#they use he/him in the series and that's generally how he's referred to so i went with that. i imagine it's a case-by-case basis anyhow

[skrunksthatwunk]

nobody's doing it like itsuki yyh. i've been thinking about him and sensui a lot today but like. ok get this. imagine being a demon and this cute human guy (you are gay btw green hair and pronounsed and everything) shows up and tries to kill you and almost succeeds. you survive because you lament that you're gonna miss the finale of a show you watch/see a niche pop artist on tv (depending on adaptation, but either way these are your last words and it airs the next night), and he says he's into it too. you become partners. this man, shinobu sensui, is a spirit detective who's been haunted by demons his whole life, has been killing them with the complete, unwavering belief that he's right for it, since he was in pre-k. you being a demon does not seem to change how he thinks about this. it doesn't change your feelings either, since he fascinates you. you help him kill demons.

one day, your human is confronted with one of the worst sights imaginable, one that shatters his worldview completely. he sees demons being tortured and slaughtered hedonistically by a group of humans. he can't process it. he splits. your shinobu is now one of seven within his body. you love each of them. you love him. you watch as he pivots into a deep hatred of humanity, and of himself for slaughtering so many demons, and of his own inescapable humanity. you love it. you can't get enough of it. watching someone so pure and self-assured become confused, disillusioned, twisted, evil, broken, it thrills and captivates you. it's beautiful, and you egg it on. you make it worse, obsessively. you make him worse. you only want what he wants, really. but you want him to want it worse. sensui is spiraling and you don't steady him, you accelerate it and accelerate it, until he's deciding that before he dies (which will be sooner than you'd like, sooner than you know what to do with), he's going to end humanity. he's going to unleash demonkind on them and secure his redemption, his doom, his punishment. it's a baptism by fire. what a way to go. a very sensui way to go, and you love it like the rest of him: poisonously. you don't need a word of convincing, no argument (as desperate as sensui is to argue his case for this), not a second of that tape, to follow him. you watch as sensui breaks the fragile people he encounters, wrenches them into misanthropic weapons. he's amazing at it. minoru is amazing at it. he brings together his crew of heart-bleeding, self-loathing pawns, and in your downtime you and sensui watch human tv, share your love for animals, plants, the human world. you cherish, distract yourself with, and celebrate these together. they're what brought you together in the first place, and you will destroy them together. you wonder if he knows that these things he loves will surely die when the demons come. you expect he views them as necessary casualties in ridding the world of human evil. how deliciously cruel he can be. you savor it. you have to savor it. you don't like thinking about the end. that sensui will barely be alive to enjoy his victory. is he so convinced of humanity's foulness that he would never bend, never doubt his genocide at all? or would he come to regret it? would he hate himself even more than he does now? once the greater evil, humanity, is eliminated, would he turn his sights on himself? he may see himself as one of the "enlightened" humans who know mankind's evil, but he is still a human with plenty of demon blood on his hands. you want to know. you're desperate for it. you don't ask him what he thinks he will become. you want to watch it unfold naturally, for as long as he is around. let the ink bleed over the page. don't blow. don't wave the paper, don't even touch it. be patient.

your sensui is killed spectacularly at the finish line. he was struck down by a human reborn as a demon. how fitting. it's what sensui wanted, and you are happy for him, as much as you can be. it's bittersweet. you knew it would end soon. you both did. you talked about it all the time. and now it's... over. the portal is being resealed. demons will not wipe out mankind. humanity will go on, unaffected. your sensui's lonely war against his own kind is already being forgotten by the few who knew of it. such a beautiful moment, swept away by time, your sensui. and now his enemies want to claim his soul. his body. to bring him to the afterlife, for whatever judgement awaits him. and you fulfill your final obligation to him. you take him away. sensui did not want any part of that, and neither do you, not particularly. it sounds rather painful, all considered. you lift him and slip away to where no one can reach you. your own little dimension, your own little pocket of existence, just the two of you. no one can touch him now. you, either, not that you care. you hold him like you have for years, and think of your future together. here, where no one can reach him. no one will touch him or stain him or rip him or tear him ever again, not even you. but you will always be closest, and that's enough. cut off from humankind and demonkind completely. it's only you. and it's only him. you wonder how long you will live, like this. a long time. it makes no difference. sensui has broken completely, and you hold the shards of him. every piece remaining is yours, is in your arms, will be yours forever. you wonder if this should be enough for you. if you should be satisfied. you are. as someone whose last regret was missing a late night program, you don't see much point in leaving. what is there for itsuki without sensui? what is there in the world worthwhile? demons, humans, the rest of it. none of it would ever compare. not even to the shards.

you wonder, and it is far from the first or the last time, how sensui will change now, in your arms. white to black, skin to bone to dust. and when you die your soul will dissipate like his, and in a little unreality you and he will linger forever, where no one can know or recall. you will die a secret of the world, a potential wasted, a close call, a scream that is swallowed last-minute. and you will be together. it's all that's mattered for a long time. you wonder if you'll ever change. you don't expect to.

[esote-rika]

𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Series masterlist Pairing: Spencer Reid x femBAU!reader Category: smut 18+ MDNI, angst Summary: Attending Rossi's wedding while nursing the betrayal of your boyfriend, you find solace (and revenge) in the arms of Dr. Spencer Reid.   Content: 7.7k porn with a plot. Mentions of smoking and drinking, reader wears a dress, heels, and make up, and cheats on her shitty bf, semi-public sex, oral (m and f receiving), softdom!Spencer, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, reader is called naughty girl and good girl, very slight degradation, lots of praise, big dick!Spencer, size kink, unprotected p in v, creampie, rumination and references to sin and Eve and religion in general, probably blasphemous, Jeid mention, unhealthy coping mechanisms, this is kinda toxic but it's sexy I swear (I HOPE; yell at me nicely if i missed anything)  A/N: this fic had been MARINATING for more than a month. Probably overwritten and self-indulgent, years of Catholic trauma rlly just spilled onto my docs ya know. Tried very very hard to make the smut worth it because there's so much build up and I'd hate for the smut to be meh. Lost the plot multiple times. Reached the point of i’m sick of this fic pls let it end but ultimately it's a piece that I’m actually proud of. Dedicated to user @notlongtolove for the yap fest and brainstorming, iykyk!!! Pls enjoy while I rejoice; this mammoth is finally over. Special request to leave a comment so I feel accomplished, pretty please tyyyy.

Rossi's wedding had been your opportunity to introduce your new boyfriend to the team. You've taken great pains to keep your relationship private, a feat that makes you proud because the amount of things that gets past Penelope Garcia is next to nothing. But somehow, in the past four months, you've managed. You've passed the threshold, the personal rule of three months of privacy, of keeping things on the down low, and you had been excited to stroll up to Rossi's fourth wedding in the arms of Cameron, your boyfriend of nearly five months. 

Unfortunately, you'd caught another woman's underwear in his car nearly a week before the day of the wedding. He still hasn't admitted to his betrayal, no matter how many times you've pleaded and talked to him. You already know, anyway. It's easy enough to tell from his body language. The twitch of his lips he does whenever he's nervous, the way he overuses the phrase come on, every single one of his tells point to his infidelity. You've used every trick in the profiler handbook— interrogation, an attempt to seduce, anger— none has worked. 

Your pathetic boyfriend would only repeat that he loves you so much, why are you acting like this? 

So you're a depressing cloud on Rossi's big day. You hide it behind a big smile, which would normally be unconvincing, but everyone is too wrapped up in the festivities to look too closely at your hastily erected facade. 

And it’s worked, for the most part. You know it’s not because of your acting skills, but more because there’s too much going on to pay attention to you. And disappearing as part of the crowd allows you to observe and stew in your betrayal, fingertips tingling with the desire to get even somehow.

You wish you could say he’d tempted you. Pursued you with gentle brushes of his hands on the exposed skin of your back, bewitched you with his dimpled smile, so inhumanly beautiful you just couldn’t say no. How could you resist temptation when it is being presented to you by someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself? 

Because Spencer Reid has always been something akin to divinity, at least to you. As the BAU's newest recruit— appointed and transferred by the infamous Linda Barnes herself—you've had to fight tooth and nail to earn the team's trust. 

Now, Linda Barnes is gone, you have a spot on the team, and Spencer Reid remains elusive. 

His reputation preceded him, of course, one of the smartest active agents, incarcerated for something he didn't do. He's kind in the moments you've spent with him, with a bumbling earnestness that you've found endearing. 

He's also incredibly beautiful. 

So who could blame you if you did give in to his advances? People stronger than you have succumbed, after all, and you, in your vulnerable, lovelorn glory, would not have been responsible if you decided to take a bite from the forbidden apple, right? Giving in to temptation is the lesser sin, more forgivable, would absolve you of guilt especially after the betrayal you've gone through. 

Except Spencer Reid hadn’t pursued you. The meeting had been accidental, at least that’s what you tell yourself. You’d seen him leave towards the end of the ceremony. Of course you did, you had been watching him all night. Sometime towards the end of the ceremony, while the minister was talking about the importance of second chances, he’d slipped away.

You had been the one to go after him. In your defense, you’ve been itching to get your hands on a cigarette since you got here. Weddings have always made you giddy, excited. It’s a celebration of love, after all, a declaration of two people’s commitment to each other. In sickness and health. But Cameron's infidelity weighs heavily upon your shoulders, and though you've borne more than this—you're a BAU agent, after all, you face horrors on a daily basis—it's still difficult to set aside the burn when you're surrounded by happy couples. 

 So you’d put your focus on Dr. Reid: handsome in his suit, but something about him seemed distracted. Perhaps he'd been banking upon the wedding as a distraction, just like you had been. Everyone is too busy with the happy couple to pay attention to two lonely souls. 

But he's wrong. You've got your eye on him, and you see something in his amber irises that reflect your own. 

Loneliness. 

Why is Spencer Reid lonely? 

It’s the intrigue that ultimately leads you out into the hallways. And when you stumble upon his brooding form, your excuse is truthful, “I'm trying to find the bathroom.”

He kindly escorts you to the correct wing, making small talk. Something about wedding dresses not being white historically. You smile and nod, thanking him graciously as you slip into the ladies room. When you leave the bathroom after basically inhaling a stick of cigarette, he’s still lingering outside. Waiting by the wall, smiling upon your return.

“Oh,” you return his smile, “You’re still here.”

“Figured we could walk back together.” his nose wrinkled a little as you stepped closer, the smell of your cigarette apparently not sufficiently disguised.

You're smile becomes sheepish, shaking your head, “I thought I was being slick by spraying perfume, but apparently not.”

He laughs. It reminds you of the church bells that rang for the wedding. Rich and lilting. 

“Not to judge, but why the need for a smoke break?”

“Why should there be a reason?”

“You've told me you only smoke when you're stressed out.” Fuck. “Why are you stressed out?”

“Just having a bad day.”

It's the wrong answer, because his gaze zeroes in on you, oozing with an intense curiosity. “On Rossi's wedding?”

“Not because of it,” You laugh airily, but in the quiet of the hallway, it's much more difficult to pretend that everything is okay. Two can play at this game though. “Why are you out here?”

He averts his gaze to his shoes, brows furrowing in a way that makes you blood spike. He’s hiding something. 

“I just needed some fresh air.” he pushes his hands deep into his pockets, lifting his gaze from the floor and dragging it through your form, taking in your appearance in the cocktail dress you’ve donned for the wedding. His voice is strangled when he speaks again,, “You look lovely. I don’t think I’ve had the chance to tell you yet.”

“Thank you. You look very dashing too.” A pause stretches between you. In that quiet moment, it seems like the universe has presented the perfect way of retaliation for you. The nicotine had made you bold, audacious. And if you’d read him correctly, then he’s in need of relief as much as you are, the kind of relief a simple cigarette wouldn’t fix. You step closer, looking straight into his eyes, “Truth be told, I’m not in any hurry to go back.”

You see his jaw clench, the beautiful brain of his going a thousand miles per minute, likely computing every possible meaning of your words. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you decide to help him out, taking another step forward and tilting your head up.

When you kissed him, he didn’t even hesitate to kiss you back. Mouth parting, fingers tightly clenched at your waist, pulling you closer and closer until space felt like a foreign concept altogether. He is an insistent kisser, leaning his whole weight into you as his lips opened and sucked at yours. 

The dark corner isn’t ideal, but it was the closest space at your disposal. Neither of you are willing to spend more time looking for somewhere to hide, not when you could spend that time running your hands and lips in places undiscovered. Your lips across the strong angle of his jaw, his stubble tickling your skin. Spencer tonguing the space beneath your ear, fragrant with traces of your perfume. Your hand massaging him into an erection through the fabric of his pants.  

He lets out the prettiest moan when you drop to your knees in front of him. 

You don’t miss the irony of it as you tugged and undid his belt and zipper, fully conscious of the act you’re about to commit. Kneeling in a chapel, for all the wrong reasons. 

“Are you sure?” the words spill from his lips so sweetly, as if he isn't standing before you with his erection only inches from your face. Long and thick and already leaking precum at the tip. 

You take him into your mouth as an answer, condemning yourself to your fate. Spencer is beautiful like the devil, and you’re Eve succumbing to the first sin. 

Two wrongs do not make a right. You know this. Everyone does. A lesson as old as time itself, written in languages you can’t comprehend. Even mathematics dictates that adding two negative integers does not cancel them out—the negative value merely increases. You should not retaliate on your boyfriend by committing the very sin that hurt you in the first place. By all accounts, nothing good should come from it.

Yet here you are, on your knees for a man as pretty as the devil himself. A man very much not your boyfriend.

Even fucking worse, your coworker. 

Tucked in some dark corner—not even given the dignity of a dusty closet. That at least would have given you complete privacy. No, you’re on your knees in some seemingly abandoned hallway, half hidden by a combination of the dim lights, and ostentatious pillars, and him. His lean body shields you from general view as your lips stretched around his throbbing length.

You learn that he is a contradiction. A large hand gathers your perfectly styled curls, holding them at the crown of your head. Gentle, careful. The other rests just beneath your jaw, holding your head still as he slowly pushes his hips forward. Your nails grip his pants as your mouth stretches around his girth. The fabric wrinkles under your clutches as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, then begins to push beyond it.

Only half of his length in and you're already choking. 

Wide, panicked eyes dart up to meet his deceptively honeyed ones. You consider pulling back, just to catch your breath but you can’t; his hands are holding you steady. Oddly enough, the look in his eyes helps you relax. There’s something inherently trustworthy about those ochre irises, despite the fact that his pupils have blown up so much and nearly eclipsed them. Maybe you’re too used to indifference from Cameron, too used to sex being so clinical and borderline perfunctory, that the unbridled lust in his gaze excites you instead of scare you away. 

Still, it doesn’t help the little choking issue you’re currently having.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. You blink back the tears that have gathered at your lashes, still maintaining eye contact with him. Spencer sighs, pulls his cock out. Mercy. It's not something you deserve, but you take advantage of the moment wisely, following his instructions and breathing through your nose. 

The stench of sin is musky and stale. You fill your lungs with it all the same, just as he rams his cock back down your throat and fills your mouth. He hisses when you gag around him lightly, but doesn’t stop. You realize that you’d probably chase after him if he does anyway. 

His thumb caresses your cheek, “That’s it, good girl. You can take it.”

Well fuck.

It’s a little too much, balancing on your knees like this while he uses your mouth and throat, but you push through because he says you can. You fancied yourself the seductress, but somehow, the tides have turned and you’re little more than putty in his hands. 

His cock glides in and out of your mouth with ease, painting chapped red marks from your lipstick along the veined length with every push of his hips. Finding your balance, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock, stroking up what you can't fit into your mouth. After a few clumsy attempts, you manage to match the rhythm of his hips. 

What a pretty figure you make, on your knees, looking up at him with fluttering lashes. You moan around his length, sending vibrations up his spine, and are rewarded by his mouth falling open, a wordless expression of pleasure. He continues to fuck your mouth, never breaking eye contact as he eases his cock deeper with each thrust. Tears gather at your lash line every time he goes down your throat. 

You’re sure your throat is distending in order to accommodate his girth, and it makes your own pussy clench at the idea. What would it be like to have such a large cock inside your walls, filling you? It makes you moan again, and Spencer’s hand tightens at your hair. His pace quickens, and you hollow your cheeks, urging him to continue.

You hear his undoing before you feel it, strained groans tumbling from trembling lips, before his hips thrust forward and suddenly your nose is pressed to his crotch, and there’s an explosion at the back of your throat. He holds you there, eyes watering, drool spilling from the corners of your ruined mouth as he blows his load deep in your throat. 

Yeah, he definitely needed that.

You swallow what you can, but that’s difficult when there’s a huge cock obstructing your throat.

It ends up being a mess, combination of your saliva and his cum dripping out of your mouth and onto the floor. How fitting. In the back of your mind, you’re just happy that only a few drops landed on your dress. Easy enough to clean. Miraculously. Your conscience, however, is an entirely different story.

Still, some part of you can’t even begin to feel bad. Cameron had cheated first, he’d broken the bounds of your relationship first. 

Sure, this is still wrong. You have no moral ascendency to stand on, but who cares about any of that when Spencer Reid is kneeling before you with gentle hands and even gentler eyes? 

“Are you all right?” he murmurs, his voice slow and sensual like dripping honey.

Somehow, your voice does not betray you, coming out clear and far more confident than you’re actually feeling. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He smiles, thumbs wiping away some of the residue off your lips, “Are you sure? You look a little dazed.”

You laugh, “I mean, yeah, but I just need to catch my breath.”

He takes your hand, helps you stand back up. “I think another trip to the bathroom is in order.” he says as he guides you to the bathroom again.

When you get there, you are a wreck of the highest order, curls dishevelled despite his attempts to be careful, lipstick smudged around your mouth. Your chin is still a little moist from the drool and cum that had dripped down. Tear tracks drag down your cheeks, but thankfully your eye makeup and foundation are only a little smudged. Nothing a little dab of a napkin won’t fix.

You fix what you can—quick spray of perfume, reapplication of lipstick. Hands steady as you work.  You aren't sure if this is a sign of guilt, or lack of it. You don't really care. He's gone when you leave the bathroom now, and the soft, treacherous side of your heart fills with disappointment. You remind yourself that it's better this way, less conspicuous, if he returns to the wedding before you. 

Still, swallowing his load with an obstructed throat somehow had been easier than swallowing the bitter disappointment that builds in the back of your tongue.

The ceremony is just about to end when you return to the makeshift chapel, people standing and clapping as David and Krystall Rossi share the sweetest kisses. A celebration of love and second chances. After what you've done with Spencer, you know this is out of your cards now. You've fallen far beyond redemption, shot the remnants of your relationship with Cameron after kneeling in service of another man.

You catch sight of Spencer, standing in the midst of other agents. Clapping like everyone else, but his eyes are trained upon something else. Curiosity gets the best of you and you follow his gaze, trying to approximate what he's looking at.

Or rather— whom. 

If you're correct, then he's looking at someone.

Oh.

Blonde hair, a slim frame in a beautiful red dress that perfectly accentuates the long, muscled lines of her arms and legs. Beside her, a man with salt and pepper hair and kind blue eyes. His arm at her waist. Your coworker and her husband. JJ and Will. 

Oh.

Your gaze returns to Spencer, and despite your attempts not to dig deep, not to learn why he's looking so forlorn, it’s easy to put the pieces together. Whether or not this is a full blown affair isn’t important; all you know is he wants her, and she's married to another man.

Is this connected to the previous case? You recall the last case, the hostage situation in LA. He and JJ had been in there for a long time, but neither really shared what exactly happened. Nobody knows except for the two of them, the unsub, and the victims. You aren’t about to pull rank and ask traumatized people about the drama between your coworkers. You’re better than that.

Are you?

Yes. You don’t hold much sacred, but your job is important. It is above you. You aren’t about to jeopardize it over some workplace drama.

But still, the curiosity gnaws at you no matter how much you attempt to tamp it down. Does he have feelings for JJ? Does she, for him? She couldn’t possibly; she has a husband, two beautiful kids. Easy enough to deduce that it’s probably Spencer, then, who is pining after her.

As though he feels your stare, Spencer looks over at you. Hurriedly, you avert your eyes, heart pounding faster than you would like it to.

Was he thinking about JJ while he used your mouth? 

The thought knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you banish it to the deepest crevices of your mind. It shouldn't matter. 

It doesn't. It doesn't. 

You don’t have any room to judge, anyway. You’ve dragged Spencer into your own messy relationship by sucking him off in the middle of the wedding. A relationship he doesn’t even know about. So, with a smile, you clap for the new couple, and follow the crowd to the reception. 

Joy and excitement are nearly palpable in the room. A small, intimate crowd of smiling faces surrounded by the tastefully extravagant decor, obviously paid for by the wealthy groom. The air is filled with that soft, electric energy that often occurs when people are happy and sufficiently buzzed with some drinks. 

The only thing on your mind is him.

How can it not be, when you can still remember the little tryst you'd had prior. The weight of him in your mouth, the fetid mess of skin and cum and the lingering nicotine.  

It passes by in a blur. The food is delicious, you gush to Portia, you look so beautiful; congratulations, to the new couple. None of it is fake, but you are possessed by a single, irrevocable urge to watch Spencer. That glance at JJ has intrigued you more than you should be. What sort of web had you stumbled upon? And instead of trying to get out, you're eager to spin more.

Bringing the champagne flute to your lips, you pretend to sip, allowing the glass to obscure some parts of your face while you continue to watch them. They’ve met up at the bar now, deep in conversation, hands clasped together in a way that’s far too intimate to be just friends. You can't tear your eyes away as JJ leaves, returning to the embrace of her husband, and you watch with an almost sick sense of fascination as Spencer lingers by the bar. Longing, pure and unmistakable, is etched upon every line on his face.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are moving, gliding across the floor until you're beside him. He startles, brows lifting as he gazes at you. Your name slips through his lips with an exhale.  

“You don't have to act like I'm a ghost, Spencer.” your lips quirk up in a teasing grin as the bartender refills your glass of champagne.

He looks chagrined, the implications of your words hitting him like a brick. “I’m not, you just seemed like you were having fun with Garcia.” he says, leaning on the counter. His eyes travel down the length of you again.

“You’re right, but you were looking a little lonely,” you take a sip from your champagne, letting the bubbly drink fizzle in your mouth and wash away the taste of him. “So, what was that with JJ?”

He sputters, eyes wide as his gaze darts back to your blonde coworker—now currently wrapped up in her husband’s arms.

“Nothing!”

“Holding hands when you’re a known germaphobe doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“I’m not that bad,” he protests, shaking his head, “I’d hold your hand too, but that’s besides the point.”

“It is,” you agree, tilting your head innocently, as your voice lowers, “Just wanted to know who you were imaging in place of me.”

He looks horrified to be reminded of your little quickie from before, “No one. It’s not—I wasn’t using you to—god, it’s not like that.”

“I’m not judging you if it was,” It’s true. It’s exactly what you’re doing with him, using him to forget about Cameron, to get back at him. Poor Spencer just doesn’t know about your secrets. Your amused look only makes him fluster even more.

“It isn’t,” he insists, “I just –”

“Listen, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, fighting the urge to rest a reassuring hand on his forearm. The words are true anyway; you don’t wish to unearth whatever secrets he wants to keep buried. You have your own, anyway; it’s only fair he’s allowed his secrecy. Your reasons for approaching him are entirely different, and perhaps a little self serving. But you’ve already condemned yourself to being the bearer of temptation, you might as well take full advantage of it.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” you grin as you lift the recently refilled glass to your lips, “You know I have a room for the night… in case you want to blow off more steam.” 

The invitation makes his eyes darken in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “You’re—we shouldn’t.”

“Who would know?” you quirk a brow in response, “Besides, it’s pretty much tradition for people to hook up at a wedding. Why shouldn’t it be us?” Please, say yes.

“We’re coworkers.”

“We’re adults.” you deliberately don’t say single adults, “It’s fine. Listen, I booked a room because I didn’t want to deal with the traffic, so if you want, it’s 309B. Completely up to you.” with a smile, you leave him at the bar and Spencer Reid is forced to watch a woman walk away from him for the second time.

That night, there's knocking at your hotel door—three sharp, no nonsense knocks that seem to mean business—echoes in your room minutes before midnight. You don’t bother looking through the peephole to confirm who’s on the other side. The moment you open the door, there’s not a lot of build up. 

He’s shed his suit jacket; wearing only the white button down, slightly rumpled from the day’s events. His crown of light brown curls, carefully pushed back earlier, had fallen all over his forehead, messy tendrils tumbling across his face. 

He takes one look at you—still in your lavender dress, but devoid of makeup and no more heels to add inches to your height. In the dimness of the room, you are diminutive, stripped of the ethereal mystique you bore from earlier. Human.

God, he wants you. 

Not even as someone to help him forget about JJ. No, he wants you in your entirety, to possess you even for one night. 

He kisses you again, but there’s no rush to his movements now. The previous rendezvous had been hasty in every sense of the word, made within minutes in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need all while staying safely hidden and inconspicuous.

Now, you have the entire night. He intends to make full use of it. He kicks the door closed behind him, one hand reaching back to lock it as the other tilts your face up so he can kiss you deeper. Your own arms snake around his neck, hands burying into those messy curls. There’s no more public reception to worry about; you can tug and twist and mess with it as much as you want.

Spencer groans into your mouth, hands tight at your hips, before pulling back slightly, “Jump.” he mumbles against your lips.

Your body reacts as if it’s wired to obey him, launching off the balls of your feet. His hands help to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his hips.

“You smell so good,” He whispers as he noses through your neck, before his teeth close around your earlobe. You giggle, urging him on by craning your neck to the side. His teeth tug on your earlobe playfully as he crosses the room to your bed. He toes off his shoes and lays you down carefully, his body hovering above yours while his kisses travel down your neck. Soft and sloppy and wet, they mark you like a brand. 

Long, eager fingers hike your dress up, bunching it up your thighs, past your hips, and you hear him groan when your bare pussy is exposed to his darkened gaze. 

“No panties?” he runs a finger up your folds, gathering your slick, “Don’t tell me you’re been going around like this all day?”

“Maybe I have,” you grin, legs parting even more to accommodate him. You haven’t—you’d just been touching yourself to the thought of him as you waited, but you’re not about to tell him that. 

“Naughty girl,” he mumbles, one long finger pushing past your entrance and curling into you, “And so wet, too. You get off on being this dirty, or am I just lucky?”

A breathy laugh escapes your lips, “Which one would you prefer?” you ask, because tonight, you’re not yourself. Not really. You’re whoever he needs to be, the same way he’s exactly what you need right now. A body to which you can lose yourself. 

“I’d like to think this is all just for me,” he adds another finger, the pace languorous and teasing.

“It is,” you gasp as he curls his fingers, then withdraws. Torturously slow, he fucks you with two lengthy fingers, hitting the spot inside you with ease. Your toes curl into the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, “Faster.”

“So needy,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he takes you in. There’s something addictive in the way you look in this moment, spread out beneath him like something unreal and sublime.

Your hips buck up. Something volatile simmers beneath your skin, desperate for more, “Please.”

Spencer chuckles as he watches you, fingers stilling inside your fluttering walls. Hovering above you with soft brown curls framing his face, he looks every bit an angel come to life. The laughter continues, his lips twisting into a sneer as you push your hips up desperately. 

“So, so needy.” he repeats, but he acquiesces to your plea. More than that, he sinks a third finger inside you and speeds up. A cry of surprise and pleasure falls from your lips, head thrown back as he works his fingers inside you, “Oh, you’re taking it so well.”

Shame unfurls in your chest. What are you doing? Begging another man to fuck you with his fingers? Enjoying it? Is this truly what you’ve come to?

It’s not something you can dwell on, as Spencer begins to curl his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit. It circles the nub slowly, adding a layer of stimulation that has your thighs trembling. With a squeal, you writhe, moving to close your legs as the sensations become red-hot, building up closer and closer to a crescendo.

Spencer tuts teasingly, one leg pressing down on your thighs, and his other hand coming to grip your hip and hold you in place. “No, no, darling, I want to see you coming undone on my fingers.” he says, continuing to make come hither motions inside you. 

“God—oh, I’m so—ah!” words trip over one another as you approach your climax, the world coming down into one point of focus. “Spencer!”

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs, laying his body over you as his fingers help you through your orgasm, “There you go.”

You’re thankful for the weight of him; it is a grounding presence in the midst of all the flurry. You’ve come undone at the hands of another man—literally. Never mind that Cameron had betrayed your trust first; you are no better than him. 

But if sin felt as good as Spencer Reid’s kisses, then you have no qualms indulging. 

His lips are upon you again, traveling down your collarbone and nipping at the skin there. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, sensitive but still eager for more. He laughs against your skin with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.

“Are you always this needy?”

“No,” you’ve had a taste of the forbidden fruit earlier. Thrown out of Eden, you’re already past the point of no return. Might as well succumb and have one hell of a time. “Only for you.” 

He hums, pushing your dress up again. It gets caught somewhere around your chest and there’s a brief moment of awkward laughter as he tries to tug at it, force it up and off you. 

“Zipper,” you gasp when your brain finally works. Lifting yourself up on your elbows allows him to slide his hands to your back, find the dangling piece of metal and ease it down. The dress loosens across your shoulders and chest, and he’s finally able to pull it off altogether.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, descending upon you once again, “So beautiful.” 

His words have you preening, and you wonder how something so insignificant as the word beautiful could make you feel so heavy. You used to associate delight with weightlessness, floating and light, but everything about Spencer is lumbering and grounded especially after he came back from prison.

You feel his lips and tongue making their way down, kissing every inch of your body. He tugs your bra down, not even bothering to take it off completely, your breast spilling forth and free for his touch. He takes one nipple and sucks, while his thumb circles and gently tugs the other. Every single act has you gasping, and you wonder when and where the hell did Spencer Reid ever learn how to do this? You shouldn’t question it though.

When his mouth lands upon your hips, you jerk. “Spencer,” you gasp, looking down on him, but there’s no more teasing from him now, no hesitation. Before you can even formulate what to say next—you don’t have to, I’ve already cum, I’m still so sensitive—his mouth is at your core, tongue lapping up what remains of your previous orgasm and all evidence of your arousal.

“Fuck!” you are not responsible for your actions anymore, not responsible for the way your fingers find his russet curls and tug hard, the way your thighs try to clamp shut around his head. He chuckles against you, the sound sending tingling vibrations that travel from your pussy to the tips of your toes and fingers.

“Settle down,” laughter drips from his gentle admonishment, “Or I’ll stop.”

“Please don’t.” you’re past the point of shame and guilt, eager to beg and obey as much as he wants. The positions have turned since the tryst in the hallway. No longer are you on your knees for him, no longer the one servicing him and choking around his length, yet somehow you’re still at his mercy. “Don’t stop, please, so good.”

He laughs, and you feel something sliding past your entrance. You clench around it involuntarily, as if you can tell what it is from the mere feeling, but then his mouth wraps around your clit and you’re reeling into oblivion once again. 

“Spencer!” you thrash against the pillows, overwhelmed and sensitive but still eager to take more, “Spencer, oh my god, Spencer!” you lose count of how many times you’ve uttered his name from your lips. It has simultaneously lost every meaning, yet retained all of it. An invocation of fervent desire from a lowly, undeserving sinner. Thankfully, your god is merciful and giving, because Spencer wraps his arms around your thighs to hold you down, sucks at your clit harshly and thrusts into you again—fingers, you now realize, all three spreading you open and curling deep inside you.

With everything going on, your climax comes as no surprise. You and Spencer are both expecting it, you’re so worked up after all. What makes you both pause is the fact that something gushes out of you as you arch off the bed and cry out his name. 

His movement stills for a split second, before he continues and helps you through your orgasm, tongue lapping at the mess between your legs as your body is wracked with the aftershocks, trembling beneath him. After a few moments, he stops, resting his head at your hip. 

Looking at him feels like a risk. Fear keeps your eyes squeezed shut, afraid of what you’ll find. More teasing? Disgust? Doesn’t seem like it, from the way his fingertips are trailing over your thighs. You lift your lids again, eyes meeting his own hazy ones. They are nearly black, but what pulls your attention are his lips and chin. Glistening with slickness. 

Your slick.

“Oh god,” your words are half groan, half laugh when the reality hits you, “Did I really?”

He laughs again, light and tender. “I believe you did.” 

“I’m sorry.” you mutter, feeling utterly mortified that you just squirted all over your coworker’s face. 

Spencer’s expression is one of mischief, but his eyes gleam with something darker. “What for?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Another laugh, “But I wanna hear it,” he coos, pressing his lips to your hip bone, “Come on, darling, what are you sorry for?”

When you don’t answer, he nips at your skin playfully, slowly moving back to your center. Your pussy throbs both in anticipation and overstimulation. 

“Spencer.”

“Mhm?”

“Too sensitive.” you try to squirm out of his grip. It only tightens, presses you deeper into the mattress. 

A lick, teasing and light. “Tell me why you’re sorry.”

“Spencer!”

“Come on,” He's grinning, the bastard, “Why are you sorry?”

“Because I squirted in your face.”

He bites your inner thigh with more force than usual, “You shouldn't be.”

“Hm?”

“I loved it,” He murmurs, soothing the bite with a flick of his tongue, “Wanna see you do it again.”

You shudder, though you’re unsure whether it’s from his moistened tongue, or his words. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he drags himself up, kissing along your body as he does so, “Think you can be a good girl and do it again for me?”

“I think that’s entirely dependent on how well you do.” 

Soft, dewy lips curl into a smirk at your challenge, and suddenly he’s sin incarnate, a devil about to pounce. Once again, how are you to deny this man of anything? How could you resist temptation when someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself is looking at you as though you were the masterpiece? Liquid gold irises take you in, inspecting every inch of your body with unabashed want, and you’re reminded of the fact that he’s fully clothed, cock straining through his pants, and you’re in nothing but your flimsy bra that’s been pulled down your chest it’s not even covering anything anymore.

You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but then his hands come up your sides, ghost over your ribs and your back until he finds the hook of your bra.

“Not really fair,” you say as the last strip of your clothing falls away, your chest heaving from the sheer weight of his gaze, “I want to see you too.” with that, you reach for him, deft fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt. 

He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t help, only continues to regard you with quiet intensity. 

Once his clothes are off, he meets your lips again. His kisses are slower this time, an almost dreamy tangle of tongue and teeth, but his body is hot and slick with sweat even as he holds himself on his elbows above you. His cock rests upon your lower abdomen, its heft reminding you of how much your mouth had to stretch to accommodate him earlier. How the length and girth had all but blocked your airways as he thrusted into your throat.

You clench around nothing at the idea of that same cock filling your pussy. 

His kisses move down your jaw, down the column of your throat, being careful not to suck too hard on the skin and leave marks. You never know when you might be called in for a case, and he doesn’t want any trouble.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, positioning the tip at your entrance.

You grin and shake your head, “No, I want to see if you can make me squirt again, or if that last one was just beginner’s luck.”

Laughter. You’re beginning to find sex with Spencer enjoyable on more than just the physical aspect. He drags the tip of his cock over your folds, combining his precum and your arousal into a heady, natural lubrication. He’s big, you already know that, but right now, you’re so pleasure drunk that you have no problem opening up to him. 

You can tell he’s being careful, pushing his tip in slowly, and your entrance flutters, stretches around him. There’s a slight burn, but it’s accompanied by awe, overtaken by pleasure. You marvel at how his cock sinks into your slick, velvety heat, the way every slight thrust makes your body conform to his own as he carves out a space for himself. 

As if he belongs there. 

As if you’re his. 

Every single memory about your cheating boyfriend is expelled from your mind with every thrust of his hips. You moan and clench around him at the thought.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips stilling. His cock is only halfway through, and you already look so fucked out, “Careful with that, darling, or this is gonna end sooner than we’d like.”

Your lower lip trembles, but you nod, spreading your thighs apart even further. “Sorry.”

He kisses that expression away, “Don’t be sorry,” two large hands hold your thighs in place, keeping you spread for him as he sinks in another inch. And then another. You’re so wet, and he’s done such a great job stretching you out that your walls engulf him easily.

“Oh god!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you. You hear a chuckle, before he retreats, pulls out almost all the way, and once again you’re clenching around his length as though you’re trying to convince him to stay buried inside you. 

“Stop clenching.”

“Can’t help it!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” With a soft hiss, he thrusts back inside, still slow and steady. The curse makes you gasp; you’ve never heard him curse before, somehow it’s even more jarring than when he’s murmuring filth into your ears. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you, unblinking and focused, watching your every reaction. “You okay?”

“Fuck yes,” you gasp as his thrusts grow steady. The world seems to disappear around you, the only point of importance is where your bodies are coming together repeatedly. You reach up, hands seeking for something to ground you, and finding purchase at his tangled curls, “Oh god, yes!”

It’s funny, crying out for a god you don’t really believe in. Crying out for a god when you’re in the midst of sin, carnal pleasure and infidelity and who knows what else, you were never religious to begin with. You wonder if this is what religion is, this free fall, the blind surrender. But faith as you know it believes in something unseen, the conviction to the intangible and unexplained. 

Spencer is very much here, and you can feel him between your thighs, his very existence present in the stretch of your walls around his cock, the soft curls you’ve woven around your fingers. He keeps his thrusts slow but deep, letting your walls feel every single vein and ridge on his cock. 

“Spencer,” you moan, one hand falling to his face, soft palm on the stubble at his jaw, “Feels so good.”

“You too,” he turns his face, pressing his lips to the warmth of your hand. He’s very tender, his movements measured to ensure your comfort, “God, you’re taking me so well.”

Your walls tighten around him in response.

Something seems to ignite in his brain, his hand catching your wrist, pulling it from his face and pinning it to the bed. “You like that, my pretty girl? Like knowing you’re doing a good job for me?”

Fuck. The same rush of heat from when he’d had you on your knees fills your stomach. The heat that compels you to do whatever he wants, take whatever he’ll give in order to hear more of his praise. Like a devoted servant, at the service of a benevolent god.

“Yes,” you gasp, hooking one leg around his hips, while the other is bent at an angle, foot pressed to the mattress in order to allow you some leverage to meet his thrusts. It’s sloppy at first, your body not entirely in your control right now.

“That’s it, my darling, you can do it.” he mutters encouragingly, pausing to allow you to join in this tangled, exhilarating dance. When you’ve gotten steadier, he resumes his thrusts, and you’re finally able to buck your hips up to meet them.

The action sends his entire length buried deep inside you, something he’s been very careful to avoid in fear of hurting you. But instead, you let out a cry of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Yes!”

“Right there?” he grunts. You’ve never heard him before, voice low and strained as he slams his hips into yours, again and again. The mattress begins to creak from the force of his actions. 

“Mhm hmm!” You meet him thrust for thrust, the impact hitting spots deep inside you that you’ve never felt before. Toes curling in on themselves, one hand buried in his hair, the other pinned by his strong grip, “Oh, god, Spencer, yes!”

 He loosens his grip on your wrist, intertwines your fingers together, “Good girl. Look at you, so pretty while you take me.”

No words come from your mouth, only his name, repeated over and over that it begins to sound made up, unreal. Perhaps he is divine. Nothing human can make you feel this way, surely. 

He shifts, his free arm wrapping around your hips to elevate you slightly, and the new angle has you keening, every single muscle in your body tightly wound and white-hot as he pounds into you. It’s obscene how easily your body accepts every single inch of him, the way your pussy flutters and yields to the throbbing length of his cock. 

“My god, you feel like heaven,” he groans, and that’s it, those words have you screaming so loud he starts to laugh and kiss you just to swallow the sound. You’re shuddering beneath him, crying, the pleasure coiling and building until it bursts and snaps, cascading over you with such fervor he has to wrap both his arms around your limp body to help you calm down. 

Somehow, your hazy mind registers the wetness between your thighs, the loud, nearly pornographic squelching of his body plunging into yours. He’d done his goal; he’s made you squirt again. You are boneless in his arms as he fucks you through your orgasm, and chases his own. You only regain agency when he tenses, groaning into your ear.

“Gonna cum,” he says, moving his hips to drag his length out. He’s so long you’re able to wrap your legs around his waist before he’s pulled his cock out all the way.

“No, please, do it inside.”

His body stutters, head falling to the crook of your neck as he ruts his hips into you, not even bothering to argue or ask you if you’re sure. He thrusts into your sensitive pussy erratically, mouth open and groaning into your neck, “Oh my god, oh my — ah!”

Spencer holds onto you, breathing heavily into your ear as you both come down from your high. You feel simultaneously weightless and heavy, melting into your mattress with sweet, glassy eyes. 

“That was incredible,” you whisper against his hair. He’s already half asleep on top of you, mumbling incoherently against your shoulder. You don’t bother to move, letting his still hard cock stay buried inside your pussy as you both drift off into dreamland.

Morning comes with a delicious ache in your lower belly. Spencer has you tucked to his chest, his arm around your waist. The air is heavy with the lingering smell of sweat and sex, but also oddly light with the knowledge of a new day. You shift in his arms, yawning as you will your body to wake up and shake off the sluggish feeling clinging to your bones.

He wakes slowly, groaning into your hair, “Morning.” he mumbles.

“Morning,” you reply, but before either of you can say any more, your phone rings. Mindlessly, you reach for it, not even bothering to hide the screen from Spencer, who’s nosing at your temple sweetly.

Cameron ❤️

Your heart sinks. Before you can hit the ignore button, Spencer turns his head, still half asleep as he catches sight of your screen. The name, the heart emoji, the multiple missed calls shakes off every single sleepy cell in his body.

“Who’s Cameron?”

more size kink fics in the BUD Chronicles.  Forehead smooches to the many people who witnessed the conception of this fic and patiently listened and helped me as I crashed out and went screaming crying throwing up, hey nachos, @mggslover (who also proofread ty) @beenreidingaboutyou @reidingandallthat @burymagdalene and @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat good god there's so many, my need for reassurance is actually extremely bothersome and embarrassing but ily guys.

[flowersforthemachines]

Some facts about Emmrich (and also the Necropolis, Nevarra and other related things) gathered from the banters

I went through all companion banters on DanaDuchy's channel after playing the game to write down all facts about companions/the world that I haven't seen brought up anywhere in the game as a writing reference (and for funsies).

Note: This list may not be exhaustive. I might have missed some something or didn't write it down because I considered it common knowledge. If you have anything to add, please DM me or send an ask! (do specify what banter the information is coming from, though)

Note 2: Posts from this series (mostly) don't include information from banters specific to quests or between companions and faction members. I plan to do another playthrough to capture more of those and will add any relevant info to the character posts.

Other characters' posts: Bellara, Davrin, Harding, Lucanis, Neve, Taash. I'm also planning a post about just the Lighthouse some time later

About Emmrich:

Family and early life:

“Volkarin” is a commoner’s name. Emmrich’s father was a butcher, and his mother was a cook 

When Emmrich was around 5 years old, his neighbours had a pig named Lucy. He was very fond of her, and she’d always let him hug her around his neck

Emmrich grew up poor (clocked by Neve based on the way he always saves his candle stubs, shows up first for meals and never leaves food on his plate) 

Emmrich grew up hearing that all dragons were so hostile they had to be slain and is surprised that Taash has found ways to deal with them peacefully 

General:

The gold Emmrich’ wears is called “grave-dowry” (or “grave gold”). It’s a Nevarran custom to wear precious objects one would like to take to their grave

Emmrich’s bracelet (not specified which one) was gifted to him on the day he became a full Watcher. The ring with a large stone was the last gift from his father. The skull pin doesn’t have a story, he just likes it

Emmrich isn’t fond of the Nevarran nobility

Emmrich’s shaving cream smells like potash (at least to Taash)

Emmrich uses moss perfume with flowers

Decades ago, Emmrich used to see an Orlesian woman who was an art appraiser

If Emmrich wasn’t a watcher, he would like to be a botanist

Emmrich displays some interest in Ferelden, mentioning that many of its heroes greatly shaped the history. Harding says that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about her homeland

Emmrich doesn't like beer because it's bitter

Emmrich prefers tea (he mentions purchasing a Brynnlaw curled-leaf blend in Nevarra), but he can also drink coffee 

Emmrich doesn’t eat meat (seafood and insects included), but he indulges in cheese. It seems to be a Watcher thing - he says that each Watcher must decide what they will and won't take a life for, and meat crosses that line for him

Emmrich likes melons, mushrooms and pineapples. He also enjoyed a plate of fried leeks and potatoes at Halos’s stand in Minrathous

Emmrich always thought he’d get married one day

After a Minrathous merchant sells Emmrich fake charms, he causes him to see skeletal faces on the windows and hear spirits whispering that false goods endanger lives as punishment. Emmrich agrees to stop once Neve tells him that she can convince the merchant to get back to selling linen if the visions cease

On magic and studies:

Some deaths may leave emotional imprints so intense Emmrich may feel them decades later 

Emmrich thinks the magic of old Elven artefacts is “rigid” 

Emmrich isn’t very good at figuring out Elven artefacts (by his own admission)

Emmrich’s first published work was A Monograph on the Vagaries of Determining a Body's Time of Death

Emmrich is roughly familiar with the dragon anatomy

Emmrich knows a lot about how bodies work (muscle-wise etc.) from the time he performed autopsies 

Watchers study the death practices of other cultures. Emmrich knew about Eb-ketarra and the Rivaini traditions even before Taash performs them at the end of their questline

On life in the Necropolis: 

When Emmrich fell for another boy during his youth, he showed him a corpse he was allowed to practice dissection on. The date was ruined by a passing wisp possessing the body and causing it to sit up and ruin the mood 

Emmrich tutored Dorian during his term in the Necropolis (“Tremendous potential, but appallingly flippant towards the dead”)

Emmrich and other watchers live in the Necropolis (Emmrich has a flat there)

On life at the Lighthouse:

It took 8 skeletons half a day to bring that slab of marble into Emmrich’s room

He didn’t bring his entire collection of books to the Lighthouse (there are more)

Emmrich talks to skulls in his room 

Lighthouse kitchen reminds Emmrich of the mortuary

Relationships with companions:

Emmrich offers to introduce Bellara to Audric, the Necropolis librarian (who appeared in Tevinter Nights’ Down Among the Dead Men)

Emmrich calls the Archive spirit a work of art  

Emmrich and Davrin disagree on parenting methods. Emmrich thinks Davrin should better discipline Assan and teach him boundaries, while Davrin suggest Emmrich should let Manfred learn more on his own (e.g. let him fall so he learns how to get up) 

Emmrich turns to Neve when he needs help acquiring some reagents he can't get his hands through normal ones, and she agrees to help him out (smuggling is involved)

Emmrich isn’t too thrilled about Neve taking over the Threads, questioning of what’s going to become with the organisation and the future and thinking it may become corrupt (sort of mirroring the way Neve is apprehensive about his lichdom) 

Taash likes Emmrich’s lich helmet. They are not usually fond of skulls, but that helmet is fine because it’s on fire

Taash thinks that gemstones like amethyst or green opal would look good with the lich helmet

Emmrich doesn’t seem to like unrealistic books as he criticised Harding’s “Gore-Knight” novels for their incorrect interpretation of magic. He is worried about people misunderstanding magic and spirits

Emmrich calls himself Harding's 'de facto physician'

On Manfred: 

(If Rook chooses to save Treviso) Manfred brings Neve tea by his own volition. Emmrich thinks it's because Manfred sensed she might need a friend

Manfred is as aware of his surroundings as most people (to a certain degree)

(If revived at the Necropolis) Manfred learns to say Emmrich’s name 

(If revived at the Necropolis) Manfred becomes much more talkative 

Manfred likes boiling tea because he is fascinated by steam

Emmrich suggests Manfred tries tending to plants in Harding's garden 

Manfred is curious about Spite and wanders into Lucanis’s room at night

Spite and Assan miss Manfred if he’s gone

On Lichdom:

Emmrich smells fine to Taash even after he becomes a lich 

Emmrich’s lich helmet burns with veilfire. He once tried using it in combat, but the flame ended up blinding him

Emmrich thinks Strife would no longer be interested in a relationship after he becomes a Lich. That doesn't prove to be true

Lich!Emmrich doesn't need to eat but still comes by the kitchen for company

The energy of Emmrich’s magic changed after he became a lich

Other liches call lich!Emmrich “Young Volkarin” 

Lich!Emmrich no longer has muscles, but when he tries out Taash’s pull-up routine, he can still feel something like “a spectral memory of flesh”, as if he had pulled a tendon

Emmrich starts seeing more books in the Lighthouse library after becoming a linch

About spirit, demons, and the Necropolis: 

There are spirits of Temperance and Diligence 

The Watchers avoid using the word “demon” because it creates bad expectations and can negatively influence spirits 

Some in the Mourn Watch suspected that elves originated from spirits, though it was just one of many theories, and not a particularly popular one

Chambers in the Necropolis can go missing (according to MW!Rook, they turn up, eventually)  

Even after the despair demon is banished from the Necropolis, the halls remain cold. However, the effects will abate with time

There are horses on display in the Necropolis

Watchers rarely get possessed thanks to the special wards of the Necropolis. Possessions also don’t happen as often because the necromancers already provide spirits with bodies, so they don't need to possess anyone by force

Bellara calls the background magic of Necropolis tidy and quiet

There something called “The Deep Necropolis” featuring sections like “The Unspoken Valley” and “The Charnel Bridge” (which has something called “nightmare fog”) that hosts all kinds of entities. Bellara is very excited to visit once the nightmare fog clears

Vorgoth ensures that the transgressions of those who use magical to cruel and abusive means will not be tolerated (whatever that means)

About Nevarra:

Many great Nevarran artefacts have been lost to time, including the Skull of Sabinar, the Key of Dead Dreamers, and the Crown of the Moon

There are strict rules about selling enchantments in Nevarra. You can’t sell anything without a licence and an inspection from the mage Circles

A Tevinter poem “Faustina's Song”, a romantic epic from the Steel Age, is very popular in Nevarra, and its quotes are used on ‘more than one’ epitaph in the Necropolis. Neve is surprised people even read it outside Tevinter 

Pineapples don’t grow in Nevarra

[tprings-hair]

I'm going to say something about the new unification short film that I haven't seen anyone here say yet.

I love the handholding scene. massively impactful. I love the echo of "this simple feeling" from the motion picture and the genesis reference and the idea that spock did not die alone or among strangers. it's just so satisfying after all this time to know that even shatner knew it was wrong and needed to be approached with more compassion for nimoy and the fans who loved these characters and knew they should be together at the end, whatever that looked like.

but you know what really got me?

this minute or so. kirk confronting his old selves. because that's obviously original series kirk right there in the gold uniform.

and the other? THAT'S HIM!!

(I'm linking it this way because you apparently can't add more than one video to a post and I need it here for demonstration.)

so we have present kirk walking down a dark hallway. at the end is spock, but at the end is also spock's death. how can he step forward and face that? what happened to the way he used to think about death?

yellow shirt is TOS kirk, who had always found a way around the problem and never (if the movies are to be believed) had to face death straight on. he's looking forward with confidence. there's no way spock is dying. there's a way out of this somehow, if only he can find it.

TOS kirk looks back the way he came, because he believes he can go back. he can always go back. the series always resets to the same characters who can be depended on to take similar actions, because that's what a serial is, and that's who he is. things have taken their toll on him, but he knows he can take the hit and keep moving.

but he stops when he's faces with WOK kirk. the one in the red dress uniform, who has lost spock and knows what it is to live without him. who has faced death in a way he had never had to before, because the constraints of the series never allowed it. he has been changed because of it.

TOS kirk sees that, and does that sort of posturing that he always does in front of someone who's threatening him. but WOK kirk isn't threatening him. he's just living through something TOS kirk hasn't had to face yet. it's him staring his past self in the face and telling him, kindly and firmly, you know nothing about how it will feel. you will never be the same without him.

and TOS kirk looks back again, and there's a present kirk, wearing his generations uniform. this is kirk having turned that grief to a desperate search for the most important person in his life, and emerged with spock by his side. he's not the same, but he's made it through. of course TOS kirk would look to that.

and as our kirk looks at these people he used to be, they vanish in front of him. he remembers the way he used to think about losing spock. the fear, the grief, the hope. there's no hope left. when he reaches the end, spock will be there, and it will be their last time together.

but he puts the pin back on, and reminds himself of his duty not just to a fellow officer, but to a friend, to the most important person in his life, and to himself. spock should not be alone, and he never got to say goodbye properly before. doing it now is the least he can do.

that's his ultimate responsibility in that moment: being there for spock. that's been his ultimate responsibility from the beginning. and this is shatner acknowledging that they deserved an ending that fit that truth.

[sabertoothwalrus]

your character designs are incredible! do you keep anything/any thought processes in mind as you draw fanart vs how you draw ocs?

OOOOOO what a fun question...

I'd say my general thought process about how to build a new character-- figuring out who they are and what they do and what they're like-- is all pretty much the same across the board. The main difference between designing fan characters vs original characters is how I answer those sorts of questions.

For original characters, it can be almost overwhelming because I get to choose everything. I can make everything perfectly suited to my own tastes, except I have a broad range of things I like, and my tastes change constantly FJHFHD so depending on the project, choosing a more specific direction helps narrow things down.

Here's some old ocs I redrew recently. They're from an old story I'm not planning on revisiting, but it was about an art student, her little brother, and some grim reapers. Can you tell who is who?

I wanted the alive characters to have a lot of Opposites from the reapers. Warm vs Cool colors. Round vs Angular shapes. I wanted the reapers to look skeletal and sickly looking, and it was important that they all had some kind of hood. They needed to wear black & grey, but their colors still needed to be interesting, so they're all tinted with a color (one is sort-of blue, one is sort-of red, one is sort-of purple).

The story is more serious, so it felt appropriate that the characters were more realistically proportioned compared to some of the cartoonier designs I tend to do. They're still heavily stylized, and I tried to push myself to go harder on the shape language and Appeal™.

For fan characters, it's actually a lot of fun because so much of the work has been done for you. The more source material you have to work with, the less you have to come up with.

So, an example I'm going to use is Hugh Dini, a character I came up with as part of a fan concept for a new entry in the Ace Attorney series.

Phoenix Wright's daughter, Trucy, is a magician. She was 17 in her last appearance, and my fan concept takes place 7 years later, so she'd be 24. I decided she'd have a boyfriend who is also her assistant, and went from there.

I knew Hugh was going to be a defendant, which according to Ace Attorney rules means that he'd be falsely accused of murder. I needed to create a guy who was sympathetic, someone that you'd WANT to help prove his innocence.

What I did was reference existing characters from the games who fit similar archetypes and took a lot of design cues from them. I also referenced characters like Fukuo from Kiki's Delivery Service, who is a delightful himbo wifeguy that looks a little intimidating but is actually just kinda shy. And then I looked at actual photos of stage magician costumes for additional inspiration. THEN I go back to the source material to compare design details I want to add (ex, Hugh's high collar, his cuffs, the collar, the cape being turned into fringe on his jacket) and see if it already exists somewhere. No point in reinventing the wheel if I don't need to!

I wanted him to be like a "sexy magician's assistant", which I thought was a funny contrast to his restrained demeanor. He needed to be flashy, but not TOO flashy that he'd upstage Trucy. And additionally, since this is a game series where the characters are mostly seen from the waist up, I tried to keep his most interesting details in the top half of his design (but honestly in hindsight, I could have given him more. like Zak Gramarye's thigh-strap belt bag, perhaps).

Some other things I like to do when creating fan designs is to "roleplay" being the designers of the source material. If concept art is available, I reference that. I like to find the design quirks the character designers favor, and use them to make my own designs more convincing. If I'm designing something for, say, a european tv show that came out in 2005, I'd refer to the fashion and design tendencies that were most prevalent in the culture then, because that's what the actual character designers would have been most inspired by. But I'm not perfect, I'm gonna have the biases of an american lesbian living in 2025 no matter how hard I try LMAO

Hopefully I was able to answer your question!

[scarletriddles]

Lost in the fire ˚༄ | S.R

↳ in which the team’s newest case puts your life in jeopardy, at your own accord.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: angst, sprinkle of fluff

warnings: general cm gore/case discussion, fire/arson, injuries related to fire, swearing, references to religion + greek mythology, friends to…? (they’re in la-la-la-love, your honour), some possible inaccuracies (sorry!), small jemily mention because lesbian rights, hopeful ending, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person narrative.

word count: 4.3k

a/n: my first ever fic i’m very nervy🫣i’m not expecting this to gain any sort of traction, but lmk how you find it, i suppose!

“Haley Bradstone, aged twenty-five, and Laura Kilmey, aged twenty-seven, are the most recent victims in a series of murders in Detroit, Michigan. Both victims were discovered four days apart, and only five miles away from each other, their bodies disposed of in black FIBC bulk bags that were left in trash-sites.” JJ pauses, her gaze flickering between the team, almost hesitant as her thumb circles the silver remote. But, with a clearing of her throat, she continues. “Cause of death for both victims has been ruled asphyxiation…by smoke inhalation.”

You abruptly halt toying with the frayed edges of the case file, your eyebrows shooting up and head lifting to look at her, and then also at the rest of the team - who look just as bewildered.

“Sorry, did you just say smoke inhalation?” You ask, genuine confusion weighing down your tone.

JJ nods, her expression dismayed as she eyes the two beaming faces displayed on the board. “Yes, as laid out in the case files, high levels of carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide and hydrogen sulphide were found in both victim’s lungs. The coroner also noted soot around the victim’s faces, and TBSA burns, all of which are synonymous with death via smoke inhalation.”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning is actually the leading cause of death in smoke inhalation - causing approximately 2,100 deaths in the U.S each year.” Spencer adds, followed by his familiar flat smile, which he usually does when he doesn’t know what to do with his face - which happens to be always.

You blink, with a slight quirk to your lips, despite the circumstances. Trust your good doctor to know just about everything.

“Were there reports of any fires around the general area?” Hotch pipes up, his face set in his usual stony expression, though his eyes betray his pensiveness.

JJ shakes her head, adjusting her stance. “No, which is what makes this stranger. The DPD reported no calls about any sort of fire on the days our victims were killed.”

“What? So our unsub just…lit a bunch of fires in plain sight?” Derek questions, with a flick of his brow, his gaze alternating between the board and the manilla folder in his grasp.

You huff, turning to face him with a slight smile, musing. “Must be one hell of a magician.”

Derek smirks in general bemusement, his dark eyes swirled with mirth, his tone light as a feather as he shifts in his scratchy office chair. “Looks like it, lil mama.”

Ever the smooth talker.

“Or, he could be using a secondary location.” Emily chimes in, her narrow-eyed gaze set firm on the file in front of her, her slender fingers fiddling with a bullet-point pen, and her lips contorted into a reflective pout.

“That’s plausible, but you’d think at least someone would notice.” Rossi adds, with a slight huff of incredulity, his calculating gaze sweeping across the entire room before him.

The two smiling faces are quickly joined by two more, both just as radiant, both just as nausea-inducing. Those poor girls.

“We don’t know for sure. But, the most recent victims join twenty-eight year old Sarah Holloway, and twenty-two year old Jessica Bailey. Who, similarly, were found four days apart, five miles away from each other and dumped in black FIBC bags, also ruled dead via asphyxiation. However, Sarah and Jessica’s dumpsites were around 14 miles away from Haley and Laura’s.” JJ purses her lips faintly, eyes still fixated on the crime scene photographs of four similar looking women who didn’t even live properly yet, robbed of the chance to, just like Poseidon robbed Medusa of her autonomy, on the marble steps of her deity’s temple. The thought alone just worsens the crease between her brows.

“four victims…why are they only just asking for our help, now?” Spencer ponders, features frozen in contemplativeness. His fingers sweep up to push his black-rimmed frames back to their previous position on the bridge of his nose.

God, you love his glasses.

JJ’s face morphs into a faint grimace, as she replies in a reluctant tone. “Unfortunately, the media managed to connect the dots on this one, they’re dubbing our unsub ‘the smoke-killer.’ But, the DPD really needs our help with this.”

You sigh, eyes trained on the gruesome imagery displayed on the silver screen. No matter how long you’ve been with the BAU, the violence never quite gets bearable for you, though you can’t bring yourself to look away - like witnessing a car-crash. You understand the psychology behind it, shock rooting the human body in place as the brain tries to comprehend that what it’s processing is real.

But, guilt still flows around in your system like the Noachian flood. Maybe, if you thought about it hard enough, you’d feel the ark bashing against your innards as it tries to navigate the brutal waves.

You suppose the violence doesn’t get easier for the team, either. Perhaps that’s what keeps you all tethered to each other, bonded. After all, the Greeks did beat the Trojans in unity - and disguised as a large, ligneous horse, but you digress.

Hotch nods, solemnly. “Alright, we can discuss further on the jet. Wheels up in 20.” And with that, he abruptly stands up, striding out of the room with a sureness in his step that only he could possess, effectively putting an end to the briefing.

The screen then goes dark, the car-crash finally being attended to. The sounds of chairs scraping across the frizzled navy carpeted floor and paper rustling bounces around the small space, as everyone heads out and into the bullpen, all but the exception of spencer, who remains seated, brooding over his manilla file as though he’s a modern day Thomas Aquinas. always thinking. You muse to yourself, though your eyebrow still raises in question nonetheless.

“Reid, you coming?” You probe gently, standing in the doorway with a faint grin. Your eyes flickering like fairy-lights all around his hunched-over frame.

Spencer startles slightly, craning his head up from the file and over to you - a rosy hue creeping up the nape of his neck from the sight of you alone. He swallows, standing up suddenly, and pushing his chair out with his hip, as he breathes out. “Uh, yea-yeah i’m…i’m coming.” He collects his things quickly, scrunching up his case file as he slings his satchel over his shoulder. Though, it doesn’t really matter, he’s already memorised it from start to finish. Eidetic memory and all.

He flashes you his signature flat smile once again, as his muddy hues rake over your appearance. You look pretty today, well he thinks you always look pretty, but today especially. Your hair swishes around your face in wisps like cotton-candy, your frame adorned in your usual grey fitted slacks, paired with a pink striped puff sleeved button down and black leather boots.

He believes you’re the personification of an angel, and with the way the abnormally-harsh office lighting is dancing around your hair in a nimbus-like manner, he’s probably right.

“C’mon then doctor genius, we have an hour long flight to catch.” Your voice rolling out with a teasing lilt, a subtle smile curled around the edges of your glossed lips.

Spencer usually loathes being referred to as a genius, namely because it’s said with such obvious sneer and condescension, like he’s an abnormal form, like he’s still that twelve-year-old high schooler. But, you never say it with thinly-veiled disgust, no, you say it with such reverence- like it’s something to be admired.

Yeah, angel.

He mirrors your smile, eyes soft and starry eyed as he follows you out of the room. “one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 seconds.” He corrects softly, always keen for specifics, his satchel smashing against his upper-thigh periodically as he walks beside you.

You huff in amusement, rolling your eyes in jest. “Right. My bad, one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 second long flight.” Your head tilts up slightly to look up at him, your irises dipped in unsubtle gaiety,

Spencer lets out a huffy laugh of his own, shaking his head in amusement. He loved when you teased him, though he’d never admit that. At least, not to you anyway.

“Oh, forgive me for being specific.” He sounds out, airily, like a dish-soap bubble crafted by small exploring hands, as he places his own ridiculously large palm on his chest in mock-offence.

“more like particular.” You reply, just as you reach your desk, in faux-annoyance, the curl of your lips betraying that fact.

Spencer puffs out another slight laugh in response, as he leans against the edge of your desk, watching you comb through it. His gaze doesn’t settle, darting around the array of trinkets and just general stuff aligning the glossy oak, including the multiple pots of bright pens - some looking vaguely like the ones he’s seen scattered around Penelope’s ‘bat-cave’ - and even a stick-figure drawing of him scribbled onto a canary yellow sticky-note, featuring overly large glasses and converse, which are more akin to clown shoes, alongside an equally as dramatised stick-figure version of Morgan, complete with a badly scrawled out six pack and huge biceps.

He feels a warmth blossom in his chest as looks over the cluttered space. It’s just so irrevocably you.

“particular or not, i still believe everything-“ He begins.

“-everything should be accurate, wherever possible” You mock affectionately, with a barely hidden smirk, still rooting through your things like a squirrel digging for an acorn.

A slight pout forms on his face, bordering on more petulant than anything. “How’d you even know I was going to say that?”

A faint effervescent giggle slips past your lips, your head still firmly pulled down, as your hands continue their wandering through your desk drawers. “ ‘Cause you’ve said that line at least a dozen times now, doc.” You drawl out, still grinning to yourself.

He wants that sound to be his morning alarm.

He rolls his eyes, only half-seriously, a smile lighting the corners of his mouth up like a vegas ‘welcome’ sign. “I have not said that a dozen times!” He huffs out, with a shake of his head at the injustice of it all, his dark curls springing with the movement.

You just smile, continuing to rifle through your desk before you locate what you were looking for, quickly straightening up and collecting the rest of your things before turning to him.

“Well, I’m all set doctor, lead the way.”

“Is that just so you don’t get lost again?” he replies, with an overt teasing twinkle.

You groan, blowing out like a whistle “that was one time! i was still new, and the hallways are confusing!”

He just bellows out a laugh, pushing up off the edge of your desk and beginning to walk - more like stride - his way to the elevators. You in tow, but just barely. His legs are way too long.

“I can put a sign on my back that says, ‘follow me’, if needs be.” He throws behind his shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!” You bark out, not really with any bite. Never with him.

It had been about three days since you landed in Detroit, Michigan. Most of that time being spent cramped up in the tiny makeshift office curated for the team, downing copious amounts of coffee, reading files until the backs of your eyes burned and dodging the borderline leering looks from the mid 40-year-old, beer gut endowed cops.

In other words, it was hell.

The team had made some progress, though. Narrowing down the profile to a white male in his early to mid thirties, who works a menial job, of average height and build, and who clearly dislikes women. Obviously, that didn’t narrow down the ‘Where’s Waldo’ search by much. But still, you really just couldn’t shake the obvious question…

Why go through all the trouble of burning these women, but not completely, just to dump their bodies?

And it seemed that question floated around the backs of everyone else’s mind, too. It was bizarre, to say the least.

Currently, the team is all stuffed in said aforementioned makeshift office space, like sardines in a can, no less. Emily and JJ sat at the table together, as usual, Derek propped up against the wall, Hotch and Rossi stood brooding in the corner of the room, quietly discussing something between themselves, leaving you and Spencer situated in front of the board, where the geographical profile is mapped out.

“He’s operating within a 20 mile radius, dumping the bodies within an area he’s comfortable in. He’s either going to strike here.” Spencer points to a spot on the map with his finger, tapping against it slightly before dragging it across and towards another spot, “or here.” His features were swamped in pondering thought, his honeyed gaze encompassing the sight in front of him.

“Yeah, but i still don’t understand why he’d go through all the trouble of burning them till they die from smoke inhalation, and then discarding the bodies. jus’ seems a lil’ pointless t’ me” Morgan drawls out, his stance wide and his arms folded, one of his hands resting on his chin.

“well ain’t that the million dollar question.” You reply, with a sigh lathered in perplexity, your arms folded in a similar manner, but with one of your hands rubbing up the side of your arm, in a absentminded fashion.

“Morgan’s right, it doesn’t make any sense.” Hotch pauses slightly, contemplating - like everybody else in the room. His dark eyebrows stitched together, and his lips set in a taut frown.

“None of it makes sense, i mean, even the dumping method, why bulk bags and not just plain ol’ trash bags?” Emily questions, sitting back in her seat with an exhale, her legs crossed with her boot-clad foot tapping against one of the legs of the rickety table.

You blink, a thought coming to you at her question. “Theres a Hardware store in the middle of town, right?” You throw out, hands stuffed into the pockets of your black slacks.

Hotch’s brows furrow, as he regards you. “Yes, why?” He says simply, almost curiously.

You shrug, “so then he’d probably be getting the bulk bags from there, since it’s easily accessible.”

Everyone goes silent at your question, seemingly mulling it over, before Morgan responds.

“If so, why wouldn’t he just buy trash bags?” He says, with a cock of his brow.

“Because he wants the victims to be found.” Spencer states, plainly, piling onto your train of thought and rocking back and forth on his heels, as his tongue darts out, swiping his slightly dry bottom lip.

“Think about it, a bulk bag is much more conspicuous than a simple trash bag, he wants his handiwork to be seen - maybe not right away, but he knows at least one person would find the presence of a large plastic bag near a dumpster to be…alarming, whereas no one would bat an eye at seeing a trash bag. Same goes for his M.O, he most likely has some sort of access to an incinerator, perhaps due to his job, which allows him to discreetly ‘burn’ his victims, before dumping them in a way which derives notice.”

His hands flail around wildly as he talks, an endearing habit that makes it seem like he’s so excited to talk about what he’s discussing that, at the minimum, one part of his body has to move with the speed of his mouth.

You smile - more of a secret thing, really, just for yourself - you love listening to that man talk. It’s the eighth wonder of the world, to you.

Everyone nods, the notion seemingly settling into their psyche without much problem, as logically, it did make sense.

“If thats the case, then we have a problem.” Rossi scratches the side of his jaw lightly, his head tilted and his bronze hues directed at the table.

Emily raises her brow, in clear need of clarification. “What problem?” She murmurs out, her head cocked to the side, questioningly.

“We have an unsub who wants attention, and will stop at nothing to get it.” Hotch adds on, sharing a brief glance with Rossi, his expression more grave than usual, before he fishes out his phone, dialling a number and setting the onyx Nokia down onto the table. “Garcia, you’re on speaker.”

“Hello, my favourite crime-fighters! To what do i owe the pleasure?” The shrill cheery voice of Penelope Garcia rings out, immediately bringing a small smile to your face. She really was like bathing in sunshine.

“We were wondering if you could take a look at a hardware store’s sales within the last month, more specifically of FIBEC bulk bags.” Hotch drags out, his arms still folded and his face betraying nothing but his usual stoicism.

“Oh, that i can do upside down with my hands tied, sir! just…one…second.” Penelope’s voice hauls out, followed by the rapid clinking of keyboard keys. “What’s the name of the store?” She asks, her tone focused.

“Sally’s Shack” Hotch replies, his tone equally levelled.

After a few moments, and a lot more keyboard clicking, Penelope finally pipes up again. “Ah-hah! so, it appears that our shack in question has sold six FIBEC bulk bags within the last month, all to the same buyer - well, at least the same credit card was used, ending in 4678.”

Hotch looks visibly taken aback slightly, before he asks “Can you get a name, Garcia?”

“Already on it, sir.” Penelope replies, with her usual peachy tone.

A tense silence follows, only sporadically broken by the clickity-clack of Penelope’s rainbow pastel keyboard. Then, she pipes up again.

“Okay…looks like the card belongs to a 33-year-old, Mr. Eugene Humphrey, who currently works at…” Her words trail off, obvious hesitance behind them “…burns funeral home and crematory, and owns a residence just in the middle of town.”

Everybody seems to pause, then. He matches the profile - Mid thirties, works a menial job which would give him access to a ‘discreet’ burning method and just so happened to purchase the same material used by the unsub, whilst also owning his own property not too far away from the hardware store in which the material was purchased…yeah that can’t be a simple coincidence.

“Pen, does he have a criminal record of any kind?” Your voice floats out, drifting through the confined space like Thumbelina on her shamrock lily-pad.

“I will have a looksie for you now, my sweet sugar muffin, just hang on one second-“ Penelope cuts herself off as her fingers begin their ministrations again, the keyboard rumbling with every tap, a smile edging on your face at the absurd term of endearment.

“Alright…looks like our guy spent six months in juvenile detention when he was sixteen for lighting his girlfriend’s car on fire, claimed he caught her cheating on him with his best friend, youch!”

You can practically see the cogs turning in your teammates heads, looks like you got your guy.

“Okay, thats good garcia, could you-“

“-send his information over? already done, sir.” promptly interrupting the low voice of your unit chief, in a way that is so Penelope, that he can’t really object.

“Thank you Garcia, We appreciate it” Hotch replies in his typical authoritative tone.

“You’re welcome, my gorgeous gods and goddesses, now go and save lives.” Penelope chirps out, swinging on her swanky desk chair, her hands now preoccupied with a bright pink fluffy pen.

“You’re the best, babygirl.” Morgan calls out, his tone suave and a smirk illuminating his features.

Penelope lets out a giggle, replying in her token-teasing articulation. “Only for you, my chocolate thunder, now ta-ta!” Her sing-songy voice sounds out with finality, before the line drops, indicating that she ended the call.

“Alright, everyone, looks like we’re scoping a funeral home. I’ll go inform the captain, and i need all of you to gear up, as a cautionary, is that clear?” Hotch demands, his gaze expectant.

resounding murmurs of “yes” fill out the area, to which the dark-haired agent replies to with a curt nod, before swiftly exiting the room.

You let out a breath, turning to the rest of the team with a faintly reluctant expression. “Let’s get this show on the road then, guys.”

Morgan flashes an easy smile, coming up behind Spencer and clapping him on the shoulder, his smooth voice infused with teasing. “You heard her, pretty boy, let’s get moving.”

Spencer has to resist an eye-roll, his cheeks immediately flushing raspberry red, whereas you just let out a small confused laugh - clearly not in on whatever inside joke that seems to be playing out - turning on your heel and prancing out of the room, leaving the two of them to squabble like 10-year-old brothers.

Though, on your way out, you swear you saw Emily squeeze JJ’s hand underneath the table…

Something went wrong. Terribly wrong.

You don’t know how - hell, nobody on the team knows how, but Humphrey somehow found out you were coming. He might’ve gotten some frustratingly accurate in-tell, or maybe he just… knew. After all, bad news attracts bad news, right? And being arrested for the murders of four women sure seems like pretty bad news. Or maybe he was a paranoid fuck. Either thought seems plausible, but currently pointless.

Ironically, Burn’s Funeral Home and Crematory, was well…burning. The two-story high foundation, which you’re guessing was once a depressing waxen colour, is now engulfed in orange. Bright, blazing orange, and for a moment, you almost believe the sun crash-landed onto earth.

The ignited shades dance across your features , making you look like you’re almost glowing. You hear Morgan let out a few curses, and Emily mutter something eerily close to “Oh my God” under her breath. But, the rest of you remain silent, devoid of speech, heads lifted up and staring at the fiery wreckage. Drawn in, entranced.

You can’t pull your eyes away, Not even when Hotch snaps out of his own silent gazing and begins to talk around you, shooting out instructions like darts to your co-workers. Well, until you hear a fire-man trudge past you, in full PPE and carrying a winding anaconda-like hose, writhing along the gravelled floor with each step he takes, similar orders being barked out of his mouth to his team-mates. But, that isn’t what grabs your attention, it’s the information coming from his radio.

A mother and her child are stuck in there, apparently looking for a casket for her husband before the building went up in flames, and they aren’t even going to attempt to save them - something about the fire being “too large, too risky.”

A mother and her child. Her 8-year-old little girl who just lost her father, and now is going to lose her own life, trapped in a scorching maze.

Not on your watch.

You will not, cannot, let this sick bastard take another girl’s life.

Your legs move before your brain even has time to catch-up, darting straight past multiple fire personnel who all try to stop you, but you dodge each one. Not even the sounds of the team shouting your name halts you, your figure retreating straight into the raging inferno.

What’s that saying? Moth to a flame?

Well, consider the molten-structure your flame. Because you won’t stop, will not stop, not until the mother and her daughter are out. Safe.

Either way, God appeared before Moses in the form of a fiery bramble. And maybe, he was doing it again, instead for their freedom, not yours or a 120-year-old man’s. You were getting them out of this desert, even if there were no miles of grainy-sand and the occasional tumbleweed, but instead hot, piercing, smouldering heat.

Spencer’s astute brain doesn’t take long to register what the hell you are doing. And, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so panicked. He practically screeches your name, moving to go after you, but with no such luck as Morgan and Hotch hold him back. But he fights, and he fights harder than he’s ever had in his life, because this is you.

“Let me go! she’s in there! you can’t just let her go in there!” He shrieks, every word sharpened with utter desperation.

Neither Morgan’s nor Hotch’s replies to his incessant wailing actually penetrates his mind. He feels like he’s underwater, succumbing to the depths of the Mariana Trench, fading black and blue.

The water freezes over the longer you’re in there. Trapped in that dismal, enflamed formation. He feels sick, but he knows spilling his stomach content won’t provide any relief, it’s a sickness that’s lodged itself into his bones, into his very being. He wonders if this is what the Woolly Mammoths felt like during the first coming of the glacial-period, just observing as they, one-by-one, all perished to the frost.

He can’t have lost you. Not before he-

…Not before he could tell you that you’re his first thought when he wakes up, and his last before he surrenders himself to the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

No, this can’t be it. He refuses, he downright rejects the thought.

He just stares, and stares at the lit up property, his whole entity screaming for you to just make it. His mind and mouth spinning prayers to god’s he doesn’t even believe in because if there was any chance of that turning the cards in your favour, then he’s taking it and holding on tight.

The seconds feel like minutes, the minutes like hours. Time is a fickle thing, always stretching and compressing back together again depending on someone’s emotions. But, that philosophy does nothing to distract him from the ache. Because a life without you in it, he grasps, isn’t a life at all. Not one that he wants to live, anyway.

Two soot-covered frames emerge from the fiery entrance, immediately being swept away by fire-personnel for medical treatment. And his heart stops, until he realises you aren’t either of those coughing figures.

Where are you? Why aren’t you coming out?

Time seems to stretch again, expanding like a black-hole over his fitful, beating heart. Ready to consume, ravage. But, maybe, that would be an act of mercy, anything would be an act of mercy compared to the waiting. Agonising, hoping and waiting.

Then…a third figure finally bursts out of the flames. He’s seen that mop of hair before, he knows that hair. Even at a fair distance, hunched over and simultaneously gasping for air and hacking your lungs up, tousled, with skin embedded in ash, You’re beautiful and you’re alive.

You’re alive.

He pushes his body forward and he runs, he sprints and goes to you. And this time, Hotch and Morgan let him.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Other Boy Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Spencer is focused on not hurting you and keeping a healthy distance, but his whole world is turned upside down when he hears a male voice in your apartment.

Words: 3,9k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of jail, gun, violence, alzheimer, blood. references to what happened with maeve (no direct mention). painter!reader. post prison reid (with so much trauma). lack of communication. angst. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This chapter was veryyy difficult to write because I really wanted to show both points of view, and I killed myself researching the deeper consequences of three months of confinement to be realistic with Spencer😭 I hope this makes sense to you.

Most days in apartment 23 were lonely and very decadent.

Generally, Spencer Reid woke alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person, the sheets cool and undisturbed on one side. Coffee came first, a dark, bitter brew that filled the air with its sharp aroma. He would stand by the kitchen window, staring out at the skyline, lost in thoughts that circled endlessly but led nowhere. His medical books were always on the table, their spines cracked and pages marked with notes and highlighter strokes. He pored over them not out of passion but desperation, chasing elusive cures for his mother’s Alzheimer’s. The phone rested nearby, a constant reminder of his work, its silence pressing heavier with each passing hour.

When there was no call, which was really weird, he filled the void with repetition. He’d toast bread or fry eggs for a meager breakfast, then venture out to the coffee shop on the corner. The routine was painfully predictable: the same stale donuts, the same barista with the tired smile, the same seat by the window. Thirty-two minutes, start to finish, every time. If the phone didn’t ring even then, he’d wander aimlessly to the library, where the scent of old paper offered fleeting comfort, or return home to let classical music fill the otherwise suffocating quiet. He was always pleased to hear songs without lyrics that could further suffocate his brain. It was a nice way to wait to be needed.

But one day, the loop cracked. Midway through his meticulous routine, something—or rather someone—broke through the fog of his predictability. You moved in next door.

And then, all of a sudden, his quiet time between classical sonatas, coffee, and huge books was interrupted by your cat, and consequently, you. His whole routine changed right away. He no longer woke up alone in his bed because you and Mittens took up all the space that was left and more. He didn't just buy one coffee anymore; now he bought two, with an extra brownie that you loved. He didn't lock himself away to read non-stop because he had you to talk to and give him the support that no book could ever give him. He stopped listening to so much classical music because you liked watching him analyze the lyrics of your favorite songs. He stopped waiting for calls from work to feel useful because you always seemed to need him.

And he welcomed all the changes, because the biggest one was his favorite: you.

Everything about you captivated him from the moment he saw you hauling an absurd number of canvases into your apartment. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met. Your presence turned the once-sterile hallway into a place of possibility, where running into you felt like a small miracle. But what amazed him most was how you transformed his apartment, a place he once thought of as lonely and very decadent, into a home. It wasn’t just the way Mittens treated his space like her second domain or how your art supplies slowly began to infiltrate his coffee table. It was the warmth you brought with you, the way you made him feel seen and understood in a way he never had before.

But since Spencer was used to it, nothing good lasted. But since Spencer was used to it, he'd rather leave than be left behind again.

You two were almost like strangers now. The warmth that had once filled his days was gone, replaced by a hollow silence that lingered in every corner of his apartment. There were no more mornings waking up together, no shared cups of coffee, or lazy conversations about nothing and everything. Even your casual hallway encounters had dwindled into fleeting moments, a rushed “good morning” as you passed each other without meeting his eyes.

Now, his mornings were cold and solitary once again. He sat alone at the small kitchen table, the other chair pushed neatly against the wall as if to erase any memory of you. The second coffee cup he’d grown so used to buying stayed behind at the shop, and the barista didn’t even ask about the brownie anymore. Instead, he carried a single steaming cup back to his apartment, where it joined the growing pile of books that had reclaimed their place as his only companions.

He buried himself in his medical texts with a desperation that bordered on obsession, but even the words on the page couldn’t hold his attention. He visited his mother at the nursing home you had helped him find, but the comfort he once felt from knowing it was close had turned into an aching reminder of how involved you’d been in every part of his life. And to make things worse, the job that had always been his refuge was gone too. Temporarily suspended, he had nothing to distract him, no cases to pour himself into, and no purpose to latch onto. He was adrift, waiting for his boss to negotiate with the bureau, waiting for his life to have some semblance of meaning again.

This morning was no different from the others. A bleak repetition of what his life had been before you. Spencer sat on his couch with a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm. His fingers gripped the edges of an open book, but his eyes skimmed the words without processing them. The air in the apartment was heavy, stagnant, broken only by the soft, repetitive scrape of Mittens’ claws against the fabric of a cushion. The sound grated on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoo her away. In truth, he was grateful for the small disruption, even if it came from a cat that seemed to sense his turmoil.

But something changed this time. From the corner of his ear, a sound, a voice, pierced the thin walls of the place. It was not so loud, but it was unmistakable. A man's voice. Deep. Low. Tense. And from your apartment.

His body tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heart stopped for a few seconds. The voice was unfamiliar; he knew it wasn't one of his friends because he knew them all, but there was still something about it that made him uneasy. It was almost...harsh. The words, though distorted by distance, still had a tone that made Spencer catch his breath. It wasn't an argument, he didn't even hear your voice respond or even give the slightest sign that you were okay. It wasn't so loud, but the pressure of the voice, the possibilities behind it, didn't sit well with you. Especially since you were always reluctant to let anyone into your home.

At that moment, a deafening crash shattered the fragile stillness of the apartment. The sound reverberated through the walls, shaking picture frames and sending a cold jolt straight down his spine. It was the kind of noise that demanded attention, the kind that twisted in the pit of your stomach and told you that something was horribly wrong.

Then, silence.

No voices. No footsteps. Nothing.

It was the silence that gutted him most. His mind instantly spiraled into the worst-case scenarios. Blood pooling across the floor. Your voice screaming his name in pain, only to be silenced. The flicker of movement as someone fled the scene. He couldn’t stop the flood of images from invading his mind. They were vivid, visceral, and rooted in the darkest parts of his imagination.

The silence dragged him back to the nightmares. The ones he’d woken up to every night in that tiny, suffocating prison cell, his heart racing and his breath shallow. Nightmares of iron bars and shouts echoing down narrow corridors. Nightmares of blood in the courtyard, spilling from faceless bodies while the sun mocked him with its indifferent light. Nightmares of whispered threats and the press of a blade against his ribs. They had told him they’d hurt everyone he loved, and for months, he’d believed them.

He had learned survival then, how to block out the fear, how to guard his thoughts, how to endure. But the nights were a different story. He’d lie on that hard, narrow cot, willing his body to rest while his mind conjured the only thing that could keep him sane: the image of you. You smiling. Laughing. You safe. It was the only thing that had kept him alive in a place that wanted to devour him whole.

And now, this silence threatened to destroy that fragile illusion of safety.

Without even thinking, his hand went to the drawer where he kept his new pistol, and his fingers brushed the cold steel. He paused, thinking about how he never thought he would need it in a place like this, a safe apartment in a decent neighborhood, where the most dangerous thing that had ever happened was Mittens knocking over a vase or spilling his hot coffee. Yet now, everything felt wrong, the voice he’d heard earlier, the crash, the gnawing dread in his chest that whispered, you’re too late, for the second time.

His breathing quickened as his hand closed around the grip, pulling the gun from the drawer. The weight of the gun in his palm momentarily calmed him and made him feel in control again, but his mind was already racing, imagining the worst. What if something had happened to you? What if that voice was threatening you or, worse, trying to hurt you? What if that man had already hurt you and that's why your voice couldn't be heard? What if he failed you like he failed in the past? Spencer tightened his grip on the gun, his mind racing as his feet moved faster toward the half-open door of your apartment.

With his body paralyzed with fear for you and his mind screaming for him to come in and make sure you were safe, the door creaked open just enough for him to see inside.

You were standing in the middle of the room, disheveled but unharmed. The sight of you, alive and unhurt, should have brought him relief, but instead, it only stirred confusion. The kitten-faced shirt he had given you for Christmas was wrinkled, your hair wild and unkempt, and faint streaks of dust and paint covered your hands. His eyes darted past you to the man beside the sink, leaning casually over the counter, focused on his work. The sink was dripping steadily, water pooling beneath the cracked faucet, and there, next to it, lay a jagged shard of broken glass on a rag. The man, dressed in worn work boots and a faded flannel shirt, was tinkering with a wrench, his brow furrowed in concentration as he replaced the faucet head.

Damn.

For the first time, Spencer Reid realized something. His instincts were wrong. His mind had misfired. His thoughts, clouded by the lingering darkness of his past and the fear, had led him to the wrong conclusion. For the first time.

The man’s voice broke the silence. “Good thing you called me when you did,” he said cheerfully. “Could’ve ended up with water damage if this had gone much longer. Would’ve been a real shame for your paintings.”

At the mention of your paintings, your most cherished works, your soul poured onto each canvas, your body tensed, a chill running through you. Instinctively, you turned toward the wall where they were propped, vibrant colors peeking out from behind the half-open door, but it wasn’t the paintings that caught your attention.

It was Spencer.

Your heart slammed in your chest as your eyes met his. His face was tight with something you couldn’t decipher, but your gaze was drawn inexorably to the thing in his hand. The weapon he was awkwardly attempting to hide beneath his jacket. The sight hit you like a punch to the gut, your pulse spiking with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and raw fear. It was like the world shifted on its axis, everything around you turning to static, muffled noise.

You couldn’t speak. Your mouth went dry, your throat constricting. No words could come, not while your mind raced, trying to make sense of this moment that felt like a nightmare, and yet, it was all too real.

The man, Mike, your neighbor, remained oblivious, still focused on the task at hand. “All set here,” he said with satisfaction, wiping his hands on a towel, his back still to Spencer. “Just keep an eye on it, and let me know if anything else leaks.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay composed. “Yeah…thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Spencer shifted his weight, and you saw his hand, tight on the gun, pressing it awkwardly against his side in an attempt to hide it further. It only made things worse. His actions were clumsy, frantic even, as if he couldn’t decide whether to conceal it or confront you. And you saw it all, the frantic, fearful energy that was pulsing in the air between you. But what stung the most wasn’t just the weapon; it was the confusion in his eyes, the distance that had grown between you, and the unsettling realization that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell you why he was here. Why did he have to carry that gun knowing that you had never even liked to be near the drawer where it was kept?

Mike, noticing a subtle shift in the atmosphere but not understanding its source, glanced at Spencer briefly, his expression faltering slightly as if sensing the subtle change. But he said nothing. He simply gathered his tools and offered an awkward, polite nod. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day,” he said, too focused on his exit to feel the heaviness that hung in the air. “Always happy to help. Just call me if anything else comes up.”

You didn’t speak. You just moved, stepping forward with a forced smile that felt more like a mask, positioning yourself subtly between them. Your movement was calculated, deliberate, blocking Spencer, hiding the gun, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. “Will do,” you said, the words sounding like a brittle lie in your own ears. The brightness of your tone was a poor attempt to mask the tightness in your chest, the hurt you couldn’t quite articulate.

With a nod, he headed toward the door, giving you a wave as he left. “Have a good day!”

“You too,” you managed to reply, your voice thin and strained. You barely registered the words before you were practically ushering him out, closing the door swiftly behind him, the finality of the click of the latch echoing in the silence that enveloped the room.

After a moment, you turned slowly, your hand slipping from the doorknob. Your eyes met his, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks. His expression was raw, his brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, his knuckles white where they clutched the gun now tucked awkwardly against his side. There was fear in his eyes, but also something else, something darker, harder that you never saw before.

“What,” you began, your voice shaking, “were you thinking?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His chest heaved, breaths shallow and erratic. His mind, racing at full speed, tried to make sense of the words he needed to say, the ones that would make everything okay, the ones that would make you understand. But nothing fit. Nothing was enough to explain the panic that had taken hold of him, the fear that had driven him to do something he never would’ve imagined.

His gaze darted between your eyes and the gun still clenched in his hand, and a surge of self-loathing flooded him. He looked like a madman. He felt like a madman. His hand twitched, as if it were trying to pull the gun back, to shove it into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. But it was too late. He had already brought it into your life, into your apartment.

You took a cautious step toward him, each movement deliberate, careful. Like you were walking on glass, afraid that the slightest misstep would shatter everything between you. Your eyes flicked down to the gun, and your throat went dry. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the sick feeling in your stomach. “Put it down, please,” you said, your voice steady but thick with unspoken emotions.

For a moment, he didn’t move, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the grip. Then, as if the weight of your words had finally broken through, he blinked and seemed to snap out of a trance. His gaze dropped to the gun in his hand, and a wave of something, shame, regret, maybe even self-loathing, washed over his face. Slowly, carefully, he moved to the table near the entrance and set the weapon down.

The sound of the metal meeting wood was louder than it should have been, echoing in the oppressive silence of your apartment. The sharp clink made you flinch involuntarily, your body tensing as if bracing for something that, thankfully, didn’t come.

“You brought that into my apartment,” you said finally, your voice low and trembling.

“I thought—” he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

“You thought what?” you interrupted sharply, spinning around to face him. Your eyes were blazing, the fury in them cutting through him like a blade. “That you could just storm in here with a gun? That this—” you gestured toward him, your hand shaking, “—was the right thing to do? Even when you know how I feel about…this stuff?”

He knew, of course he did. He knew how much you hated his work and all that it involved, even though you tried hard not to show it every time he told you about it. Spencer knew that anything to do with violence gave you nightmares that only his company and many cartoons could alleviate.

“I thought you were in danger,” he whispered, his voice quieter now but laced with desperation as he took a tentative step toward you. His hands rose slightly, palms outward, as though to show you he wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you. “I heard a man’s voice, and then I didn’t hear you at all. There was a crash, something breaking…and I—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw, trying to stop the panic that clawed at him. “I didn’t know what was happening. I thought—God, I thought you were hurt.”

God.

He didn't usually say that word.

“You didn’t know because you didn’t ask.” The words shot out of you like arrows, and the sting was sharp. You took a step back, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to shield yourself from the wave of emotion crashing over you. “You didn’t call, you didn’t knock, you didn’t think.”

At that moment, Spencer wasn't sure if he was more hurt by your words or the fear that still haunted your gaze. It was almost as if you were afraid of him, his own mind told him. And it hurt, like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, and your eyes narrowed as you stood there, fighting to regain control of your emotions. “If you weren’t ignoring me like the plague, you’d know that my apartment flooded a month ago. I’ve been trying to get the plumbing fixed, but I haven’t had the money until now. That’s what I was doing,” you said, your voice trembling but stronger now, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. “That’s why I had someone over today. He was fixing the leak. He’s just—he’s just a plumber, Spencer. He’s our neighbor from the fourth floor.”

His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it all in, the weight of your words sinking into him like a stone. The irrational fear that had gripped him moments ago now seemed distant, almost laughable in the face of what he had just done.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words were stuck, tangled in the knot of regret and guilt in his throat.

You met his gaze, searching for something, anything, in his eyes that might show you he understood, that he truly realized how wrong he was. But all you saw was the same deep sorrow, the same painful awareness of the damage he had caused.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but cutting through the silence. “Or what happened these last three months that changed you so much.” You shook your head slowly, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But that wasn’t it. That’s not how you protect someone. That’s not how you show you care.”

The finality in your words hit him like a blow to the chest. Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, he looked truly broken. He stood there, vulnerable and raw, his lips parting as if to speak, but all that came out was a quiet, defeated whisper. “You’re right.”

His voice was barely above a breath, but it carried the weight of every ounce of regret he felt. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to protect you…or anyone.” His gaze dropped, his hand flexing at his side as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “I haven’t learned.” He exhaled sharply, a sound that was half a sigh and half a plea. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, he stepped forward, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he feared any sudden motion might shatter what little remained between you. His hand reached for the gun on the table, the clink of metal against wood echoing in the room like the final note of a requiem. You flinched at the sound, a subtle but unmistakable movement that made Spencer freeze in place. He saw it, the fear in your eyes, the way your body tensed, and it broke him in ways he didn’t know were possible.

Without another word, he tucked the gun securely away and turned toward the door. His steps were heavy, deliberate, like a man walking toward his own execution. He didn’t look back as he opened it, his silence saying more than words ever could. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound reverberating in the room, leaving you in a deafening, suffocating quiet.

You stood there, frozen in place, the weight of his absence crashing over you. Your chest ached, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t stop. For the first time, you weren’t sure if he was still the same man who had made you fall in love.

Because your Spencer would never have hidden a gun in his apartment, even when he was supposed to be suspended and without one. He would never have brought it to your home, especially after hearing you say a thousand times how scared you were of arms. And most of all, he wouldn’t have left the way he did now. He would have stayed. He would have held you, kissed your forehead, and asked for forgiveness a thousand times over until you knew, without a doubt, that he regretted every moment of his mistake.

But he hadn’t. And as the silence pressed down on you, you couldn’t help but wonder if the man you had loved was still there…or if he had already disappeared, piece by piece, in the last three months.

You certainly didn't know a lot of things.

[muniimyg]

BAD HABIT // JJK

00 | prologue // series m.list

the divinity

there are rules to the universe. constants, like the way the moon pulls the tide, or how the seasons fold into one another without fail.

and then there are soulmates.

for the divinity—the chosen ones, the ones born with a glow beneath their skin—soulmates are less of a possibility and more of a promise.

it’s not just love.

no, that would be too easy.

it’s balance, power, inevitability.

it’s their very being. if they are stars, this is the dust of their very exitance—the very essence of it. only those in the divinity can have soulmates. only the chosen ones can feel it, but the rest of the world can see it.

when soulmates meet, the universe reacts.

auras intertwine, colors bleeding into one another, something cosmic and unbreakable settling between them.

they glow.

when soulmates glow, the invisible string ties them together. being a part for an extensive amount of time leads to sickness. simple symptoms include nausea, headaches, chest pains, and general weakness—sometimes it means life or death.

you

you were always meant to return.

it’s all you ever dreamed of—the palace, the academy, the weight of your name finally meaning something again. you spent years in the outside world, away from the divinity, away from your glow, and now—finally—you’re home.

and you’re ready.

ready to learn, to grow, to embrace your power.

ready to meet the person the universe has chosen for you.

your soulmate.

what you don’t expect is him.

jungkook

jungkook has always known who he is.

he’s a prodigy, a leader, a force to be reckoned with. his aura—golden, commanding—demands attention, his power bending the world around him with effortless precision.

he is not used to things happening to him.

he is not used to surprises.

and yet—

there you are. standing in the great hall, your aura humming in time with his, bright and unshakable.

his soulmate.

his future.

jungkook stares at you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

you glow.

context

words

divinity: the chosen ones with auras auras: power / their souls (depends on the context) invisible string: soulmate analogy glow: the glow only happens when soulmates initially meet and only happens when they're in pain or healing the outside: literally the rest of the world that isn't their palace. it's filled with regular people and these people depend on the divinity to keep the balance of the world going (good and bad, life and death, etc)

you

status; born into the 'royal' family that built the palace, that houses the academy. rumoured and referred to 'the long lost princess' as no one in the divinity has ever met you

aura; resistance and immune to everyone else’s powers. you're the one thing in this world that doesn’t bow to the divinity (to be dramatic, you are the divinity)

princessa; grew up outside the palace, living freely. this was because your parents wanted you to see life outside the palace and understand what you'll be responsible for

fate and responsibility; the upcoming leader of the divinity

jungkook

status; one of (if not) the highest of the divinity. he is the one in 7 generations to have this power. it makes him feared and at the same time; so precious

aura; mind control (speciality) but maniplates anything and anyone. from people's mind, feelings, and blood to elements of water, earth, fire, and air. he's basically avatar but emo because...

lifeline; jungkook's aura is rare and often short-lived. the more he uses his aura, his life line shortens. except, no one knows the length of his life line. it's a guessing game for everyone thus why everyone protects him

inspo

this fic has been in my drafts since paraluman and has been posted before (just the series m.list) after literal years of contemplating and multiple crying sessions over wicked (2024) ,, i have reconstructed this fic into something i'm so excited to share with you .

this fic is a mix of wicked vibes, (the anime) gukuen alice, and literally the basic concepts of soulmates (invisible string theory, symptoms when separated from soulmate, etc) and of course !!! mullet jungkook .

to be honest, i'm kinda nervy lol. this is my first time writing a fantasy au and hope to bring all i have planned for this fic into life through the best fitting words and imagery (as you can tell,, i am very nervy as i am yapping thru this) nevertheless, i'm excited to challenge my writing and to mold it into something 10x more dramatic and romantic . i hope i paint the picture just right cos bad habit jk has been living in my mind for wayyy too long . to me, he is the perfect mix of tsundere and gut wrenching simp lol ...

the series will begin feburary 14, 2025 .

all the love,

kimi ♡

[relicsongmel]

Iris, Miles, and their mutual "secret"

The Ace Attorney fandom is no stranger to discussions of homoerotic subtext in the game's script—pretty much everyone who's spent more than five seconds here will be able to tell you that. Screenshots of lines that imply romantic tension between same-gender characters are all over the place, to the point that many fans are drawn to the series purely by its reputation as "the gay lawyer game." Some scenes are more well-known than others, but one I find brought up fairly regularly is this conversation between Miles and Iris:

This is optional dialogue that can be triggered by presenting incorrect evidence on Iris' Psyche-Lock during the Investigation portion of Bridge to the Turnabout. The argument here is that the "secret" Iris is referring to is the same as her own: that being, a romantic interest in Phoenix Wright. Which is definitely hilarious when you consider that Iris has known Miles for less than a day and she's already reading him for filth (granted, she could have been clued in by the similarly infamous "indispensable friend" line, and she's also exceptionally good at reading people despite Miles thinking otherwise). As a Narumitsu shipper myself I am not immune to enjoying that interpretation; however, I feel like there's a lot of nuance in this scene that isn't often addressed by the fandom at large. Which is unfortunate because watering it down to just Iris calling out Miles for being the gayass he is (to be fair. she's not wrong) does a MASSIVE disservice to both of their characters, and I'll explain why.

My bone to pick with the usual analysis of this scene is mostly centered around the larger conversation to be had regarding the treatment of female characters in fandom spaces. All too often they tend to play second fiddle to the male characters, and a similar principle holds true for ships with their canonical male love interests: mostly ignored in favor of the the more popular M/M ship(s). At best these women are sidelined, at worse they are flattened into wingmen for the boys (as is frequently the case with many AA girls and Narumitsu, Iris included), and at the absolute worst they are demonized for their perceived "competition" with whatever gay ship is most popular and therefore the Only Valid One for the male characters involved (as exemplified by some very "passionate" fans that I generally try to avoid interacting with). Whenever this scene gets brought up, the focus is almost always exclusively on Miles and what the interaction says about his relationship with Phoenix; Iris is only relevant insofar as she's the one initiating Miles' Homosexual Moment™—you could replace her with almost any other character and there'd be a similar level of neglect for their role in the interaction. Only very rarely will you see attention given to what Iris' question about Miles' secret means when she is the one asking it, and what it can tell us about her relationship with Miles/what she thinks of him, and vice versa (absolutely wild how even Miles himself is often flanderized despite being the fandom's golden child). It's all too characteristic of the systemic misogyny that has plagued fandom since its inception, which is deeply frustrating to me as someone who adores Iris as much as I do (if that wasn't obvious by now). So that said, let's dive deeper into what I think the missing link is here: namely, the Iris-Miles dynamic as it pertains to their relation to Phoenix.

Iris and Miles is one of my favorite relationships to explore in the whole series—but as I've described above, unfortunately a lot of people get it wrong in my opinion. Discussion about the two is frequently centered around Narumitsu Love Drama—which is a conversation worth having, don't get me wrong—but the elements at play there aren't always represented the way I envision them, which again, is frustrating. Take the idea of potential jealousy, for instance: it's pretty standard love triangle fare that can be (and often is) quickly turned into demonization when it's used in a shipping context, character assassination be damned (re: Narumitsu fanfic authors that project their personal dislike of Feenris onto Miles via his jealousy of Iris and/or how they tend to portray Iris unfavorably). However, it's not inherently a bad thing to explore: personally, I do believe that there is mutual jealousy between the two of them. Miles might not have the full context of Iris' history when this conversation takes place, but he's emotionally intelligent enough to pick up on what Iris means to Phoenix, and vice versa. And him being a jealous hoe about it isn't out of the question when you consider that he's a bit of a loner by nature and doesn't have many close friends or outlets for socialization outside of his job. The crucial element that's sometimes missed, though, is that Miles not only lacks the self-awareness to realize he's a jealous hoe...he's also a self-sabotaging jealous hoe.

And the same can be said for Iris, who is similarly introverted and doesn't often leave her home at Hazakura Temple.

The whole reason Miles is peering into Iris' heart in the first place can be found in this exchange, after he breaks her Psyche-Lock:

Miles uses the Magatama in order to gain the answers he needs to bring the truth to light and get Iris acquitted, and he does so for the express purpose of reuniting her with Phoenix so they can find closure—in fact, he reiterates this to her multiple times. He obviously recognizes how Phoenix is suffering from what happened between them (I'd argue he sympathizes with Iris' plight as well) and has resolved to do what he can to help him heal, but there's no reason for him to be so insistent that she rectify things with Phoenix when it does nothing but harm his own chances with him. Unless, of course...that's the whole point.

To convince Iris to reveal her secret so he doesn't have to face his own, because he thinks himself undeserving.

And Iris, noticing this because she empathizes with that feeling of unworthiness, calls him out on it in an almost uncharacteristically forward manner when she asks him what he's hiding.

Takes one to know one, indeed.

Iris highly respects Miles for taking on her defense despite the risk to his job as a prosecutor. She's willing to trust him after hearing he's a friend of Phoenix, hearing him out and letting him reason with her. She still keeps her cards close to her chest in some regards, but she's more honest with him than she's been with anyone else in her life apart from her sister. She sees his commitment to the truth and how it starkly contrasts with how she's lived her life to this point, and thinks that this is the type of partner Phoenix deserves—not someone like her, who only knows how to survive using lies and deception. She sees so much strength in him but still recognizes the insecurity lurking beneath his tenacity, which is why when he falters in his logic, she takes a leap of faith and gives him one last chance to examine his reasons for pushing the burden of his unspoken affections onto her, as if to say: "Look in the mirror. Is this really for me? Or is it for you? Do you really seek the truth for its own sake, or do you merely hope to find one truth so you might run from another?"

Her question to Miles is a gamble—a coin flip of self-sacrifice. If she loses and he presses on, she has to face the secret within her heart she's been suppressing for five years. But if she wins and he gives in to the truth in his, she has to live the rest of her life watching it unfold and knowing she threw away her chance to finally stop living in fear of her own love.

Either way, there's no escaping heartache for her anymore.

Miles and Iris both want what's best for Phoenix and prioritize their vision of his feelings over their own. However, they are also both deeply emotionally repressed people who find difficulty in being direct with their feelings, and are predisposed to self-sabotage due to childhood trauma. These tendencies may manifest in different ways for both of them, but the fact remains that such people would likely not compete for a person's affection in the traditional sense, which is exactly what we see with how Iris and Miles deflect their feelings for Phoenix. These selfless, lovestruck idiots toss that man around like a game of hot-potato because their mutual self-hatred for the ways they've harmed him has rendered them terrified of the reality of what he means to them, and desperate to find a way out of admitting to it. It's the most compelling explanation I can think of for why the usually unassuming Iris makes such a bold judgment about what Miles might be keeping locked away, and why Miles goes to such lengths to make sure she talks to Phoenix and tells him the truth—his agreement to defend her was conditional on that exact promise. They go through this whole song-and-dance of playing wingman to ignore their own feelings while still trying to bring Phoenix the happiness they think he deserves—and then they wonder why seeing Phoenix give the other one attention burns them up inside.

Because they’re dumb. And I love them.

TL;DR the Iris Psyche-Lock scene in BttT is so much more than just "haha Miles gay" and I wish people talked about it more. Also Iris and Miles are way more similar than they appear at first glance and if I think about it for too long it makes me physically ill thank you for coming to my TED talk

[krirebr]

More Than This 9

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x f!reader

Word Count: ~3k

Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.

Warnings: Angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, explicit language, references to childhood trauma, pregnancy, my own rampant abuse of italics and en dashes, the slooowest burn, - Warnings will be added as needed for subsequent parts. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: We've made it to brighter days, you guys!!! I won't lie to you and say there's no angst at all in this chapter, but we've definitely finally entered the next era of this story. Yay!

Big thanks as always to @paperweight91 who fact-checked this for me, and in general is just always available to talk things through.

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too! As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You were anxiously pacing around the lower floor when Ransom got home. He stopped in the entryway, watching you carefully. When you stopped moving around, making eye contact with him, he asked, “You ready to go?”

Instead of answering his question, you just said, “You don’t need to come with me. I– I can do this by myself.”

He scoffed. “Like I wouldn’t take advantage of a reason to leave work early.” He held a hand out to you. “Come on,” he said seriously. “Let’s go.”

You nodded silently and grabbed your handbag, letting him lead you out to the car.

“It’s going to be ok,” he murmured as he opened the car door for you. You couldn’t tell if he believed that or not, but you nodded anyway.

You were both silent for the whole drive, news radio murmuring quietly in the background. When he parked in front of the small, upscale clinic, you made no move to get out of the car. You just stared out the window at the building as it loomed in front of you. You took a deep breath, then another, the panic starting to claw its way up your throat. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready. “I’m sorry!” you blurted out.

Ransom’s head whipped to you. “What?”

You shook your head. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t– It was supposed to take a long time. I never thought it’d happen so fast. That’s why I pushed, I was so scared. But– But then it took no time at all. It was supposed to take a long time.”

Ransom placed a gentle hand on your wrist. “I–” he started then sighed. “We both knew what the goal was, okay? This isn’t anyone’s fault.” He paused and pursed his lips. “And that’s not even–” he sighed again and briefly moved his thumb in soothing circles on your skin. “Listen, we don’t– Let’s just go in and find out where we stand, okay? I’ll– I’ll be with you the whole time.”

He gently squeezed your wrist once and you were surprised by the way his touch grounded you. You took another deep breath and you actually felt the air fill your lungs this time. He came around and opened your door for you, then guided you inside with a hand on your back.

 The sanitary paper crinkled under you as you tried to get comfortable on the examination table. You’d already gone through your medical history and how you’d been feeling the last few weeks. The obstetrician seemed nice enough. She was someone Ransom had discreetly gotten a recommendation for from an author he sometimes worked with. Neither of you had gone to your families for that. Steve was still the only one who knew. 

“Alright, this might be a little cold,” Dr. Patel said as she squeezed gel over your stomach. You flinched a little as it hit you, and you saw Ransom fidget in his seat right next to the table, up by your head.

She was silent as she moved the wand around, eyes fixed on her screen. Then she paused and smiled. “There it is,” she said. The soft static that had filled the room suddenly switched to a gentle wooshing. “And there’s the heartbeat.” 

The heartbeat. Your baby’s heartbeat. Alive inside of you. You jumped a little when you suddenly felt Ransom’s hand wrap around your own. You glanced over at him, But his attention was raptly focused on the screen in front of the doctor. He leaned forward a little. “Wait,” he said, his voice low. “Where is–” 

The doctor pointed to a little black splotch on the screen. “Right there,” she said, warmly. “They’re still an embryo now, but they’ll become a fetus in a week or two. Judging by your last period and these measurements, I’d say you're seven weeks along.”

At some point, she turned the ultrasound off. She cleaned off your belly. You heard her talking to you. You heard Ransom respond. But you couldn’t process any of it. All you could focus on, all you could still hear was the steady, hummingbird fast woosh, woosh, woosh of your baby’s heartbeat.

The car ride back was completely silent. Ransom had turned off the radio as soon as he’d turned the key in the ignition. You couldn’t blame him. Your thoughts were loud enough. There was a baby inside of you. It was really happening. It’d been abstract before. A few little symbols on a plastic strip that didn’t actually mean anything. But now they did. Now there was a baby. You’d heard it. You turned your head to Ransom beside you. Now you truly were connected to this man for the rest of your life. The idea, while still a little terrifying, wasn’t nearly as awful now as it would have been just a few weeks before. 

As he pulled up to a stop sign, he did more than pause. After a few moments of idling, you ventured a soft “Ransom?”

He turned to you from where he’d been staring unseeing through the windshield. His bright blue eyes pierced you. “We should go get dinner,” he said, out of absolutely nowhere.

“What?”

“Yeah,” he said, his fingers extending to flick on his turn signal. “Let’s go out to eat. I’m starving.” 

“I– Okay? Where–”

“I know a great place,” he said, nodding to himself as he turned the car around.

The restaurant he brought you to small, intimate. After turning over the car to the valet, he ushered you inside with a warm hand on your back. The hostess led you to a quiet booth in the corner and you and Ransom settled in on opposite sides of the table.

The waiter appeared just a few moments later to tell you about the specials. Then, they asked, “Have you had a chance to look at the drink menu?”

As Ransom reached for it, you uttered a quiet, “Water’s fine for me, thank you.”

Ransom paused and looked at you. “Oh. Right.” He turned back to the waiter. “For me as well,” he said, and the waiter quickly left you both alone.

“You can drink. I’ll be fine.”

Ransom shrugged. “Who wants to drink alone?”

You didn’t really know what to say to that, so you turned your attention to the menu, which you each perused quietly.

After the waiter returned and you both ordered, Ransom cleared his throat awkwardly. “So,” he said, “we’re really having a baby.”

You choked a little on your water. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I–” he started, then let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. After a weighted pause, he asked, “How are you feeling about it?”

You looked at him carefully. The last week and a half, after your fight then your detente, and then Steve’s visit, had been so different from the months that had preceded them. You both had been so different. It was very possible that he was becoming a person you could trust. You took a breath and decided to be honest. “I’m really scared. Kind of terrified.”

He just stared at you for a moment, then mumbled “Yeah,” with another head shake. He looked off to the side. “God, I hated being a kid.”

“Yeah?” you asked, so, so quietly.

He looked back at you. “Yeah. I mean, you’ve met my parents. They didn’t– They had me because they needed to. To further the lineage or whatever. But they didn’t really have much interest beyond that. So I was just kind of… there.”

You hated how much you understood that. “When we moved into Joseph’s house, I never felt comfortable there. I was always just an intruder or a nuisance.”

He nodded, then asked, “How old were you?”

“Six. Steve was the best. From the very beginning, he made it livable. But I never felt at home anywhere until I moved out on my own.”

He looked down a little as he hummed in acknowledgment. Then, hesitantly, “What happened to your dad?”

“He died,” you said, plainly. “A heart attack. When I was five.”

He swiped his hand over his mouth. “Shit. That must have been hard. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “I barely remember him. And what I do remember,” you shifted uncomfortably, “he was a very angry man I think. I was always a little scared of him. My mom was too, I know that. But when he died… I don’t remember any relief. Just a mad scramble to find someone else to take care of us, since she’d never given him an heir. So we ended up with Joseph. But… I don’t know. I don’t think I ever really stopped being scared.”

Ransom let out a long sigh. “Yeah,” he said, quietly. “I get that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Fuck. We’re setting quite the precedent, huh?”

Your hand drifted to cover your stomach. “I don’t want them to ever feel like that. Be that scared.”

Ransom’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed uncomfortably. “Me neither,” he said, very quietly.

You both just sat with that thought silently, until another thought jumped into your head. “Oh, god, what are we gonna do about Lola? She doesn’t share attention well.”

He surprised you by laughing. “I can imagine. We’ll figure it out,” he said with a smile. “Make sure she’s ready.”

You matched him with your own grin. “You like her,” you accused.

He rolled his eyes. “She’s alright, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, Mr. ‘I hate dogs.’”

“It’s possible that I had too small a sample size.” He rolled his eyes again. “Harlan has a couple german shepherds. They’re fucking assholes.”

You felt your eyes light up. “Are you afraid of big dogs, Ransom?” you teased.

“No!” he pointed at you. “No. I just don’t like it when they’re that size and they charge at me. Lola’s manageable. I don’t mind her.”

“Well,” you shrugged. “I’m just glad you never tried to make me get rid of her.”

His eyes softened and he almost looked regretful. “Hey,” he said, softly. “I never would have done that. I just,” he sighed, “say shit sometimes. I’m not used to anyone listening to me.”

He’d said that to you before, but it hadn’t occurred to you until that moment just how sad that was—that he’d always been comfortable saying whatever thought popped into his head because he knew that no matter what he said no one would ever take him seriously. You gave a helpless little shrug as you softly said, “I always listen to you.”

He fixed you with a look that  almost took your breath away. Like he actually saw you. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “I know you do.”

That was the moment your food came. The waiter set your plate in front of you, blackened sea bass with a saffron asparagus risotto. You weren’t sure which element exactly was the culprit, but the moment the smell hit your nose, your stomach roiled dangerously. You’d been lucky, so far, that you hadn’t had many issues with morning sickness, but you immediately knew that if you didn’t get that plate away from you, there’d be a major problem. “Shit,” you muttered quietly.

Ransom’s attention snapped to you. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you tried. “It’s just, the smell. I can’t–” You pushed the plate away from you.

“You’re nauseous?” Ransom clarified.

You nodded, breathing through your mouth.

Without another word, he picked up your plate and switched it with his own. “Is that good enough?” he asked. “Or do you need it gone completely?”

You took a few tentative, experimental sniffs. As your stomach seemed to calm, you sighed in relief. “I think I’m ok. Thank you.” But then you looked down at Ransom’s ribeye in front of you now. “Oh, that’s– No, this is what you wanted. I can’t–”

He interrupted you with your name, both fond and firm. “Shut up and eat your steak.”

You did as you were told, relieved to find that not only did it not upset your stomach, but it was delicious. You let out a little happy sigh and closed your eyes at how good it was, opening them as you swallowed to find Ransom watching you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as he quickly looked to his own plate, the tips of his ears turning red.

You searched blindly for something to talk about, anything to shift the focus from how ridiculous you were. “What was your grandmother like?” you blurted out. Just proving your own ridiculousness further, instead of distracting from it. But it was something you’d wondered about, what Harlan’s own marriage had been like, when he was so set on you being a good influence on his grandson.

Ransom looked at you, a little puzzled. “Uh, my grandma? I don’t know. I never really felt like I knew her that well. Harlan’s so big, you know? She always seemed small in comparison. Um,” he looked up thoughtfully, “I remember her caring a lot what other people were up to, like her neighbors or their friends, what they were buying, what their kids were achieving. She and Harlan, I don’t know, they seemed to get along? Better than my parents, at least, but that’s a low bar. Why on earth do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I…” you trailed off as you tried to pull your thoughts together. “He’s always talking about what our marriage should be and how good for you I’m going to be. And he’s kind to me. But the way he looks at me, and the way he talks about me… It makes me feel like me, who I am, doesn’t actually matter. Just the affect I have on you. And it just made me curious about what she was like. What their marriage was like.”

Ransom hummed a little. “Well,” he said. “The first thing you need to know about Harlan is that he’s full of shit. He thinks he’s the one who’s done everything right and he knows everything. I don’t know what their relationship was like, but my guess is that he knew the version of her that he wanted to know and didn’t bother to get to know her any further.”

You let out your own little hum and then asked the question that had been on your mind since that dinner at Harlan’s. “What’s the deal between the two of you, anyhow?”

Ransom sighed heavily. His gaze dropped as he played with the signet ring on his pinky. “When I was a kid, like really little, Harlan was the only person who gave a shit about me. I spent a lot of time at his house. He was safe and warm when home was cold and scary. People always said we were a lot alike. And I loved that. For a while. But when I got older, it turned into ‘You should be just like me.’ All of my choices were suddenly under a microscope and he’d get so disappointed in me if I did anything differently from what he would do. So then I went hard in the opposite direction. And that caused its own problems.” He paused for a moment, not quite meeting your eyes. “But still, when Neal died, Harlan named me as his heir instead of Walt. But that’s just made him more aggressive about letting me know how he thinks I should be living my life.” He let out a long breath. “I understand him making you feel like you who actually are doesn’t matter. That’s just what he does. There’s never any winning with him. He’s rigged the game.”

  For the second time that night, you were overcome by just how sad you were for Ransom. He’d been all alone for so long. Impulsively, you reached out and grabbed his hand where it rested on the table across from you. “I’m sorry for both of us, then,” you said quietly.

He took a moment, just staring at the way your hand slotted into his. Then, finally, he brought his thumb up and brushed it across your knuckles. “Yeah, me too,” he whispered.

You got back to the house pleasantly full and much calmer than you’d been earlier in the day. Lola greeted you both like she hadn’t seen you in weeks. You smiled as Ransom immediately picked her up, carrying her to the back door indulgently. As he let her out, you got yourself some water from the fridge. 

When they came back in, you smiled down at Lola as you said, “Tonight was really nice. Thank you. I haven’t had a dinner out like that in a long time.”

Ransom took a few steps toward you to close the distance between you. “We should do it more often,” he said lowly.

You weren’t sure what to say next. It almost felt like saying goodbye at the end of a first date, instead of an amicable good night to a man you’d been married to for months. You shook the thought away. You were being silly.

“I’m going to call Steve to tell him how it went today.” Then you added, with a slight grimace. “And then I might go to bed. I know it’s ridiculously early, but I’ve been so exhausted lately.”

He answered you with a soft smile. “That makes sense. You are growing a person inside you.”

You huffed out a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

There was another slightly awkward pause. Then Ransom cleared his throat and said, “I’ll probably be in my room, but I’ll be up for a while, if you need anything.”

You smiled at the offer. “Thank you,” you said, and then after a quiet exchange of good nights, you went upstairs to call your step-brother.

[beekeeperspicnic]

Advanced warning that this made me cry when I thought about it, and then I shared it with friends and it made them cry too, but I think it's ultimately a nice thought so I want to share it. Sorry if it gives you the sniffles.

I'm always cautious when it comes to parasocial relationships - with actors I don't actually want to know the ins and outs of their lives, they are strangers to me and that's how it should be.

But like a lot of Sherlock Holmes fans I've ended up becoming a Jeremy Brett fan to some extent, because first you love his performance, then you find out the sheer dedication he put into that role, and then you find out how he did so while coping with significant mental and physical health problems, and then you hear story after story which suggests he was a lovely man whose mind seemed to put barrier after barrier in the way of him getting to experience the full extent of the joy he put out into the world. And I think a lot of us identify with that.

There's a quote from "The Jeremy Brett - Linda Pritchard story" floating around on Tumblr where Pritchard describes how one thing which really bothered him at the end of his life was that he couldn't give any more performances for his fans. Apparently hearing that the Sherlock Holmes series was on video (something he hadn't considered because he didn't own a video player), and his fans could watch him over and over again, made him happy.

And of course, my first thought when I heard that is I think he'd be so happy to know we're still watching them and dissecting his every movement and expression.

But it also hit me because during Beekeeper's Picnic recording sessions, Jeremy Brett is mentioned so often. Ok we've got at least one actor who worked with him (and indeed reports unsurprisingly that he was "lovely"!) but also people my age who were kids or not born yet when that series aired - they're professional actors, for whom Jeremy Brett remains 'their' Holmes, their point of reference for the character.

I can't wait for all of you to get to hear our amazing Holmes actor James Quinn, but it wouldn't be feasible to get him in every recording, and so often our actors have to just read his lines and respond. Once, one of them said "I'll just imagine Jeremy Brett," and I love that so much. Somewhere baked into my little game, is an Imaginary Jeremy Brett, called forth by an actor needing a Holmes to bounce off.

Jeremy Brett's performance isn't locked in amber, a thing of the past. It's fresh for each new generation that sees it, and it inspires new performances and new art. He'd adore that, I'm sure.

And to get even more philosophical, I think that goes for all creative work - and anything else you do in life. No matter how big or small the action, you never know how big your ripples you leave behind are. It's worth remembering.

[inzuinzudesu]

Some simple Tobi/Sukea sketches, as I don't really have a lot of time lately. Color really changes the mood, huh? I can't quite choose which one I like more tbh 🙉 Translations! Red one: "Let us save the world. I will follow you till the end, Tobi." "Hmph, is that so." White one: *happy humming noises* "I~yan! You're so naughty, Sukea~!" Sfx: *lots of squeezes* Note: They refer to eachother as "Tobi-san" and "Sukea-san" in my mind, cuz I thought that'd be in character for them?? As for "saving the world", you can interpret that in whichever way you want 💀 And I'm gonna yap now! I can't hecking write organic conversations yo, like I'm cringing help 😭😭 What even is thissss And that's why I really appreciate all the talented writers out there over at ao3 okay, y'all doing good stuff! I'm struggling to find Tobi/Sukea fics though, I actually think I've read most of them, at least on ao3?? I went to pixiv, but usually it's just a lot of jounin-ifs over there (not saying that's a bad thing haha). I really love identity porn?? Like you're falling in love with a person and then you find out that he's your childhood rival that you hold (very) bitter feelings for??? And you have to fake that you don't know who he truly is, while dealing with your own complicated feelings????? Then plot happens and he has to go back to the village, but you don't want to let him go, but you do??????? Yes, I am describing The New Recruit series by butter_peanut. I adore that fic, I actually cried during some parts darn it 😭😭 Like how do people make such amazing works 😭😭😭😭 I just love to read fics in general, really gets my brain going.

[flowersforthemachines]

Some facts about Davrin (and also Grey Wardens and griffons) gathered from the banters

I went through all companion banters on DanaDuchy's channel after playing the game to write down all facts about companions/the world that I haven't seen brought up anywhere in the game as a writing reference (and for funsies).

Note: This list may not be exhaustive. I might have missed some something or didn't write it down because I considered it common knowledge. If you have anything to add, please DM me or send an ask! (do specify what banter the information is coming from, though)

Note 2: Posts from this series (mostly) don't include information from banters specific to quests or between companions and faction members. I plan to do another playthrough to capture more of those and will add any relevant info to the character posts.

Other characters' posts: Bellara, Harding, Lucanis, Emmrich, Neve, Taash. I'm also planning a post about just the Lighthouse some time later

About Davrin

Family and past:

When he was a kid, Davrin broke his arm when his aravel sailed off a ridge 

Davrin stlll considers himself Dalish and thinks that will never change

Davrin hasn’t seen his clan since he left the forest. He misses the clan (‘it comes and goes’), Dalish food – especially halla milk and butter — and the sense of a common purpose. The last is why he joined the Wardens

Eldrin lives on his own, not together with Davrin’s clan

Just like Bellara, when Davrin was little, he wondered what it was like to have his own house, shop at the market and make friends with outsiders

Davrin isn’t bothered by the idea of fighting the Elven gods because he never really believed in them, but he is worried about how the events of the Veilguard will impact the reputation of the elves

General:

Davrin drinks beer and wine

Davrin hums to himself :)

Davrin can speak some Dwarven 

Davrin doesn’t get the Fade - it’s just too many things at once (the place where spirits live, origin of creation etc.). He has difficulties believing it because it’s something he can’t touch or see 

Davrin would’ve left D’meta’s Crossing’s mayor to die

Davrin dumps griffon waste right into the Fade. No reservations about it whatsoever

Life with the Wardens:

Davrin says he never got used to hearing/sensing darkspawn after joining the Wardens

Davrin knows Ramish (protagonist of the Horrors of Hormkar)

The first group of Wardens Davrin fought with had a special system for fighting ogres. One of them would be “Cheese” (bait), drawing the ogre's attention while the others shot it with arrows (so Davrin can either use a bow or was always the Cheese) 

Monster hunting: 

Davrin can't take most books about monsters seriously, as they are not up to his standards

Fighting monsters is all about the thrill of the chase and tracking a target down rather than the victory

Davrin prefers to fight flesh-and-blood monsters rather than demons

Davrin takes full payment upfront when he hunts monsters for coin

Davrin has many monster trophies (Harding finds them disturbing)

Davrin does taxidermy 

Relationships with other companions: 

(In conversations with Bellara and Neve) Davrin genuinely believes Lucanis/Spite can kill them all 

(In conversation with Harding) Davrin proudly says Lucanis couldn’t take him 

Davrin made a little statue with a skull for a face as a gift for Emmrich’s colleague at his request

(If Emmrich becomes a lich) Davrin offers Emmrich to become a monster-hunting team (“Warden and lich. From darkspawn to demons, we've got you covered.”), thinking they could score a lot of coin

Davrin also offers Neve to set up shop together. “Minrathous Monsters and Murders. If it's claws and fangs stirring up trouble, we've got it covered.” Neve suggests Emmrich (and Manfred, if he's alive) joins them

Davrin and Neve met before the events of the Veilagurd on what Neve calls “The Vol Dorma Job”

About Assan and griffons:

Griffons like shiny things. Assan even once stole one of Bellara’s crystals (but later brought it back) 

(If Sent to Arlathan Forest) Griffons seem to 'remember' patrolling the forest, like it's a genetic thing

(If sent to the Wardens) Griffons listen to Evka

There’s no definite age for when a griffon is ready to carry a rider. It’s more about size and discipline 

(If Rook is in romance with Davrin) Assan gets a little moody/jealous after Davrin and Rook get together

Fade spooks Assan, so he doesn’t fly too far away from the Lighthouse 

Assan eats pastries from the kitchen

Assan doesn't like eating vegetables, but Davrin got him to eat carrots after Taash pointed out he needed more fibre in his diet

Assan misses Manfred when he dies

Assan can dive underwater and eat fish

Assan is curious about Neve’s wisps

About Wardens/misc:

Wardens slip Worry Weed into each other’s ale for kicks (it causes paranoia)

There is no definite timeline of how long a blighted person can survive without the Joining. It all depends on the person

Evka is good at telling spooky stories

Weisshaupt has a world-class library with books over a thousand years old

Wooden carvings can become haunted if blood gets on them

Wardens usually eat cold gruel for meals. Nobody knows what's inside it

[bunnwich]

Bunbun, how do you think Leona got his scar??

How Leona Got His Scar and Other Thoughts

So this is for sure something I’ve thought about a lot and how Leona’s Scar relates to him as a character. I get that it's very likely he was simply given a scar by Yana to mirror his Great Seven counterpart of Scar...but you guys know I love to create my own lore. I personally find the little information we do get on Leona’s scar interesting. In one of Leona's chats, Ruggie asks Leona where he got his Scar and notes that The King of Beasts also has a scar on his left eye.

Of course, Leona, being Leona, brushes off the question and says he doesn't remember, but logically, we know it would be silly for someone to forget how such a prominent injury was received. And as far as we know, he doesn't have any other scars besides this one. 

So, he’s avoiding the truth. Either so the writers can be cheeky about it all, since Scar’s scar origins have had many recons. OR, if you wanna look deeper, maybe there is an implication that Leona prefers not to talk about it because the memory is upsetting. So, he brushes it off with a smirk.

Since I love angst, I prefer the latter. But, let's put a pin in that for a sec.

I think an interesting aspect to all this is that in the Magical Archives (I believe) it's mentioned that scars are something to be proud of in Sunset Savanna, which always kinda puzzled me.

We know that Twisted Wonderland has a skewed perception of the respective Disney villains, but it's still an interesting choice.

In the Lion King lore, a scar is essentially a bad omen. After Scar's death, two characters, Kion and Kovu, are condemned to others viewing them negatively. It's treated as a "Mark of Evil" in the Lion Guard show and even used as a symbol of Kion's deteriorating mental health. There is a symbol found on the ground that they refer to as a “Mark of Evil" where Scar's spirit manifested. TBH, even the treatment of Scar himself borders on ableism and the fact that people refer to him BY his disfigurement is kinda wild.

(Lion Guard wiki)

Since we kinda get conflicting lore from TLK and Twisted Wonderland on how scars are viewed...this really made me think about how it affects Leona. 

I like to believe the view of scars is nuanced in the Sunset Savanna. Maybe now with the younger generations, there is a different attitude regarding scars and they no big deal. Maybe because of the King of Beasts more positive influence, they just are seen as a more "heroic" thing in general. 

But, going back to Leona-

I think with what we know of his backstory a chunk of his people view him as this “bad omen” already due to his unique magic. And maybe after Leona received his “mark,” at some point as a child, some folks (maybe older ones) became even more apt to view him as a cursed prince. In Leona’s overblot flashback, we see how the servants in the palace fear and gossip about him.

Since we don't know the full truth of it, since the writers love to deprive us of Leona lore… My headcanon is this- When he and Falena were young, someone went to attack Falena and because the guard’s attention was so focused on the direct heir, Leona was hurt in the crossfire. Not only this, Leona has quite an adverse reaction to being attacked (perhaps for the first time physically as I also HC he was a weak child) However, he was still a child with a powerful Unique Magic, one he maybe couldn't control well at the time. So he attacks the attacker, who was maybe even just another child playing rough or perhaps just a rowdy peasant? Either way, this doesn't end well, he perhaps fatally injures the attacker and is punished for it. And so, begins the series complexes he has as the grumpy Lion we know now.

The desire for him to always be in control and be proficient at magic and magical defense.

His cynicism confirmed. Being reminded again of his place in life. Being only viewed as "a spare heir" compared to his brother. An unnecessary piece.

The disconnection he feels with his family and their disapproval of him and his actions.

Perhaps, this is why Leona is so good at defensive magic (like he mentions to Riddle who failed to collar him at first in Chapter 2.) Maybe this is why he chose to take up sports and self-defense, to protect himself from others despite preferring his intellect to fight. We know he at some point learns from Kifaji how to wrestle in the Catch the Tail Tournament. All this to say, I believe whatever happened is something traumatic for Leona and linked to his insecurities as a person. (Kinda like in many of Scar's backstories) I get into that a bit in this fic I wrote of Yuu comforting Leona. I just find it interesting to think about how the memory of receiving his Scar has affected him as he got older. While cocky and good at acting nonchalant, I do believe, deep down Leona feels uneasy about others' commenting about it or touching it.

Anyway, these are just my thoughts, as per usual! Thanks for asking I enjoyed yapping!

[sweetheartsofpanem]

The First Time It's Safe - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

umm mdni please

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 5.89k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It’s early.

The kind of early where the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath—no light through the window yet, no birdsong, just that quiet, weightless stillness that only exists in the hours before morning fully arrives.

You’re curled against Haymitch, tucked beneath the blankets, the warmth between you slow and steady. One of his arms is draped around your waist, heavy in a way that feels grounding. Protective. His chest rises and falls behind you, breaths deep and even, but not quite asleep.

You’re not sure who moved first, but at some point in the night, you ended up like this. Close. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that scares you if you think too hard about it.

His voice breaks the silence, low and rough with sleep. “You ever think about it?”

You blink slowly, not turning. “Think about what?”

A pause. Then, “What it looks like. After all this.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Sometimes.”

He shifts behind you, nose brushing the back of your neck like he might be trying to hide in the space between your skin and your spine.

“What do you see?” he asks, quieter this time.

You exhale, not quite sure how to answer. “Not much. Nothing solid. I think it’s more about how it feels than what it is.”

He hums like he understands.

“I think about waking up slow. The kind of slow that doesn’t come with guilt. A place where the air doesn’t taste like ash. Just… peace. A little bit of green outside the window. A kitchen that smells like home cooked meals. Maybe someone humming off key.”

You feel him smile into your shoulder.

“I could live with that,” he says.

You nod, just once. “I don’t need anything big. I just want something that doesn’t hurt.”

His fingers twitch against your stomach. “You deserve that.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not without saying more than you’re ready to.

So instead, you settle deeper into the warmth between you. Let his arm tighten around your waist. Let the silence stretch.

Eventually, he murmurs, “If we had all that… what would you grow?”

You smile into the pillow.

“Mint. Maybe violets. Something soft.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh, something that settles in your bones like safety.

The quiet settles again, but it isn’t heavy. Just soft. Breathing. Like the world is still deciding what it wants to be this morning.

Your fingers trace slow lines along the arm he’s wrapped around your middle. It feels safe. And that—that—is the strangest part. Safety’s always been something you survived around, not something you sank into.

And yet—here you are. Pressed to Haymitch Abernathy like he won’t let the sun touch you wrong.

You shift just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“What about you?”

His brows twitch like you’ve tugged him out of a thought.

“What do you see?” you ask. “In the future. Not in general. Just… for us.”

He stares at you for a moment. Not startled, not annoyed—just watching. Measuring the weight of the question, maybe. Or wondering how honest he’s allowed to be.

“For us?” he repeats.

You nod.

He looks up at the ceiling, his breath pulling in deep. You can feel the slow exhale against your back.

“I see mornings,” he says eventually. “Ones that don’t feel like punishment.”

Your throat tightens.

“I see you. Sitting on my porch. Complainin’ about the neighbors. Even if there aren’t any.”

You laugh once—small and a little shaky.

“I see you in the kitchen,” he adds, voice a little quieter. “Not cooking. Just there. Always there.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says the next part.

“And I see myself… still waking up scared. But less often.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Not when your heart is beating so loud in your chest it feels like it might give you away.

Haymitch shifts then, just slightly, his thumb brushing along your hipbone under the blanket. “That too much?” he asks, like he’s already bracing for the answer.

You turn toward him, slow and careful, so you’re facing each other. You tuck your hand between your chest and his and whisper, “No.”

He looks at you then.

And for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

You don’t look away either.

Not when he holds your gaze. Not when you see all the fear he tries to tuck beneath his mouth, his silence, his sarcasm. You just… stay there. Letting the moment stretch between you. Letting it be real.

Your fingers shift over his chest—gentle, aimless. He doesn’t flinch.

And then, almost without thinking, almost like it slips out of the place you’ve been holding it too long, you whisper, “I love you.”

His breath stutters.

You keep your eyes on his.

“You know that, right?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But he’s listening.

You press your hand flat against his chest, right over the place where you can feel the heartbeat you’re pretty sure you’d die to protect.

“I love all of it,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure. “Even the parts you think are too much. The mess. The quiet. The sharp edges and the soft ones. I want all of it. I want you.”

Haymitch swallows, his jaw tight.

“I don’t care if it’s messy or loud or complicated. I don’t care if you have bad days or if your past still fucks with your head or if you wake up needing silence more than my voice. I just—” You inhale sharply. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide any of it from me.”

His hand comes up to your cheek—slow, shaking, unsure.

You lean into it.

“I don’t need you to say it back,” you say softly. “Not if you’re not ready. That’s not what this is. I just…” Your voice drops. “I want you to know. That you’re loved. That you don’t have to earn it. You already have it.”

And then you stop talking, because your throat’s too tight and your chest aches and you’ve said all the words that matter.

Haymitch is still watching you.

Still silent.

Still holding your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just keeps looking at you like he’s seeing something he never thought he was allowed to touch.

His thumb strokes along your cheekbone once, and you swear you feel the tremble in it. His breath is shallow, and his eyes are too bright, like he’s fighting something—maybe himself, maybe the version of him that’s always whispered it was safer not to feel anything at all.

“I don’t…” he starts, then swallows hard. “I’m not good at this.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just press your hand over the one on your cheek and wait. No pressure. No fear. Just there.

“I’ve only ever said it to one person,” he says, voice low and raw. “And I watched her die.”

You nod slowly, eyes stinging. “I know.”

“And for a long time, I thought… if I said it again, it’d mean I let go of her. That I—” His voice cracks. “That I didn’t mean it the first time.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his fingers slipping from your cheek to your jaw, to your throat, to your collarbone—like he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you being here.

“But I didn’t let go of her,” he says finally. “And you didn’t make me.”

You breathe out, slow. Careful.

His voice is barely audible now. “You just… gave me something I didn’t think I could have again.”

You whisper, “Haymitch—”

He leans forward before you can finish, presses his forehead to yours, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet and fierce. “I love you like all-fire.”

You inhale sharply—because you know what that means. You know what those words cost him. What they carry.

Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, and he keeps going, his voice a little steadier now, “I love you when I’m sober. I love you when I’m not. I love you when you talk too much and when you won’t talk at all. I love you when I don’t know how to say it. I love you when I do.”

Your chest shudders, tears sliding down your cheeks as you whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, burying his face in your neck.

And for the first time, you both believe it.

You don’t say anything when he pulls away from your neck to look at you.

You just look at him. Let the quiet hold between you, let his words settle somewhere under your ribs, where they feel too big to hold and too precious to drop.

Haymitch’s gaze flicks down to your mouth. Then back up.

He shifts forward like he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed—like if he moves too fast, you might vanish. But you don’t.

You stay.

And then you lean in first.

The kiss is slow.

No pull. No push. Just lips brushing. His nose nudging yours. Your hand sliding up to his jaw, thumb resting near the corner of his mouth.

His hand finds your waist, fingers curling there like he’s not just holding you—he’s bracing himself.

You kiss again, and this time he lingers.

His mouth parts slightly against yours, breath warm and unsteady. Not from want—at least not only from want—but from how much this is. How much it means.

You shift closer without thinking, until your chest brushes his, until there’s no space between your knees and his thigh. His arm wraps a little tighter around your back.

And still, the kiss stays sweet.

Like the first inhale after holding your breath too long. Like morning light through a half-open window. Like home.

When you pull back just far enough to look at him, his eyes are heavy-lidded and soft in a way you’ve never seen before.

You don’t say anything.

You just touch his face—thumb across his cheekbone, palm over his jaw—and let yourself look at him. Really look.

He leans into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

And then he kisses you again.

Slower. Deeper. No pressure behind it, just more of him.

You press your forehead to his when it ends, both of you breathing a little harder now, hearts thudding quietly between your ribs.

No urgency.

Just this.

You lose count of the kisses.

They blur together—slow, open-mouthed, quiet. Not desperate. Not performative. Just his breath and yours, lips brushing in steady rhythm like the world outside the bed has stopped spinning.

Haymitch shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks beneath you as his weight starts to come forward. He kisses you again—deeper this time, one hand sliding from your waist to your back, guiding you gently down until your spine sinks into the mattress.

His body follows. Careful. Slow. He braces himself with one arm beside your head, the other still wrapped around your side. He’s not heavy, not pressing down—but he’s there, and he’s close, and your body freezes.

Just for a second.

He feels it.

His lips still, just a breath away from yours, and he pulls back just enough to see your face.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and steady, nothing but warmth in it. No shame. No accusation. Just a gentle check-in.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

But he stays still. Watching you.

You take a slow breath. “I’m okay,” you repeat, softer. “Just—just not used to the softness.”

His brows twitch. “Too much?”

“No,” you say instantly, hand reaching for him, fingertips curling against his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “It’s not too much. That’s what I mean. I’m just not used to it not being too much.”

His gaze softens.

You swallow. “It’s never felt… like this.”

Haymitch shifts his weight just enough to free the hand between you and cradles the side of your face with it, thumb brushing along your jaw.

“Then we do this slow,” he says. “And we stop whenever you need. And you don’t have to be anything you’re not.”

You nod. Your throat is tight.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Even more careful. Not because he doubts you—but because he wants you to feel safe.

And somehow, that undoing is the most overwhelming thing of all.

You whisper against his mouth, “Thank you.”

He kisses the corner of your lips.

“For what?”

You smile—small, wobbly. “Not rushing.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile too, but all he does is kiss you again. And again. Until you melt back into the mattress, your legs parting to cradle him without even thinking.

His hand stays on your cheek the whole time.

Like an anchor. Like a promise.

His mouth never strays far from yours.

Even when the kisses shift—deeper now, slower still—he keeps coming back. Brushing your lips like they’re something sacred. Like he’s checking in every time.

Your fingers slide along his ribs, up the curve of his back, fingertips catching on the faint ridges of old scars. He shudders under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“Still okay?” he murmurs against your mouth, his hand cupping your jaw.

You nod, breath warm against his lips. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just makin’ sure.”

His hand dips down then—just to the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t push. Just rests there, palm flat, waiting.

“Can I…?”

You nod again. But he doesn’t move.

He waits until you say it.

“Yes,” you whisper. “You can.”

He lifts it slowly, careful not to rush, watching your face the entire time. And when he pulls it over your head and tosses it gently aside, he doesn’t look right away—not at your body. His eyes stay on yours, like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still with him.

You lie back against the pillow, half-naked now, chest rising and falling a little faster.

He swallows.

“Still good?”

You nod, eyes shining. “Yeah. Just…”

“I know,” he says. “We go slow.”

His hand slides along your side, warm and wide, not squeezing—just holding. You arch slightly into his touch, and he kisses the hollow beneath your jaw. Then your collarbone. Then just above your heart.

He lingers there.

You whisper, “You can touch me.”

His breath stutters.

He shifts above you, brushing your hair back with both hands like he wants to see everything—but only if you let him. His palms settle just beneath your shoulder blades as he leans down and kisses you again—mouth soft and open, a little messier now, like the carefulness is starting to melt into comfort.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers slipping through his hair, and he groans quietly into your mouth like the weight of your touch undoes something deep in him.

You part your legs a little more—not rushed, not inviting more than you’re ready for. Just letting him in. Letting him settle.

And he does. Laying over you like you’re something he’s allowed to rest on.

He kisses you again.

“Still good?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Are you?”

“I’ve never been this good,” he says.

Your shirt is gone, but the rest of you is still clothed—your soft sleep shorts clinging to your hips, warm and slightly rumpled. Haymitch is still in his sweats, the fabric dragging low on his hips, bare chest pressed to yours like something holy.

He’s kissing you again—slow and deep, but not greedy. Just full. Full of everything he hasn’t said in words. Full of the way his body trembles a little when your hands roam down his back, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of those old, worn sweats.

His hips shift gently between your legs, the cotton of your shorts and his waistband the only thing keeping him from pressing fully against you. It makes you gasp—that closeness, even through clothes, even with space left to cross.

He pulls back immediately.

“You okay?” he asks, already still, his voice low and careful. “Too much?”

You shake your head, breath catching. “No. I just… it feels real.”

He nods slowly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers gently toying with the hem of your shorts.

You nod again—but then stop yourself. “Yes. Please.”

He leans in and kisses you once more, then shifts down slowly, sliding the fabric down over your hips, his hands steady and unhurried. He kisses your thigh when he gets them past your knees, then again when he pulls them free completely and drops them off the side of the bed.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear, the air cool against your skin but your body warm—flushed from the closeness, the way he looks at you.

Haymitch pauses, still kneeling between your legs.

“You still with me?”

You nod, eyes glassy.

He presses a kiss just above your knee. “Tell me if that changes.”

Then he leans back just enough to shove his sweats down—slow, one hand on your leg to steady himself. He drops them off the bed, not making a show of it, just removing distance.

Now it’s just you and him. Skin and breath and cotton between your thighs.

He comes back over you, settling carefully between your legs again, the press of his boxers against your underwear making both of you gasp.

You arch into him, instinctive, chasing the pressure. He groans softly against your neck, his hips stuttering just a little.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel… you feel like everything.”

You press your cheek to his, fingers sliding into his hair.

His arms wrap around you fully, pressing you chest-to-chest, his hips moving again—slow, tender, grinding gently against the throb between your legs. The fabric catches just right, just enough, and your mouth parts in a breathless moan.

“Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice gone soft. “Still okay.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—longer this time.

And the way he moves against you—not fast, not hard, just present—makes your whole body hum.

The friction is steady now.

Haymitch’s hips roll against yours—slow, deep enough to make your breath catch, but still clothed, still soft. The heat between you simmers just under the surface. It isn’t frantic. It isn’t even needy. It’s devotional.

You moan quietly when he presses down just right, your underwear damp and clinging now, the front of his boxers warm and soaked with it.

He kisses you again—this time slower, deeper. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s trying to learn what your mouth is like when you sigh, when you whisper his name, when you forget to be afraid.

His hands are moving now—down your sides, across your waist, up your ribs. Exploring. Not groping. Just touching.

His palms splay over your stomach, your sternum, the soft swell of your breasts. Careful and curious, like he’s never been allowed to touch anything this soft.

“Still good?” he murmurs, mouth brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice breathless. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You run your fingers along his back, over the strong curve of his shoulder blades, down to the dip of his spine. He shudders when your nails graze gently over his skin.

You whisper, “Can I touch you more?”

He nods against your skin. “Please.”

You roll your hips slowly, letting him feel the way you pulse under him, and his body jerks—just slightly, just enough to let you know he feels it all.

His hand comes to rest between your breasts, not pressing, just lying there—warm and steady.

“Never thought I’d get this,” he says quietly.

You lean up and kiss his throat.

“You have it.”

He cups one of your breasts fully then—warm palm against bare skin, his thumb brushing slow over your nipple. You gasp, arching into the touch, and he pulls back just enough to watch your face.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, lips parted. “That feels… really nice.”

His mouth quirks. “Nice?”

You huff a laugh, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kiss him again, smiling against his mouth as his hand keeps moving—down your side, over your hip, sliding between your thighs where your underwear is damp and soaked through.

His fingers brush over you there—gentle, not pressing, just feeling how wet you are for him.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

You gasp again as his finger grazes your clit through the thin fabric, hips jerking.

“Still good?” he asks, still checking, still watching.

“Yes,” you moan.

His forehead rests against yours as he keeps touching you, slowly, like he’s learning how to love you. Not just where—but how.

And it’s not until your legs fall wider around his hips that he whispers, “Can I take these off?”

Your breath is already shaky when you nod.

Haymitch kisses you once more, deep and slow, then starts to slide down your body—pressing kisses to your chest, your ribs, your stomach. You go still beneath him, not tense, but not loose either.

Your thighs twitch as he settles between them, his hands resting gently at your hips.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t touch you yet.

Just waits.

You try to speak, but your voice comes out thin. “You don’t have to…”

He looks up at you immediately, his hands still steady on your hips. “Don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You bite your lip, heat rushing up your throat. “It’s not that. I just…” Your eyes flick away. “I’ve never had anyone do that without it being—”

You stop.

But he already knows.

His thumb strokes over your hipbone, warm and patient. “Without it being about them?”

You nod, barely.

His eyes soften. “This isn’t about me, honey.”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s about you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off gently—his voice warm and sure as his hands start sliding your underwear down.

“Let me take care of you.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh as he says it, like a vow.

“Okay?” he asks, waiting with your underwear halfway down your legs, not moving until you nod.

You do.

“Okay.”

He finishes pulling them off, slow and reverent, and then he’s back between your thighs—settled and steady, his hands running soothing strokes along the backs of your legs as you tremble just slightly beneath him.

You cover your face with one hand, overwhelmed.

He presses a kiss to the top of your knee. “Hey.”

You peek down at him, heart thudding.

His voice is soft. “I want you to feel good. That’s it.”

You nod again.

He kisses your inner thigh—once. Then again. And then his tongue finally drags over you, slow and warm, and your whole body shudders.

You cry out softly, your hand flying from your face to grip the sheets instead.

Haymitch groans into you, low and wrecked, his hands holding your hips steady as he licks again—deep, slow, deliberate—like he’s savoring every inch of you.

He murmurs something against you that you can’t make out, but you feel it in your bones. In the way your legs fall wider. In the way your breath catches every time his tongue flattens just right.

You sob his name once, and he answers by sucking gently at your clit, just once, just enough to make you whine and arch off the bed.

“Still okay?” he whispers, voice rough, lips brushing your skin.

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He keeps licking like he’s been waiting a lifetime to show you what it’s supposed to feel like.

And for the first time, you believe it’s okay to fall apart.

He keeps his mouth on you like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

No rush. No show. Just slow, reverent worship—his tongue dragging steady over you, his hands strong and gentle as they hold you open like you’re something sacred.

You can’t breathe right.

Not because it’s overwhelming, though it is—but because he’s the one doing it. Haymitch. The man who doesn’t let anyone close. The man who looks at you like softness is allowed to survive in his arms.

You sob his name again, hips lifting into his mouth, thighs trembling as he flattens his tongue and presses, circling exactly where you need him, slow and devastating.

He groans into you when you grind against his mouth, like your pleasure alone is enough to wreck him.

“H-Haymitch—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I think—I think I’m gonna—”

He pulls you closer.

“Let go, honey.”

And you do.

It hits all at once—sharp and hot and so full, your body locking up with a cry that punches out of your lungs. You writhe under his hands, thighs clenching around his shoulders, hips jerking as your orgasm takes you.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking through it, swallowing every sound, every twitch, every sobbed-out breath until you’re squirming from the overstimulation and trying to push him away, your fingers weak where they find his hair.

Only then does he pull back.

He kisses your inner thigh once, then once more, and rests his cheek against it like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You’re still shaking, your chest rising and falling fast, your whole body wrecked in the best way.

He kisses your leg again, murmurs, “Still good?”

You nod, breathless. “Better than.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, the look on his face somewhere between awe and ache.

And then he says, “You want more?”

Not greedy. Not expecting. Just offering.

You reach for him, still dazed, voice barely steady.

“I want you.”

You say it with your fingers curled around the back of his neck, your thighs still trembling, your chest flushed and bare. And Haymitch doesn’t move right away—doesn’t pounce, doesn’t rush.

He just stares at you like the whole world has narrowed to this bed, this breath, this choice.

Then he leans up, slow and quiet, and kisses you like he’s telling you thank you without words.

You pull him into you. Chest to chest, skin to skin, slick heat where your body’s still pulsing, still open from his mouth. He settles gently between your legs again, resting some of his weight on his elbows so you can feel him everywhere—his breath, his heartbeat, the shaky tension in his muscles from holding back.

His cock is thick against your thigh, still trapped in his boxers, and when you roll your hips just a little, he groans into your mouth.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not until he whispers, “Last one. You sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “Say it, honey.”

Your voice is soft, steady. “I want you to make love to me.”

He exhales shakily then presses one more kiss to your lips before shifting back to slide his boxers off.

You follow, eyes wide, breath catching as he settles over you again—bare now, and so beautiful in the early morning light you almost forget to be afraid.

His hand finds yours between your bodies, fingers tangling like he needs the anchor.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod. “More than.”

He reaches down, slow and careful, guiding himself to you. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance—hot, heavy, slick with your arousal—and you gasp as he starts to press in.

It’s a stretch. Not painful. Just real.

You suck in a breath, thighs tensing.

He freezes. “Too much?”

You shake your head, clutching his hand tighter. “No. Just… I’ve never done this and felt safe before.”

His whole body softens above you.

“Then we do it right,” he murmurs. “Slow. Steady. You tell me the second you need anything.”

You nod, eyes locked on his.

And then he pushes forward—inch by inch, giving you time to feel every part of it, every place where your body opens for him. You gasp once, then moan, then arch into him as he finally bottoms out, chest pressing to yours, both of you shaking.

He holds still, forehead against yours, your breath mingling.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel like home.”

And for the first time in your life, it does.

The first movement is slow.

Just his hips rocking gently, barely pulling back before easing forward again. It’s not deep yet—not really—but it’s enough to make you breathe harder, to make you clutch his back and gasp into his shoulder like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

Haymitch groans softly, like even that much undoes him.

“Still okay?” he whispers against your cheek, voice frayed at the edges.

You nod, whispering back, “Yeah. It’s so good.”

So good doesn’t even cover it. Because it isn’t just about how he feels inside you—though he fills you perfectly, thick and slow and warm—it’s the way he moves.

Like he has nothing to prove.

Like there’s no rush, no point in fucking you fast when he can stay here, when he can press his chest to yours and feel your heart race with every gentle thrust.

“Let me know if anything changes,” he murmurs. “You just say the word and I stop.”

You shake your head, holding him tighter. “Don’t stop. Just… keep doing it like this.”

He kisses you. Tender. Messy. His hips begin to move more fully now, the strokes deeper, still unhurried—but enough to make your body melt under him, your thighs falling further open, your breath turning into quiet whimpers with each press of his cock.

“You’re so soft,” he says against your mouth, like he can’t believe it. “So fuckin’ warm.”

You moan, breathless. “You feel so good inside me.”

His rhythm falters, just for a second. Then he picks it back up—still that steady, loving pace, but now with a little more weight behind it. Like every slow thrust is driving the truth in deeper.

You reach up and cradle his face, pulling his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” you whisper again. Not because you expect it back. Just because it’s real. Because it lives in your bones now.

He thrusts deeper, his breath catching.

“Love you too, honey.”

He presses in again, and you sob out a moan as his hips grind perfectly at the end.

“Oh, god—” you gasp.

“That feel good?” he asks, voice rough, low, tender.

You nod, body arching, and he does it again. Slow, deep, circling his hips just right.

Your legs tighten around him as your body starts to tremble.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “aren’t you?”

“Yes—please—Haymitch—”

He kisses you again, one hand sliding between your bodies to gently rub your clit as he keeps thrusting, slow and perfect.

“Come for me, honey. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body pulls tight.

His thumb circles your clit with gentle pressure, just enough, just right, and his cock keeps moving slow and deep inside you, hitting that place that makes your breath stutter and your fingers claw gently down his back.

You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

And then—you break.

Your body arches, thighs trembling, mouth falling open as the orgasm hits you—hot and slow and endless. You feel yourself pulse around him, your body clenching so tightly around his cock that he gasps, the sound punched right out of his chest.

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, voice ragged, lips dragging over your cheek. “That’s it. God, that’s it. Just like that—just like that.”

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays deep. Still moving, still holding you, his thrusts rougher now—still slow, but not calm anymore. Not careful. Like your body unraveling around him has undone whatever control he had left.

You’re still shaking, your body wet and sensitive, but you keep whispering, “Yes—please, Haymitch—”

He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before—half-strangled, half-helpless—and slams into you once, twice, then stays there, buried as deep as he can go.

And he comes.

Hard.

His body seizes over yours, one hand gripping the pillow near your head, the other cradling your thigh as he shudders through it—long and slow. You feel him twitch inside you, feel the heat of him spilling deep, and your body clenches again like it wants to keep every bit of him.

He collapses into you—not heavy, just close, forehead against your neck, breath shaking.

You wrap your arms around him and hold him there.

Neither of you speaks.

Not yet.

There’s only the sound of your breaths tangled together, your hearts still racing, your bodies still joined.

After a minute, he shifts slightly—just enough to lift his head and look at you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, almost reverent.

You nod, smiling, your eyes glassy. “More than okay.”

He doesn’t move to pull out. Doesn’t even ask.

He just presses his lips to your cheek and whispers, “Stay with me.”

You curl your fingers into his hair and whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Haymitch’s body is warm and heavy over yours, his breath brushing your collarbone, your fingers tangled in his hair. Neither of you moves—not because you can’t, but because there’s nowhere else to be.

The sky outside has started to shift, that pre-dawn blue softening toward something gentler. A little gold peeks through the window, painting your skin in morning.

He’s the first to speak after a while, his voice low, rough from sleep and sex and something softer.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nod slowly, nose brushing his temple. “I’ve never felt safer.”

His body eases even further into yours, like he didn’t know how much tension he was holding until you said it out loud.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your neck. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”

“I meant it too,” you whisper. “I want all of you. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.”

You feel him smile against your skin—crooked and quiet and real.

Eventually, he does shift, just enough to slip out of you. You wince at the emptiness, at the sudden cool air between your legs, but then he’s right back, curling around you, pulling the blanket up over both of you like he needs you covered, held, his.

He kisses your shoulder. Then the crook of your neck. Then the spot behind your ear that makes you hum.

You murmur, “I think I’m in love with you.”

He grumbles against your skin, “I already told you I love you. Stop trying to win.”

You laugh, turning in his arms to face him. “I just like saying it.”

He runs a hand over your hair, down your spine. “Then say it again in a few hours. After we’ve slept for a decade.”

You rest your forehead against his, letting your nose brush his, letting your whole body sink into his warmth.

“Okay.”

He kisses you one more time, slow and sleep-soft, and then you both let yourselves drift.

Wrapped up in the sheets. Wrapped up in each other.

By the time the sun crests over the hills, you’re already dreaming.

And for the first time in a long time, it’s good.

Next Part

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° hope you think of me

( rin itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — hi all! this is part of my new series! if you know me, or my account in general lol , you'd be able to pick up on some taylor swift references in the form of titles :) i do base a lot of my writing off songs! so, i decided to rework old work and...decided to start the new discography masterlist! the masterlist will be made soon, but the basics is that i paired ( almost ) every taylor song with a bllk character! i hope you enjoy the ride ;)

♡ content — rin itoshi x fem! reader, fem! reader, set in both before rin went to blue lock and when he is a pro soccer player, the past will be in italics, the present will be normal text, established relationship, rin misses reader, kinda angst?, unrequited love, pining

♡ synopsis — It all crumbled down the day Rin Itoshi got that letter from Blue Lock. Why couldn't he easily choose one...you? or his dream? In his mind, the two couldn't exist together.

The bright lights of the stadium flicker on, casting long shadows across the pitch as the crowd roars in the background. The announcer’s voice echoes in the air, but all Rin can hear is the soft whisper of your name in the back of his mind, a constant refrain.

His eyes wander across the field, distracted by the fleeting moments that remind him of you, even though he’s supposed to be focused.

It's strange how everything about this stadium feels like a reflection of you. The banner for the jewelry sponsor—that’s the one you always liked. The colors in the ad are almost the same as the ones in your old childhood bedroom, the same shade of deep blue that you said matched the ocean.

And then there’s the scent of fresh grass, the kind that always reminded him of the times you two spent lying on the grass after school, listening to music while you tried to figure out who was more stubborn—him or you?

He should've known it would end like this.

It all crumbled down the day he got that letter from Blue Lock. Why couldn't it have been easy? Why couldn't he easily choose one...you? or his dream?

In his mind, the two couldn't exist together.

"Why do you care so much, Rin?" you’d asked after his constant nagging about what you wanted to do after high school, your voice soft but strained, like you could already feel the weight of the words before they even came.

He should’ve softened, should’ve told you everything that was happening inside him, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the silence grow thick, each word building a wall between you that no apology could ever tear down.

He pushed you away with every passing second. "It’s over," he’d said. Even as his heart ached, watching your big eyes widen and fill with tears, he couldn't risk giving up.

He had to reach him.

"You wouldn’t understand. Whatever. I have bigger things to focus on than you."

Your eyes… they were full of hurt, but you didn’t say a word. You just turned away, the soft click of your shoes leaving out his bedroom door and home sounding like the final nail in the coffin of everything you had.

The crowd's cheers feel distant now, like they belong to someone else. Rin runs a hand through his hair, trying to focus, but all he can do is look around and see you everywhere.

The water bottle with the same brand you used to buy. The locker room seats that remind him of how you’d wait for him after every match, always there, your smile the only thing that made him feel like he belonged somewhere.

He remembers the things you liked—small, silly details that seemed insignificant at the time, but now, they’re all he can hold on to.

He remembers the little things. The music you loved—the way it played softly from your car every time you'd drove to the beach, how you'd hum along with the lyrics, your fingers tapping the steering wheel.

You said the songs made you feel alive, like it was a memory of something you couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t realize until now, standing here in this stadium, that he was the one who made you feel like a memory.

He stepped onto the field, shaking off the weight of the past, but even as the game starts, the images of you flood back in—your laugh, your touch, the way you’d get embarrassed when you said something too cheesy.

The way you always made him laugh without trying to.

"You really remember everything, don’t you?" you had said once, your eyes teasing.

"Everything that matters," he replied without thinking.

Now, as he steps onto the field, the memory hit him like a punch to the gut. What really mattered? Because what he remembers isn’t just your smile or the way you made everything feel like home. What he remembers is how much you gave him, how much you loved him, and how much he didn’t deserve any of it.

The game continued on, but the colors, the lights, the little reminders—they all blur together.

Rin’s vision fades, and for a moment, it’s just him, standing still in the middle of the field, surrounded by a sea of faces, none of them yours.

And yet, every second feels like it’s laced with memories of you.

hope everyone enjoyed :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!