto his hand. Spencer indulges you - allows you to rock your hips against his palm as he watches on in awe, soaking up every desperate sound that tumbles past your lips. 

          Spencer pulls his hand away after a moment and you keen in protest.

           “Can you sit up for me, sweet girl?” Spencer asks, and you nod, because of course you do – you’d do anything if you thought it’d please him. You struggle to pull yourself up with shaky limbs, and Spencer puts a hand on your lower back to steady you. “Can you straddle my leg? Yeah, just like that.” Spencer pulls you down and places a slow kiss to your lips, one hand coming up to wipe away the tears gliding down your face. After a moment of slow, sweet kisses are shared, Spencer unties your wrists.

           “I want you to ride my thigh – can you do that, princess?”

           You whimper as you lower yourself down onto his leg, eyes fluttering shut as you begin to rock against the hardened muscle of his leg.

           Spencer continues placing kisses on your lips, your face, your neck – worshipping every inch of skin he can reach with his mouth, all while whispering praises against you.

           “So perfect for me. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs as he grips your hips with steady hands, urging you to increase the speed of your hips. “Can’t wait to have that perfect pussy wrapped around my cock. Always so tight, yet you take it so well every time.”

           “S-Spence, m’ close,” you slur, hands clinging desperately to his shoulders.

           “Already? You usually last a bit longer than that, baby.”

           “P-Please, Spencer, I can’t-” you whimper, tears once again pricking at the corners of your eyes at the thought of having to wait a second longer.

           “Shh, baby. It’s okay, you can cum,” Spencer reassures you, and your shoulders visibly untense. “Cum for me, pretty girl.”

           It takes two more rolls of your hips for you to cum on Spencer’s thigh with a cry of his name. Spencer rubs soothing circles into your hips as you ride out your high, murmuring broken thank yous as you come down.

           Finally, you still, and your eyes open, pupils so dilated that your eyes look almost black in the dim light of the hotel room.

          “You okay, princess?”

           You give a weak nod.

           “M’great,” you smile, sounding as fucked out as he’s ever heard you. You lean down and slot your mouth against his, and the kiss is slow and languid – soft and unhurried.

            Spencer is the first to pull away.

           “Need you to get on all fours for me,” he instructs. “Don’t think you need to put any pressure on that pretty little ass of yours right now.”

           You giggle at that, before crawling off of Spencer’s lap. You assume the position, and Spencer places a pillow underneath your hips before trailing a line of kisses down your spine. By the time he reaches your ass, you’re writing against him, wiggling your hips eagerly. Spencer places a kiss to both of your bruised cheeks before pulling away.

           You let out a startled oh! when Spencer licks up your center, parting you with his fingers before fucking in and out of you with his tongue.

           “S-Spence, oh my God, yes!” you cry out, hands fisting in the sheets as he continues to work his mouth against your core.

           “Love your fucking pussy so much,” Spencer sighs against you, lapping at your clit hungrily. “Could fucking lick you out for hours. You taste so perfect, Y/N.”

            Spencer lets out a filthy groan against you, and that’s all it takes for you to fall over the edge, wrecked moans filling the otherwise silent hotel room. This orgasm hits you both quicker and harder than the first, and he can’t help but smile against you as you rock back against his face, desperate to prolong the sensation. Spencer continues to work you through your orgasm, stopping only when you cease to twitch underneath him.

           “Such a good girl for me. Think you can handle one more?”

            You raise up just enough that you can look at him from over your shoulder.

           “Yes, please,” you beg, voice scratchy and raw. “Please, fuck me.”

           “Yes, ma’am,” Spencer chuckles. “Do you think you can lay on your back? I wanna see that pretty face when I make you cum on my cock.”

           You answer by rolling over, wincing slightly when your ass comes in contact with the sheets. You look up at Spencer with wide, doe eyes. You have mascara smeared all down your cheeks and your lips are swollen, and to top it all off, deep, purple love bites are dusted across the entire expanse of your neck and chest. Spencer had set out to mark you as his – so that no one would be able to deny that you belonged to him – and he’d done a spectacular job, if he said so himself.

           “God, you’re so fucking pretty.”

           “Then come fuck me already,” you challenge, looking sated in every possible way – yet still, your eyes hold the same hunger that he’s sure is reflected in his own eyes.

           Spencer leans down and traps your lips in a bruising kiss, and without warning he thrusts in you to the hilt. You cry out into the kiss, startled by the sudden intrusion, but Spencer sets a brutal pace that leaves you no time to recover.

           “You said you wanted me to fuck you,” he growls against your lips. “Now fucking take it.”

           He’s fucking into you so hard that you can’t even manage a reply – you just tighten your legs around his waist and drag your nails across the expanse of his back, no doubt leaving bright red marks in your wake. Spencer can feel his own release fast approaching – honestly, he’s been close ever since the first drag of his tongue against your pussy. And now that he’s finally enveloped into your tight, wet heat, that all too familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach is threatening to consume him.

           Spencer’s hand descends from its place next to your head down to your clit, and your whole body jolts with the first swipe of his thumb. You clench around him as a litany of particularly filthy utterances escapes you, and Spencer’s hips stutter.

           “Fuck, princess,” he groans, head coming to rest on your shoulder as he struggles to regain his rhythm. “You don’t even know what you do to me. You’ve ruined me for anyone else. Never fucking want to lose you. Love you so much.”

           “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you chant into his ear, sounding like some kind of siren, luring him straight to his inevitable ruination. “I’m so close, Spence. Cum with me, please? I want to feel you. Please, baby.”

           “Y-Yeah, fuck,” Spencer chokes out. “Say my name when you cum, princess. Want everyone to know how good I fuck you.”

           And when you cum with a shout of his name, walls pulsating deliciously around his cock, Spencer is quick to join you. He continues to roll his hips against yours as you both ride it out, whispers of almost intelligible affirmations being shared between slow, loving kisses.

           After a moment of post-orgasm bliss, Spencer leaves and returns with a bottle of cocoa butter lotion and a warm, wet rag. You watch on with heavy lidded eyes as he cleans you up, and for a moment, he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. It’s not until he finishes slathering your reddened backside with lotion that you speak again.

           “You shouldn’t be jealous, by the way,” you murmur as he lays down beside you. “You’re it for me, Spencer Reid. I don’t ever want you to doubt that I’m anything less than crazy about you.”

           It’s everything that Spencer’s ever wanted to hear, and just like that, every fear – every insecurity that had plagued him in the past several months – fell away to nothing. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember why he’d ever been worried in the first place.

           “You’re it for me, too,” Spencer whispers as he pulls you until his arms and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

           “We’re going to have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow, you know,” you remark as you nuzzle into Spencer’s side.

           “Don’t care,” he sighs happily. “I’ll shout it from the roof tops if I have to. I want everyone to know you’re my girl.”

           “You’re a sap, Doctor Reid.”

           “Only for you.”

           A moment of blissful silence passes, before the sound of your growling stomach sets you both into a fit of giggles.

           “We never did get dinner, did we?” Spencer muses as he lightly runs his fingernails across your scalp. You hum appreciatively and a pleased shiver rolls through you.

           “Nope. You were a little too preoccupied with marking your territory to even offer to feed me,” you tease as you run your fingertips down the planes of his chest.

           “Well, now that that’s been taken care of - could I interest you in some takeout?”

          “Possibly,” you sigh, flattening your palm on his chest, right over his heart. “Do you think that pizza place Trevor mentioned delivers?”

          “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

          “Is that a no?”

          “... Look up the number.”

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