#thing into this weird sort of disarray

[radiocity]

The L Word | S2E01

[kitten4sannie]

blood pact

pairing: vampire! wooyoung x human! reader (fem)

genre: vampire society au, a lil bit of angst, smut

summary: living in a city overrun by bloodsuckers is already hard enough on its own, but you’re really put to the test when one of them ends up being your only hope in the face of danger.

w.c: 4.3k

warnings: blood/injury, depictions of violence, death(s)? of a few vampires, hard-ish dom (slight tamer)! wooyoung, subby (tiny bit bratty)! reader, these mfs are nasty alr, some light brat taming, one or two little slaps, praise/degradation, pet names/name calling, blood kink obv <3 (includes blood drinking/sharing), kissing, oral (giving), throat fucking, brief breath play, pain kink, mutual masturbation, lotus position but it’s rough !!, creampie

a/n: oh mannn i’m a bit late again 😣 but im excited to share this one with you all !! i wanted to thank my dear lily for beta reading this one for me and giving me lovely feedback that helps me grow as a writer, it truly means the world to me my dear 🩷 once again i do apologize if this fic seems disjointed in any way ,, things have been a bit weird but i won’t let life stop me from sharing nasty smut >:((( lol i hope you enjoy and please lemme know what you thought <33

song rec: dirt - depeche mode (we’re taking it wayyy back with this one <3)

fictober 2024

You were never able to pinpoint exactly when humanity went to shit, as it had always been in a state of constant conflict and disarray, but somewhere along the way, it turned into a raging dumpster fire — one that was close to impossible to put out once it was lit. Unbeknownst to humans, there was a society of vampires that lived in the shadows for centuries, waiting patiently until it was the perfect time to make their existence known and feared. What better time to take over the world than when the humans were too busy being at each other’s throats to even realize they had a common enemy, one that would drain them of their life source within a blink of an eye? 

Anyone with a pulse had no choice but to fall in line and succumb to their undead overlords, having to make up their mind about whether they would like to join forces with the enemy by desecrating their DNA and joining those that single-handedly brought upon humanity’s destruction, or grovel at their feet and become a slave, a house pet of sorts whose soul purpose was to feed and entertain their blood-sucking masters.

It was not an easy choice for most, and especially for you, so you simply found another solution — blend in. If you embodied everything a vampire was, even down to their immeasurable sense of pride and entitlement, how could they tell you apart from the others? And when they saw through your ruse, you would drive a stake through their still heart. You would never join their empire, let alone be one of their toys, especially not for some pompous undead prick that would treat you like a glorified juice box. 

Yet, here you were, drunk off your ass at a gothic nightclub that welcomed vampiric guests and shunned anyone with a beating heart, unless they were owned and branded. 

“Gimme another whiskey, neat,” you slurred, holding your empty shot glass to the poor excuse of a human bartender standing on the other side of the bar. You scoffed at the jeweled collar he wore around his neck, knowing he was owned by whatever undead asshole that ran the nightclub. You had your own collar, of course, but you had taken it from someone that was…no longer in need of it. You did what you had to, to make it through another night in the corrupted world you regretfully called your home. 

“I should cut you off, y’know, especially after being such a dick to me all night,” the man mumbled, despite reaching underneath the bar to grab an almost empty bottle of whiskey and filling your glass back up, not wanting to risk angering his superiors. 

“But, you won’t. Your vampiric asshole of a boss wouldn’t like that you’re denying a paying customer.” You stuck your tongue out at the man, much to his dismay. You sipped on the whiskey, liking the way it burned as it went down your throat, grateful that you could still feel something, even if it was a drunkenness that would most likely do irreversible damage to your liver. It’s not like your life really mattered, not in this timeline, at least. 

You lazily held your glass up in his direction, blowing a few strands of loose hair out of your eyes. The man simply held up the empty bottle and gave you a tight smile. “All out. Now, would you pay your tab?” 

“Fineeee, oh my god,” you groaned dramatically, standing up from the barstool and wobbling a bit, fishing for your wallet somewhere inside your worn trench coat. When you opened it up, you came upon the discovery that it was completely empty, looking up to find fear inside the bartender’s eyes. “L-listen, I can replace that bottle, okay? I-I’ll…just need to stop by the local temp agency first.” 

“I think you should leave, before they catch wind of this…” the bartender warned you under his breath, unconsciously tugging at his collar. 

Swallowing harshly, you glanced around the crowded, dingy club past the collar of your coat, before stumbling your way past many vampire patrons that were drunk off the blood of their human pets who stayed close to them, wishing your blurry surroundings weren’t moving in slow motion. Paranoid that somebody was following you, you looked past your shoulder, only seeing the same crowd of drunken patrons. Temporarily relieved, you swiftly faced forward again, only to accidentally bump into someone face-first, your teeth clinking into the metal of their lip ring, your hands almost getting caught in the many necklaces they were wearing. “I’m so sorry, oh my god, please don’t kill me,” you automatically apologized, already knowing they weren’t human based on the lack of a collar and color in their cheeks. 

“If I wanted to, I would,” Wooyoung teased in his own special way, quite aware of the way your heart rate spiked as soon as his light, airy words reached your ears. He enjoyed playing around with his food as much as the next vampire, but lately, it’s grown quite dull, like everything else in his never-ending life.

“O-oh!” you squeaked, letting out a nervous laugh, sticking one hand into your coat pocket to wrap your fingers around the sharp stake you carried with you everywhere. 

He brought one manicured finger up to tap against the jewel sitting snugly against your collared neck, leaning in to press his lips against the slope of your ear. “I’d take you right here in front of everyone, drink you dry. Let them all enjoy the pretty sounds you’d make. Does that sound fun?” 

“Oh, you can try it, if you want,” you goaded him, looking up at him with your big doe eyes once he pulled back, wondering if he knew just how unhinged you were, just how on the edge you really were. “But, what happens if I’m poisonous? I might not be worth the stomachache.” 

Wooyoung chuckled to himself, not used to any human acting so boldly towards him. “Fair point, human.” 

“Y/N,” you corrected him, letting go of you weapon in favor of wrapping your finger around one of his silver necklaces, teasing him back in your own way. “You should at least know my name if you’re going to drink from me.” 

Wooyoung mused at your actions, studying you with his sly fox eyes, licking at the mole on his lip. He would’ve pursed you if you hadn’t suddenly gotten spooked by something, turning his head to watch you continue making your way out of the club, noticing that the owner quickly followed after you. Things were certainly getting interesting. 

By the time you inhaled the cold night air into your lungs, you had already broke out into a sweat. You let your heavy coat hang off past your shoulders and leaned back against a nearby wall, regretting all the alcohol you had subjected your poor body into taking. “Fuck me…” you groaned, shutting your eyes and leaning your head back into the cool concrete behind you, hoping that would make the world stop spinning. 

“Is that an invitation…?” asked the very vampire you had been talking shit about to the bartender just a few minutes earlier. “It’s the least you could offer me in exchange for all the whiskey you drank in my club, filthy human.” 

Your blood ran cold. “D-don’t you even think about touching me…You aren’t my owner.” 

“Oh, because of this little collar you have on? You really don’t have a clue about our kind, do you? There’s no pheromones on you, just your own filthy human scent,” the vampire chided, running his finger along the worn band of your lace collar. It made your skin crawl. You struggled to keep down all the alcohol you had drowned yourself in. Just then, he ripped it from your neck and replaced it with his slender fingers, squeezing around it until your vision grew just that more blurry. “But, don’t worry, I’ll make up for all the lost time that you haven’t been used like a proper toy.” 

Blinding rage joined the revulsion you felt for the individual that continued to toy with you as though you were a defenseless child, the culmination of it churning around inside your body like molten hot lava ready to pour out of you. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” you barked, shoving your hands into his shoulders as hard as you could, your feverish anger growing that much more when he hardly moved. 

In response, the vampire tugged your coat down and ripped open your top, causing the buttons to fly off. His abhorrent words became nothing more than radio static inside your ringing ears, once you saw red, clutching the wooden stake inside your pocket so tightly that it pierced your fragile skin. You reeled your arm back and drove it straight into the owner’s side, so violently that the wood split into shards, not letting go of it until you knew that it was lodged deeply inside him, wishing, hoping he felt even a fragment of the pain his kind had caused you. “Die,” you muttered, searching his eyes for some sign of shock, regret, grief, anything. 

Confusion overtook your flushed features when the man simply laughed directly in your face, as though he were savoring a joke that you weren’t in on, suddenly feeling a white hot burning pain inside your abdomen. Something was wrong, deeply wrong. You tried to speak, but you couldn’t, not while you were gurgling on your own blood. You looked down to see the hilt of a dagger sticking out of your stomach, reality hitting you like a ton of bricks, rendering it impossible to draw in air. 

“It never ceases to amuse me when a blood bag thinks they can stop someone like me with something as silly as a wooden stake,” he began, letting out a small hum, as he drove his ritual dagger in as far as it could go. He leaned in close to you, twisting the knife around inside you just to hear the delightful sounds of agony that escaped your red tinted lips. “I’ve been alive longer than your entire bloodline, pathetic human, and I’ll be outliving you tonight.” And with that, the club owner ripped the dagger back out and strolled back into the building, licking the crimson that still ran down the sides of his blade. 

You should’ve known this would happen eventually in a world like this. You had no power from the very start. Why had you been blind to the truth until this very moment, when all you could see was your precious blood leaving your body? Regardless, it was far too late to ruminate over trivial things. Death’s gentle whispers were lulling you to sleep, its sweet promises of rest numbing out most of the visceral emotions that coursed through your veins. Slumping against the wall, you held your middle with trembling hands, gazing up at the full moon that loomed over you, wanting to enjoy her beauty one last time — at least, until someone blocked your view. 

“For fuck’s sake, can’t you see I’m dying here? Let me look at the moon in peace…” you murmured, weakly glaring up at the stranger you had met inside that godforsaken club only a couple minutes ago.

“You still got some fire in you, doncha, sweetheart?” Wooyoung mused, crouching down so you were at eye level, reaching out to gently ruffle your hair. “But, you’ll die of blood loss soon…pity.”

“You’re very observant,” you replied snarkily, leaning your head back into the wall, your vision growing darker by the second. You let out a long, defeated sigh, choking a bit on the blood left inside your raw throat. “Are you just here to watch me die? If that’s the case, can you do me a favor and make it quick?” 

“You didn’t seem like the type to give up so easily.” He leaned in close to you, his crimson eyes shining that much brighter when he asked, “Don’t you want revenge?” 

His question echoed inside your mind, once as a whisper, and eventually as a desperate plea. “And what if I do…? It’s not like I can do much now…”

“Let me turn you.” He bared his fangs. “You’ll live, and you’ll be so much stronger than ever before.” He watched as your eyes widened, then returned to normal, figuring you were weighing your options, though they were vastly limited. “You’ll be free to take his life away, do with it as you please, just like he was going to do to you. Doesn’t that sound delicious?” 

A few drops of blood dribbled down the side of your mouth. The sand in your hourglass was about to run out. “What do you get in return?” 

Wooyoung’s lips curled up into a sadistic smile, his eyes resembling glowing crescent moons. “I’ll be your Master, of course. It’s only fair, being your savior, and all.” 

Though that was the very last thing you wanted, you were far too stubborn to die out in such a pathetic fashion. Not only that, but you were being offered the deal of a lifetime, at the end of your lifetime, to be exact, and in exchange for your mortal soul, you could enact sweet, sweet revenge and have a new tale to tell, one that no man or monster could ever take from you. 

“Speak now, or forever hold your peace,” Wooyoung joked slyly, tapping the invisible watch on his wrist. 

“Alright, deal, but make it quick–” you were barely able to enunciate, before Wooyoung was all over you, one hand holding the side of your head, while the other felt where your artery was, immediately sinking his fangs deep into your neck to start the transformation process. 

When you came to, you looked up at your savior, your eyes as red as the blood he had sucked out of you, all of the immense pain that plagued your body gone as quickly as it came, instead replaced by an indescribable thirst. 

“How do you feel, pet?” Wooyoung asked, licking remnants of your life source from his manicured fingers. 

You bared your new, needle sharp fangs to your Master. “Hungry.” 

He smiled at you like a proud father would. “I think I know how we can fix that.” 

-

The last thing the vampiric club owner expected to see when he was sitting inside the comfort of his secluded office was the human woman he had just murdered out of cold blood stomping up to his desk and tossing it out of the way like it wasn’t made of marble. 

“H-hey, we can talk about this, right?” he asked nervously, holding his hands up, along with the stacks of cash that were in between his grubby fingers. “You want money? You can have it!” 

You grabbed him by the collar, yanking him towards you so violently, he just about broke his neck. “I don’t want money. I want your life.” 

When Wooyoung casually strolled into the cush office and pressed his back against the opaque door, the other vampire pleaded at him with his wide eyes. “Wooyoung, baby, this is your favorite club, isn’t it? Haven’t I treated you good here?” 

“Y/N will treat you good too, don’t worry,” he reassures sweetly, dragging his tongue across his pointed teeth. He brought his finger up to his chin like he just remembered something, nodding to himself. “Ahh, she does bite, though.” 

Just as Wooyoung’s cackles rang out inside the vast room, the club owner shifted his frightened gaze to you just in time to see your jaw open wide, gulping at the sheer size of your fangs. And just like that, you bit down onto the vampire’s neck, getting a good grip on his skin, before swiftly turning your head and causing a fountain of blood to rain over you. 

Once you were done feeding, there was hardly anything left of the club owner. Most of him was inside you, and the rest was left splattered across the pedestrian paintings he had up on the walls. Still sitting on the floor near scattered, bloodied hundred dollar bills, you licked up the rest of him from your fingers, your entire body vibrating with pleasure now that your killer was no longer with you, and for other reasons you couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps it had something to do with your new body and your newfound love for excess.

Wooyoung clapped his hands together with giddy delight, giving the top of your head a few pats as a reward. “What a good girl. Do you feel full?” 

Shaking your head, you reached up to Wooyoung’s waistband, undoing the belt buckle and easing his pants down, licking at your red stained lips all the while. The burning, mind-melting desire to consume didn’t leave you, it only multiplied. It clouded your mind, made you feel like you might lose your mind if you didn’t make it stop. “Not enough…my throat…need it filled…” 

“Ahh, I see,” Wooyoung sighed knowingly. This always happened with the humans he turned; they turned into insatiable monsters, always driven by their need for more. He could never get tired of it. Leaning his back against the dripping wall, he reached down to slide his fingers into your soft hair, angling your head upwards, cooing softly at you as he pushed his way into your mouth. “Be careful with your fangs, sweetheart.” 

Relaxing your throat upon the sudden intrusion, you opened your mouth wider, as to not pierce Wooyoung’s cock with your new fangs, feeling content once the entirety of his twitching length fit snugly inside. It was when the vampire thrusted further into your throat that you made a wet gagging sound, tears forming inside your crimson eyes, closing them. 

“Ah, ah,” Wooyoung tutted, giving your cheek a light smack, smiling sweetly down at you when your eyes opened back up. “That’s right, you better look at me with those pretty eyes of yours if you’re going to take me down your throat like this. That’s what a good pet does.” 

Once Wooyoung started to fuck your throat, eager to fill it with his cum, his pale fingers pulling tightly at your hair, you did your best not to choke around him, welcoming him in again, over and over, until saliva and pre-cum dripped down your chin and along your bare chest.

“Mmnh….nnnhmm…” you moaned in approval, reaching up to hold onto his bucking hips, digging your nails into his protruding hip bones. You blinked more tears away, wanting to see Wooyoung’s sadistic face without the constant blurriness that plagued your vision. Whether you had a penchant for punishment or you were simply bloodthirsty, it caused you to prod at the vampire’s cock with your fangs, the tangy flavor of iron joining the abundance of precum that lubed up your throat. 

“Fuck, you’re a naughty girl, biting me like that,” Wooyoung hissed in between violent thrusts, suddenly holding your head still when the entirety of his cock was inside your throat, your nose brushing against his pubic bone, satisfied with the filthy gurgling noises you couldn’t help but make for him, feeling more of your spit drip down his heavy balls. He smacked his hand against your cheek again, watching it grow rosy, before pinching your nose tightly. “But, you can’t help it, huh? You just want to be put in your place. I can’t blame you for that.”

The sensation was suffocating, the feeling of being used added onto the constant buzz of pleasure that was running through your veins; it was nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. It almost made you wish that you had let yourself be turned a long time ago. No one could stop you now, not even him. Maybe your humanity was slipping away from you, much like your sanity with each passing moment. 

It wasn’t until you could breathe again and something warm, heavy, was pressing down on the tip of your tongue that you faded back into reality, just in time for Wooyoung to shoot a seemingly never-ending cumshot down the back of your aching throat.

“You’ll swallow, won’t you?” he asked sweetly, giving the bottom of your chin a light tickle with his clawed fingers. 

When you stuck out your tongue to show him that nothing was left, Wooyoung grabbed you by the chin and yanked you towards him, biting the tip of your tongue to draw blood. You watched him suck it off with half-lidded eyes, having to close your thighs together to keep a fresh wave of slick from dripping out of you. 

Before you knew it, he was on the floor with you, not even needing to pull you into his lap, groaning into your mouth as you climbed into it yourself, the heated kiss you shared consisting mostly of tongue, pointed teeth, and blood. You swapped red-tinted saliva back and forth, your hands working in tandem to tear off each other’s clothes and grope one another wherever you could, trying to create as much friction between your lower halves as you could, Wooyoung’s stiff cock rubbing deliciously into your clothed cunt. 

You broke the kiss when your thirst once again grew too strong to ignore, reaching up to run your index finger over the mole on Wooyoung’s glistening bottom lip, hissing softly when he pierced it with one of his fangs. You both watched the blood slowly trickle down along your skin, sharing a similar look with one another, before you leaned in to lap it up, your tongues meeting in the middle. 

As though telepathically connected, you reached to slip your panties off from underneath your skirt the same time Wooyoung undid the buttons of his pants, immediately rubbing at yourselves in order to get off as quickly as possible. 

“Look at me when you cum,” Wooyoung demanded between huffs of air, staring you down past his wispy lashes, the speed at which he was stroking his cock producing lewd squelching sounds, his slender fingers slicked up with his abundant pre-cum. 

Trembling, you opened up your teary eyes to look at Wooyoung, the indescribable pleasure etched into his face causing you to throb nonstop, curling your fingers up in just the right way to launch you into a world of ecstasy. “C-cumming…” 

Wooyoung groaned at the sight and feeling of your release spilling into his lap, squeezing his hand tightly around the base of his cock, hot spurts of cum landing on your abdomen and dripping down your bare cunt, not even caring that you both dirted his designer jeans with your shared arousal. “I’m gonna make you do that again, on my cock this time, you hear me?” he growled at you, lifting you up like you weighed nothing and dropping you down onto his growing erection. 

“Fuck,” you gasped sharply, holding onto his shoulders to keep your composure, your thighs still shaking from your residual pleasure, a low, burning pain present within your core  as your hole stretched to accommodate the vampire’s size. “T-too much…” 

Wooyoung’s ego just about doubled in that moment, his ringed fingers closing in on your soft waist, suddenly bucking his hips up into you like it was his sole mission to do so in the afterlife. Smiling smugly at the small, broken noises he was punching out of you with his vicious thrusts, he couldn’t help but let out a few crazed giggles. “Can’t take it now that I’m rearranging these pretty guts of yours, huh?” He mirrored your pout, his lower lip jutting out. “But, I thought you were my cum slut, my good little blood whore.” 

“I am…! I–fuck, I am, Master…!” you found yourself crying out, tears inside your hazy eyes, tasting dried blood when you wet your dry lips, knowing you wouldn’t even recognize your reflection if you saw it now. You were a new model, remolded, changed for the better. 

His hypnotic eyes began to glow. “Be a good sleeve and take it for your Master, yeah?”

You did as he said, taking everything he gave you like a pliant doll, letting him lick, bite, drink from you, and fuck you dumb for as long as his still heart desired, wondering if he was even aware of how much your blood boiled inside you. 

Wooyoung was just like the others. They were all the same, treating you like a helpless toy, using you for their enjoyment and tossing you aside when they were bored, viewing your humanity as your downfall, and perhaps they were right. Like two magnets, you couldn’t live without the other, and now, you were a monster like him, one in the same. 

Just as you both reached your climax together, holding desperately onto one another, Wooyoung’s bewitching gaze no longer holding captive, you felt a supreme power rise within yourself. You didn’t need him, not when you were now your own Master. The only thing you served now was your endless hunger. 

Wooyoung couldn’t get you off once you latched onto his neck, gasping and sputtering, his constant struggles only forcing your fangs just that much deeper into his skin and the artery you had targeted, digging his claws into your back as a last ditch effort. “But, we…we made a pact,” he coughed out, his gravelly voice reflecting the immense pain he felt. He couldn’t fight back any longer, simply slumping back against the wall to accept his fate, holding his hand up to his torn neck, despite it not doing anything to prevent the crimson from flowing through his fingers. “I don’t understand…” 

“I recall warning you that I was poisonous,” you replied softly, licking remnants of his precious life source from your stained lips. 

He couldn’t help but smile, his eyes resembling half-moons. “Fair point, human…”

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© kitten4sannie, 2024.

[januaryembrs]

SKIN LIKE PUFF PASTRY | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [6]

description: the ONE where you help him grieve another woman + the ONE with the promise

length: 8.04k

warnings: maeves death. grief. Spencer is a sad bby. HOWEVER maybe perhaps some fluff? healing journey! gun, blood, usual cm warnings.

author's note. HERE YOU GO POOKIES. I hope you enjoy now I've put you all out of your misery.

previous chpt | next chpt | series masterlist

'Lacy, oh lacy, skin like puff pastry,

aren't you the sweetest thing on this side of hell?'

The one where you help him grieve another woman.

It killed her walking up those stairs every day. She knew the gift baskets were piling up, had already had a terse conversation with his neighbour about leaving ‘clutter’ in the hallway, to which she thinks she might have swung at the eighty year old woman if she didn’t think it would cause Spencer problems. 

He had enough on his plate already. Maeve had died, for fuck sake. 

In fact, she almost entirely blew her top when she made it to the top of the steps to see every single one of Garcia’s gift baskets had been moved, the bunches of tulips she’d brought him every other day over the past two weeks gone with little trace other than browning petals scattering his door mat. Even the cookies JJ had baked him, the card Henry had drawn for his uncle Spencer had been moved. 

Bugsy stopped for a second, her head snapping to the door to the right where his neighbour, Miss Cavanaugh, had shuffled out of her apartment in her pink dressing gown, her grey, wispy curls flat against her head as if she’d just rolled out of bed. 

She blinked at the younger girl through thick, bubble-like glasses, her blue eyes annoyed the minute she saw her standing there. 

“You can’t just take people's things, you know, I don’t care if it got in the way of your daily walk, Miriam, those were for Spencer-” Bugsy started, her voice as calm as she could get it even though her scowl spoke for itself. 

“I didn’t touch any of his crap, little lady,” Miriam raised her mottled hand, crooked fingers shushing the outrage Bug had been ready to bark at her, and the women sighed when they realised they might just have another argument like their last one, “Kid was poking around at like six in the morning taking it all in, nearly woke up my dog,”

Bugsy rolled her eyes, “God forbid,” Miriam flipped her the finger which made Bugsy’s jaw drop wide open, shuffling back into her apartment muttering to herself, her mail in her mangled hands, “Old bag,” Bug murmured to herself, but her eyes quickly locked back onto Spencer’s door.

He had been out. Well, he had been into his hallway, but it was something. 

Her legs felt like jelly when she took hesitant steps towards his doorway, her knuckles gently rapping on the wood, a frog crawling into her throat that she tried clearing with a cough. 

“Spencer?” Her voice was soft, melodic, and it made him wince where he sat against the other side of his entrance, his own hair a state of disarray, “It’s me,” 

Of course he knew it was her. He didn’t think a day could ever go by where he wouldn’t know her by the sound of her steps alone. Like he’d grown a sixth sense for these sorts of things, like they were linked by some weird Spidey powers like in the comics she’d brought over to his apartment and begged him to read, because even though he could devour a million words a minute (her words not his) it was the art in it she loved and that forced him to slow down and enjoy the pages. 

He wanted to tell her to go away, but he couldn’t find it in him to ever be so cruel, to dig himself a bigger trench of regret than he already felt. He couldn’t save Maeve, physically could never get the image of her dying from his ginormous, genius brain that held onto every detail, and on top of it, he knew he deserved none of the kindness Bugsy showered him with. He’d heard her come stand outside his door every single morning, heard her knocking with the same worried call of his name at the same time before breakfast. He heard her sigh after ten or so minutes and leave, her retreating footsteps clunking down the stairs sadly. 

She was too good for him. He’d only solidified it that she was so beyond what he deserved, that he could never treat her the way she deserved to be treated, the same way he hadn’t with Maeve. 

Spencer’s self loathing was a poison, slowly devouring him every time he heard her voice, felt her approach through the floorboards, when he’d seen the little notes she’d left on the books she’d dropped off outside his door. Usually they were her reviews on them, a list of pros and cons, her general musings, all things they would have chatted over a bagel if things had been normal between them. But he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had breakfast together the way they had like clockwork since she joined the BAU. That was a lie. He could remember, of course he could, it had been four months, three weeks and five days ago, a Monday. He thinks she knocked around 10am. Something like that. 

It was the day before she’d flown to London, actually. She had dropped the boys (the boys being Niko and Sergio) off to his apartment, thanked him a bunch of times for looking after them, given him five months worth of cat litter and kibbles and immediately unwrapped a to-go bag of their favourite pastries from the bakery downtown. He remembered it was close to October because she’d bought over maple buns and they only sold at the beginning of Autumn, and he’d asked if she’d be doing anything for Halloween seeing as their usual plans of a horror movie marathon were being put on pause while she was in England. She wasn’t, and she’d asked to call him instead so they could discuss their favourite trick or treating outfits they’d seen. 

He’d promised her a call, only another case popped up by the time the thirty-first rolled around, and it had never happened. 

Spencer hated how he was able to remember every detail of her face the day she’d left, the warmth of her hug he’d clung onto for months. He hated that day she’d surprised him and he hadn’t even thought to wrap his arms around her because he’d been so stuck feeling the overwhelming shock of seeing her. He hated that he’d made her frown like that, that she had ever doubted that he wanted to see her. But it had felt like he’d been caught cheating, why had it felt like cheating? 

He knew why. He knew why seeing her when he was going out to call Maeve had felt like he was double-crossing her. 

Not that it mattered anymore, he thought bitterly. Because Maeve was dead. And Bugsy had every right to hate him. But she didn’t. Because she was too good. 

He hated himself more than he’d ever thought was possible. 

He heard her sigh, but she didn’t repeat herself. Nor did she leave. Instead, he felt the door rattle behind his own spine as she slumped against the wood, sliding to the floor until she unknowingly leaned against him, little more than a few centimetres from his warmth. 

He heard her pull out something from her bag, and the tell tale slip of paper over paper told him she’d brought a book with her, pre-empting staying longer this time. Spencer wanted to tell her not to bother, because if he got brave enough to open the door to her and see her face, smell her clothes, feel the softness of her hugs, he thinks if he told her every thought bouncing around that aching skull of his, it would all come crashing down around him, and he wouldn’t ever be able to stop telling her how sorry he was. For all of it. For letting her pull away from him when she was grieving. For letting her kiss him that night Derek brought her over, because it was obvious she wanted to forget the whole thing. For pushing her away when she came back from London. For being rude and cold when she wanted answers. For trying desperately to completely detach himself from her, which had only ever made him want to scream in frustration because it hadn’t worked anyway. 

Maeve had died because of him, an innocent woman he’d seen himself falling for if they’d been given the chance had died, and he was still head over heels in terrible, stupid love with Bugsy. 

 They stayed there, her reading and him aching from the inside out, for about seven minutes before her phone rang. He heard her huff, letting it go to answer phone and settling back down with her novel. That is, until her dial tone sprung back to life and she half growled under her breath, assuming she pressed the answer button, and he heard her voice again. 

“Hello?” She said, the slight annoyance bleeding into her words, and Spencer already knew that duty was calling by the way her book thumped to the floor and he could just picture her rubbing over her temple in frustration. “I have an appointment, Hotch, I can be there in a couple hours,” Silence, where he guessed Hotch was chiding her on her tardiness, “No, I know I’m supposed to book these things off- it’s just- it’s a contraceptive implant removal, yeah I really busted my IUD when I broke my arm, it’s not settled since,” Spencer almost smiled on instinct, almost, though he thought even if he did it would look like a bitter grimace because he’d not moved his face in over ten days. But she was a really good liar, and he’d always found that part of her charm. She huffed again, “God, you sound like Emily, yes I’m being safe- we are not having this conversation, Aaron, I’ll get there when I get there,” 

With that, perhaps the only person who would ever be allowed to slam the phone down on Aaron Hotchner in a huff did, and they were left alone in silence again. 

“You shouldn’t ignore their calls for my sake,” He found his voice, even if it was groggy with misuse. He felt her straighten against the wooden door, her shock palpable through the brief moment of silence that seemed to stretch on for just a second too long, as if she was scrambling not to say something else than what came out. 

“Pot, meet kettle,” She murmured back, loud enough he could hear it, and she felt him shuffle behind the door, wanting to smack herself in the face for not feeling him there sooner.

“New case?” He asked, his eyes heavy, his pyjamas days old. He knew he needed to shower, but the minute he’d walked into his apartment everything had felt pointless. 

“Yup.” She breathed in, her shoes brushing against his welcome mat with a scratch as she pulled her knees up to her chest, “Although I think Hotch will stick to Penelope making the calls after today,” 

Something between a scoff and a sigh came from his throat, something she couldn’t tell if it was good or bad.

“What is it?” He replied, and she remained quiet for a second, picking the skin around her nails. 

“I’ll tell you if you open the door,” She bartered, wondering for a second if she’d gone too far and had pushed him back into the hole she was coaxing him out of. 

“Blackmail,” Spencer said, all emotion gone from his voice, and Bugsy winced, “A little on the nose for someone who’s grieving,” 

But she could sense it. The way his syllable raised on the last word, that he was being cynical, not cruel like she’d worried. 

“Think of it as a trade deal,” She humoured him, though she kept her voice soft so he knew she meant no harm, just to cheer him up if it was even possible, “You get your answer, and I get to give you this incredibly boring book that I know you can devour in a half hour and give me the summarised version,” 

He smiled. Weakly, and only for a brief few seconds, because if there was anything that warmed him up from the cold, dark, nothingness place he’d found himself in it was her.

He wished he could dislike the fact she did it so easily, wish he could dislike how simple it was to like her, to feel himself wanting her even in that nothingness place he was crawling through as a lone ranger. He wanted to pull her into him tightly, wanted to let her fuss over him, to apologise until his voice ran even more hoarse, but he couldn’t. He feared if he touched her, she’d be marked for death right then and then; that he’d taint her somehow. And that he could never do. 

Yet, he bent to her will. He stood up, prompting her to do the same, leaving his door on the latch as he pulled it open a crack, enough for her to jimmy the book through, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, by Leo Tolstoy. 

He had read Tolstoy before, of course he had. War and Peace was one of the first books he ever owned in Russian, ironically enough one that he’d read only a few days before they’d driven to Baltimore and he’d met Bugsy for the first time. Yet it was this one she’d given him of all of Tolstoy’s works; the one where the protagonist goes on a journey of acceptance that he’s dying with no explanation as to why. 

He thought she might just be the only person who knew how to crawl into the mess of his brain and find something familiar in there. Because this was the same book he’d read when Emily had died. 

He would never tell her he already owned it, however. Nor would he call her out for the fact she most certainly didn’t find it boring considering she was so far into it with annotations already scribbled in the margins. He just took it with a lump in his throat, his eyes burning with the idea she was so incredibly her that it felt like he had no option but to drown in it. 

“Body’s been found in San Francisco,” She said gently, and he knew she wished he would open the door fully so she could at least see him. Yet he kept the door on the latch. Because if there wasn’t a barrier between them, he wasn’t sure how else he would keep it all in, “You get to know more when you finish the book,” 

He sighed, holding the book tight to his chest, and they stood there for a second, the air turning stifling as they both held back a million words behind brave faces, “Will you be gone long?” 

“No, only a few days, I hope,” She replied, zipping her bag up and slinging it on her back judging by the sounds coming from her side of the door. She hovered, not wanting to say the wrong thing, but wanting to stay here on his welcome mat because this was the closest they'd been physically and otherwise in months. 

“Be safe,” He murmured, and her hand shot through the gap in the doorway, her pinky finger raised to the heavens. 

“Promise,” Bugsy said, her heart jack hammering against her ribcage when a long, warm finger wrapped around hers, and they squeezed them together. It was just a little touch, but it was a start. She wished he would open the door so she could beg him to talk to her, even if it meant crawling to her knees, she wasn’t above it whatsoever. 

Reluctantly, she let him go, though she noted the way he had held onto her until she did so. 

“I have to go,” She said sadly, drawing her hand to her chest like she’d received a Midas touch, and her hand was suddenly valuable after gracing his own. 

Her skin felt electric, her breaths felt laboured. She wanted more, but she couldn’t have it. 

And with that, it took every ounce of resolve to turn on her heels and head back down to her car. 

–

Bugsy stared at the artwork with a grimace, picking hard at her cuticles because the metallic smell was making her stomach turn. Their UnSub had taken to painting with his victims’ blood, canvasses upon canvasses of leeched ichor brushed out to make out an image of the bodies. 

Her nose scrunched when another wave of hot, iron wafted up her nose, and she thought about asking Hotch if she could step outside for a moment, knowing he likely wouldn’t question her perhaps ever again after their little phone call. 

“What other reasons would he have for separating plasma from the blood?” Hotch asked, and her brow furrowed, her mouth opening to speak before another voice cut her off.

“It’s a habit,” 

She swore she gave herself whiplash with how fast her head snapped to the side. She would know his voice anywhere. It sounded lost and desolate, yes, but her eyes swirled with relief when she saw him standing there, looking skittish and tired but alive. 

“Reid,” Morgan breathed, the same level of surprise she felt as JJ darted towards him, her arms wrapping around his middle before he could protest.

“Spence,” She said, and they hugged one another tightly, his eyes following over Jennifer’s shoulder to where Bugsy seemed to watch him unsurely, like she was waiting for him to tell her what to do, how to make it better, how to fix it. A girl who had always been so sure of herself now reduced to pining from afar for answers. 

“I didn’t expect you back this soon. You sure you're ready?” Hotch asked, an almost identical look of hesitance on his face as Bugsy had on hers, and it was no wonder half of the department said they were two sides of the same coin.

“No but I think I figured something out,” He breathed, moving out of JJ’s embrace towards the boards where the victim profiles were, and he began speaking in that slow, cold tone he’d taken on. 

Spencer, to no one's surprise, was able to all but fit their disjointed puzzle pieces together in the space of an hour's flight, and with just a few pointers in Garcia’s direction, they’d got their UnSub. 

“And bingo was his name-o, actually his name is Bryan Hughes, he is an AB positive haemophiliac who works as a janitor at the Bay Area Museum of Art. And before you ask, yes his address has been sent to your phones.” Penelope rushed, pinging the information to their phones just as fast as it had appeared on her screen.

“You’re the best baby girl,”  Morgan said into the speaker, hanging up the phone as the team stood from their place at the desk, Hotch assigning them tasks as everyone strapped on their kevlars and guns. 

She held back for a moment, her eyes assessing him like man approaching a wounded wolf. 

“I’m okay-” He was about to say, because he knew what she was going to ask before she thought to do it, except she simply nodded at him, turning on her heel to follow the others, despite him expecting something more Bugsy-like. 

It wasn’t like her to leave him without some final word, some final stand, and he was right. Because no sooner had she gotten all of three paces, she whirled back around, heading back towards him with a timid expression, and she all but launched herself into his arms. 

He held her tight, the warmth of her body making his eyes well up, because if there was anything that could have made him crack his resolve, it was her touch alone. 

She carded her fingrs through his hair, tucking her face into his neck and breathing in deeply. 

“I’ll see you when I get back,” She murmured, stopping herself from saying anymore as she released him, well aware of the fact he had tried squeezing her tighter before she’d had to let him go, like he hadn’t wanted her to go. But neither did she. 

“Stay safe,” He said on instinct, and she nodded, her eyes trailing over his empty eyes and sallow skin. 

She wanted to kiss away every trace of sadness there, but she couldn’t. Wanted to wrap him into a hug so tight she might just stop breathing, but it would have been worth it. Wanted to tuck him into bed and stroke his hair and feed him tea and chocolate and make sure he was kept well, because she’d do anything to make him better. 

But she couldn’t. They had a case. 

It took every scrap of resolve to let go of Spencer Reid, sheepish and mourning, and leave him in that room alone. 

–

She sighed, scrubbing at the back of her hand with the shitty aeroplane soap they had on the jet, the tiny basin doing nothing to help the fact she was all but peeling off the top layer of her epidermis. 

Catching Bryan had been messy; he had come at her with a scalpel, she had shot, his blood had sprayed over her arms, soaking right through. Spencer had all but gone white when she’d gotten to the runway, hoping to make it back to Quantico by midnight. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He fretted, despite the fact it was the closest he'd come in weeks to an emotion that wasn't sadness, and he stood little more than a few centimetres away, his fingers twined together, wanting to check her over himself. 

She waved him off, “It’s not mine. I’m going to wash up on the plane, don’t worry,” She replied, her expression exhausted, twitching on the spot to stop herself pushing his hair behind his ear. She knew he’d washed it because it looked particularly fluffy, the way it always did when he hadn’t bothered to style it before he left the house, “Are you okay?” 

He nodded wordlessly, and took her mini suitcase from her side, wheeling it along the tarmac for her, his face a worried scowl as they boarded the jet. 

She thanked him as she stepped past him putting it in the overhead luggage, heading straight for the toilets to wash up, Morgan and JJ ducking out of the way when they saw Carrie 2.0 passing by them. 

It wasn’t until they were already in the air did she emerge, her change of clothes on her skin that had been rubbed raw, her uniform in a biohazard bag that she swiftly dumped at the back of the jet to keep it out of sight. She threw herself down on the nearest seat, her entire body aching from the long few days, but she didn’t miss the hazel eyes that bore into the side of her head to her right. 

She turned to meet their gaze, even though she already knew who it was before she’d even looked. Spencer looked like he was caught between about five different sentences to start with, his eyes trailing down her arms and to her hands that were now squeaky clean. 

“You sure you’re okay?” He murmured, and she flipped her palms over for him to see for himself. No cuts. No abrasions. Except her usually marred cuticles she’d been picking at all day. 

“Pinkie promised, didn’t I?” She teased, but no humour met his face. He just looked back at her, like he didn’t quite believe her still, like she was a ghost where his best friend should be sat, or a trick of the light. She turned her knees towards him, her sleepy eyes buttery and genuine, as if she was trying to make herself as relaxed as possible, just so he would stop worrying, “Spencer, I’m fine. Didn’t even knick me,”

He stayed quiet for a moment, looking down to his satchel bag where he played with the buckle, the brown leather cold in between his fingers, “I’m sorry I’ve been weird and distant and ignoring you- I just…”

“Spencer,” She tried to interject with a honeyed voice, but he shook his head, a crease forming between his brows when he heard her say his name like that. 

“I just worry I’m letting everyone down, but when I saw you covered in blood-” He gulped, willing his eyes not to burn up again with unshed tears. 

“Spence, it’s okay,” She cooed, shuffling closer to him in her seat, her hand migrating to his knee, because she didn’t know if he’d want to touch her after she’d had someone else's blood all over her hand. She liked her chances, yet the last thing she wanted was to push him. “No one’s expecting you to go back to normal, I just want to know you’re safe. I owe you as much, I mean you looked after me when Emily was gone,” 

“You don’t owe me anything, Bug,” He shook his head again, his brows furrowing and she was quick to correct herself, “Besides, I loved living with you,” He rested his palm over her hand and gave her what he hoped looked like a small smile. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Spence,” She said, flipping her hand over to squeeze his fingers gently, “Did you not think I loved living with you too? I just want to take care of you for me,” 

He looked at her, her eyes hopeful as she roved over his clean clothes, his freshly washed hair, his satchel he’d kept tight in his lap, as if checking him over for bruises despite the fact he hadn’t been in the field. The crushing weight over his chest like a fallen log seemed to shift, and with it, her hand soothed the wound, her smile dried his eyes, her warmth engulfed his very core in a blanket. 

Spencer knew he was going to be okay if it was him and her. He knew the world was livable again if she was fighting in his corner. But then, when hadn’t she been?

Sensing his ease in attitude, or perhaps she just knew his eyes so well to notice the way they seemed to carry less burden as soon as she’d spoken, she leaned back in her seat, “Besides, the boys miss you. They said you gave them more treats than I do and Niko appreciated you brushing his fur for him,”

He smiled over at her bashfully, his head dropping down to lean on her shoulder as she pressed her cheek to his head. 

“Well, if the boys miss me, I guess I have no choice,” He murmured, his eyes heavy the second he rested against her, like she’d sprayed a sedative over him, and he couldn’t help think that her new perfume wasn’t nearly as them as her old one had been. Not that he disliked this one, just that the other one reminded him of morning breakfasts, and movie marathons, and nights when they would bake apple cake at twelve in the morning because she made it how he liked it to a tea. 

She chuckled, and it sounded like a hum in his ear, as he curled up to her side, “Get some sleep, I’ll wake you up when we land and I’ll drive us home,”

And it didn’t take much for him to do so, even if something had been right on the tip of his tongue; his apartment had only felt like home when she said it like that. 

+1. The one with the promise.

He’d had that dream again. 

It had been four months since Maeve died, but he’s had that dream again.

He’d start out in a restaurant, the walls lined top to toe with books, the chandelier the perfect amount of dust that it had character but not tackiness. A waiter would bring him over a menu and an iced tea, his favourite. He’d go to look up to ask why he’d been sat at a restaurant he had no recollection of getting to, and he’d see her staring back at him. 

Maeve. Looking healthy and happy, like he hadn’t watched her brains sprayed across that warehouse floor. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” She would say, a glass of some kind of white wine swirling in her hand, her teeth straight and white and pretty when she smiled. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you,” He’d say, though he couldn’t feel his mouth moving, he just knew it had come from him. “Where are we?” 

“You promised me a date, so this is it,” Maeve said, a glint in her blue eyes, “First and the last. Let’s make it count,”

His heart would give a jump then, because he’d remember this was the only time he’d ever get to see her. He’d remember that she was dead, that he had never seen her in person like this until the day she’d died. 

He’d open his mouth to apologise, to beg for an explanation or forgiveness, whichever one he thought was more pressing, and then the door would swing open. 

And Bugsy would walk in. 

Donned in the same bluebell dress she’d worn at JJ’s wedding, only her arm wasn’t broken. And she’d walk right up to him, that smile on her face that said she was excited to see him. 

And Maeve would look at her, and instead of scowling or sneering like a woman soaking in jealousy would, they would look at one another and grin like they’d known each other decades. 

“Car’s out front when you guys are done,” Bugsy would chirp, her eyes warm when she looked down at the dead woman, satiated in genuine happiness to see her, “Don’t keep him too long,”

“One dance, Agent Prentiss, and he’s all yours,” Maeve would reply with a giggle, her brunette locks falling like a waterfall over her shoulder when she’d stand, offering a hand to him to sweep him onto the dancefloor, “You coming, Spencer?”

And his eyes would snap open, returning him back to the horrible reality of his darkened bedroom, his apartment silent other than the sound of Bugsy tossing in the spare room, the way she did when she got too warm in her sleep, and he threw his legs out of bed to go get her some cold water. 

But the dream never left him. The same one he’d had for months, since she’d moved in with him to take care of him, make sure he was eating and keeping as happy as he could be. 

The sight of her in that blue dress, waiting for him to finish his dance haunted him almost as much as Maeve did. 

–

“Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t been sleeping?” She asked, cornering him in the kitchen once they’d both dropped their go bags in their room and he’d jumped for the kettle to make them both coffee. 

He blanked, the mug nearly slipping from his grasp as he plonked it down on the counter in front of her, “Why would you think-”

“Spencer,” She said as a warning, her lip quirking between her teeth as she gnawed at it worriedly. 

“I didn’t want you to worry,” He confessed too quickly, scratching the back of his neck the way he did when he was nervous, “I know you worry about me, especially right now, and when you worry, you don’t sleep, and I just thought what’s the point in both of us running on nothing,” 

She huffed, and he shuffled around the island to meet her where she stood by the bar stools, looking like she wanted to be cross with him but she couldn’t find it in herself. 

“You should have told me, I could have stroked your back the way you liked, or, I don’t know,” She shrugged, looking anywhere but his guilty looking hues, “Smuggled night nurse in your tea,”

“Drugs. Cause that’s way better than my thing,” He teased, and she snickered, and he sighed in relief that she wasn’t really mad at him. He hated lying to her, he’d just wanted to keep his odd dream to himself until he could make sense of it, “Did Dave tell you anything else?” 

She shook her head, and he knew she was telling the truth because she seemed to immediately be the one assessing him for anything else she should have been told much sooner. 

“Is your head okay?” She asked, putting a gentle hand to his forehead to check for migraine heat, “I know they get worse when you don’t sleep-”

“My head’s fine, Bug,” Spencer replied, grabbing her hand with his long fingertips, pulling them from his face to squeeze at her side with a warming smile, “Promise. I’ll tell you if it gets bad,”

She watched him sceptically for a moment before she leaned over to grab her coffee, taking a long sip, and sighing in delight when it tasted perfect, “I love your memory, did I ever tell you that?”

He chuckled, dodging a rogue Niko that bobbed between his feet because it was almost dinner time for the two miscreants, moving back over to the sink to tidy the granules of sugar he’d spilled, “Many times. But I’d remember your coffee even if I had a normal brain,”

“Humble as always,” She remarked, smiling devilishly when he shot her a glare over his shoulder. It was then that Sergio jumped up onto the counter, the way Spencer had tried scolding him for a million times because of the germs, only for the onyx black cat to flick his tail in his face as if to flip him a middle finger, yowling in the man’s face for his usual dinner of kibble and water. 

“Alright, alright,” Spencer sighed, reaching into the cabinet to grab their food, two fluffy bodies immediately weaving in between his long legs with mews and head bumps, because those boys knew how to wrap him around their little finger, “You ought to start being nice to me, boys. One day it’ll probably just be me and you guys, and then you can’t just bat your tails at me like you do your mom-”

“I know I’m turning twenty eight but I still got a few years left kicking, Spence,” Bugsy protested, her brows furrowing when she heard his murmurs, which she hadn’t found entirely odd since he always spoke to the boys when he fed them, except this time it had made her draw back in confusion, “Where am I in this hypothetical bachelor pad you got going on?”

“You’ll be with whatever guy is lucky enough to talk his way into dating you, maybe engaged, maybe married,” He said like it was nothing, despite the fact he’d been thinking about that exact scenario for months. Since Penelope had mentioned just how good British men were in bed, in fact. Because he felt both sick and curious as to whatever it had been that had come out of her mouth in return, “And I’ll look after the boys while the two of you move on, because you’ll feel sorry for taking my only friends away from me when you leave, and I’ll be forced to become a lonely, old cat man,” 

“That’s not true,” She said, her face warming when he chuckled cynically, running a hand through his hair, “Spence, you can’t actually believe that?”

“Yes it is, Bugsy, you don’t need to try and make me feel better,” He brushed her off, wiping his knuckles over heavy eyelids, “You and I both like facts, right? It’s a quantifiable fact that zero women except Maeve have ever fallen in love with me in thirty years. Even if we call it twelve years to remove the factor of less meaningful relationships developing before adulthood, that means I’ll be forty two by the time I next get a shot, at which point I’ll be too old and washed up for anyone to find me attractive. Let’s face it, no one is ever going to love me like that again,”

“That’s not true,” She repeated, her chest hammering, her face scrunched into a scowl, “You’re wrong. Quantifiably wrong.”

“You have no data to back that statement up, Bug,” He replied with a dark snicker, and maybe it was the lack of sleep or the idea of her engaged to some other bonehead that had made him so crass, “Can’t make a conclusion without drawing on your evidence, to which you have none,” 

“Yes, I do, asshole. I know for a fact that someone is in love with you,” She snapped, and it was like a bolt of lightning had cut through their conversation, blowing up in her face, her entire body freezing the second the words had left her mouth.

She looked at him, her eyes panicked, and all teasing had dropped out of his expression, leaving something confused, “Bug-”

“I don’t know why I said that,” She cut him off, jumping into action and avoiding his burning gaze. But he was fast, and he was pushing off the counter just as quickly as her. 

“Bugsy, what do you mean? I don’t understand,” He persisted, darting only a pace behind her when she moved towards the living room to grab her cardigan off the back of the sofa.

She shook her head, “Ignore that, it doesn’t matter,”

“No, what did you mean by that?” Spencer asked, his voice tense because he had never seen her cower away from him like that, her body moving entirely into a state of flight. She shook her head, snatching the white fabric in her fingers and spinning on her heel to head for the doorway. But there he was, blocking her escape, his impossibly tall body stopping her right in her tracks, and she didn’t need to look up to know he had that special Spencer brand of Puppy Eyes. 

“I’m going to the store-”

“Bugsy,” 

“It doesn’t matter, Spence, just leave it,” She said shakily, trying to duck around him only for him to dodge to the left and stop her advance, “Spence, leave it, please,” 

“What did you mean? Just tell me,” He begged, his cadence wary, the sound of it flushing her entire chest with a heat she’d never known. She swore she was going into cardiac arrest, her heartbeat was in her throat, and it made it difficult to swallow, let alone push him away, “Do you know something?”

Her breaths were deep, begging her chest to behave as it damn near spun her vision into dizziness. He was just a man. He was just a boy. How could he have so much control over her entire body when he had barely even touched her? When he had just asked her one tiny little question? 

It was unethical, how her stomach rippled with butterflies the second she dared to look at his hazel eyes, round and intense where they never left her face. It should have been illegal for begging to look so good on him. 

She took a sigh, shaking her head and looking back to his mismatched socks, chuckling bitterly, and putting her head in her hands. She couldn’t escape from this, her only defence mechanism was to curl into herself like an armadillo against a predator, her attacker being the god's honest truth that he was owed years ago. 

“I really,” She cleared her throat, her eyes starting to burn with unshed tears, “I really messed things up with you,” 

“What?” Spencer’s hot hands wrapped around her wrists, pulling them away from her face so he could hear her every word clearly, “I thought we were okay now, I thought we were friends again,”

She laughed emptily, her bottom lip quivering, her hands shaking under his touch. He was so warm, he always had been, but it felt as if he was everywhere when he was only really touching the skin of her pulsepoint. She hoped he couldn’t feel just how it beat for him, beat so loud and fast all for him. 

“That’s the problem,” She whispered, her glassy eyes meeting his as she gave an unsure breath, gulping loudly. It was like he stared right at her soul, and pleaded it to speak to him. And she had never been able to say no to him, not when he looked like that, “When I came back from London, I came back to tell you that…” 

She breathed again, because she felt like she was holding it while she confessed, she knew it was no wonder she felt so dizzy, but she couldn’t look away from him, where his face was morphing into realisation. 

“I came to tell you that.. I-I’m in love with you, Spencer,” A single tear dribbled down her cheek, but he let go of her hands quickly to catch it, his lips pressing together in a silenced word, most like ‘oh’. His brows quirked above his nose, his eyes turning into devastation as soon as she’d said it. But it was out there now, so there was no use in trying to keep it in anymore. “I have been, for a while I think, and I wanted to tell you because I thought you might-might-” She gulped, the finger that had brushed the first tear stroking down until it rested under her jaw, the feeling of it damn near making her whine, “I don’t know, I just hoped you would feel anything back- but you don’t have to say anything, I know you’re hurting and so I just kept it in, but every time I see you I feel like I’m choking and I don’t know how to make it stop-”

“Tell me you’re lying,” Spencer said with a biting tone, his eyes honey comb gold and glistening when he looked at her. It couldn’t be true. He never got this lucky. It couldn’t be, he refused-

She shook her head frantically, her eyes pleading and wet, “Never, Spencer. I would never lie to you. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you- I know you’re hurting, I know you’re grieving and I shouldn’t have assumed-“

“I love you too,” He whispered, and it was like her words came to fruition as her voice was robbed, the air leaving her lungs. Her jaw dropped, her wet eyes boring into his chest, his hands skirting up to hold her face in his hands, thumbs stroking over her tear ladened skin, “God, Bug, I’ve loved you for so long, I thought you didn’t want anything like that after that kiss-”

Her expression dropped, eyebrows scrunching together, “What kiss?” 

He blanked, for once speechless. Only the kiss he’d torn himself to pieces over for weeks and weeks. “The night- that Derek brought you over when you’d had…” He trailed off, wanting to throttle himself for how dumb he’d been in retrospect, “When you’d had the Molly,” 

Her hand slapped over her mouth, his own hands flying to palm at his eyes, because how could he be so incredibly stupid. Ecstasy was a memory suppressant. He knew, he knew better than most, that taking recreational drugs like that robbed you of even the most life shattering moments. 

She didn’t remember. How could she? She was so out of it she could barely walk without stumbling over a flat surface. And instead of asking her, instead of simply growing a pair and seeing what she remembered, he’d gotten a girlfriend.

This was all wrong. This was so wrong. The guilt from Maeve dying was a wound that had cut him deep, and yet having Bugsy in his arms so placid and warm and adoring was a salve he had never dreamed would feel so numbing.

“We kissed?” She asked, her eyes blazing with embarrassment, her hand running through her hair in shock horror, “I don’t- how don’t I remember that- that’s all I dreamed of for months-” 

“Technically you kissed me,” He explained, despite the fact his cheeks had set on fire hearing her confess even the smallest bit more to him. She loved him. She was in love with him. She had been for months, she said. She loved him. “It would have been wrong if I did anything even if it was all I’d thought of too. And I just thought, because you never mentioned it, that you didn’t want to remember it at all,” 

He felt like he’d taken some sort of truth serum, like he should shut himself up any second now because he was spilling his longest kept secret to the one person who should have never been privy to it. But it was okay if she knew. Because she loved him.

She looked at him, and he swore he’d never seen eyes so beautiful, but then he’d always loved her eyes. But the way they looked at him, as if he’d had a bag pulled from over his head, or his glasses had been given the correct prescription, because it was like he suddenly saw just how adoring she looked when she watched him like that. 

And despite herself, she laughed. 

It was girlish, and carefree, and happy. So, so happy. And he started laughing too. She fell into his chest, her face hot with embarrassment, and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her giggling into his shirt, shaking her head. 

“We’re so fucking stupid,” She said, and it was mumbled, and the sound of it made him smile wider.

“I’m a stupid, stupid man. I’m so sorry, Bug,” He replied, his large hand stroking down the back of her hair though a sour taste crawled up his throat. 

He still owed Maeve that dance. Just as he’d told Rossi. Who had told Bugsy, because he knew she had some magic way of getting her way with everyone.

She pulled away, her eyes young and so incredibly pretty when she smiled at him like that. Sensing his hesitation, she tried to pull away from his embrace, worried like it was second nature to her by now that she’d overstepped. Only he didn’t let her. He kept his hand at the back of her head, one under her arm to pin her close to his body, because he wasn’t going to be stupid enough to let her go twice. 

“You said you tried to tell me when you got back from London?” He said softly, and she nodded, like her confession had taken everything out of her, “But then when you got here… I was with Maeve,” 

She swallowed, worried where he was going, and nodded again wordlessly. 

He chewed the inside of his lip, taking a deep breath for courage, “I’m still- I feel terrible if-”

“You can still grieve, Spencer,” She cut him off, knowing what he was struggling to say, and his eyes crawled back up to meet her gaze, “It’s not heinous to need time to think, I know it’s a lot to ask, I never expected you to-”

He cut her off with a kiss to the apple of her cheek, warm and angelic, the feeling of it forcing her mouth shut, because she worried she might just whimper in delight if she didn’t. Her hand flew up to his forearm that moved around to cup neatly under her ear, his fingers weaving into her hair as he kissed again down near her jaw, her eyes fluttering shut. And when she thought it was done, when she thought her luck was spent, he kissed her again, on the cusp of her lips, a ghost breath slipping from a parted mouth, because she thought she might have just died and gone to heaven. 

“Bugsy, I love you,” Spencer said, and her heart felt full, so full her eyes welled up all over again because it was everything she had ever wanted, “I just need a little time,”

Her eyelids flicked open, and the bliss written over her face took a knock, her head reeling back like he’d burned her. But, as before, he didn’t let her go, He refused to let her run away again. Not when he had everything he wanted, “That’s not a ‘no’. It’s just a very stupid man who has loved you for longer than you’d know hoping on everything that you’ll be willing to give me a month or two. I want to do this right, you deserve to have this done right, and I want to give you only the best version of myself,” 

Spencer’s heart pounded against his slender ribcage as he waited for her response, because he knew he was pushing his luck. But he’d meant every word of it, and he figured if he had any chance at being the guy he’d always told himself she needed, he’d need to be honest with her. They’d need to be honest with each other.

But she smiled at him, sweet and besotted beneath his palm, and he didn’t know why he’d ever doubted her. 

“I waited six years, what’s a few months on top of that?” She smirked, her face glowing when he pressed another gentle kiss to her forehead, and he felt how hot her blood ran under his touch. He hoped she couldn’t feel how his did the same. 

“I promise. Just a few more months, bug,”

And he meant it. With everything in him, Spencer meant it. He wouldn’t let her go ever again. 

--

TAGLIST:

@release-your-sweets @smileykiddie08 @caramelised-onions. @the-tpd-bau @stephthepeach @sunflowersndpeaches s @sammy-4103 @starmansirius @yeonalie @delusionallooney @hades-disappointment-child @sadbae-33 @mdanon027 @swag13r @frickin-bats @bilesxbilinskixlahey @mindfullycriminal @mrsbellastyles @nilopillo @imagines--galore @bluejaysaysstuff @imaginexred @flow33didontsmoke @spicyspirit @mywellspringoflife @lovelyygirl8 @pleasantwitchgarden @star-girl-interlud3 @rosylnsworld @jamieolivia27 @halcyonwithletters @waywardhunter95 @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist @theoraekenslover @niktwazny303 @bliindmattmurdock @alyeskathewave @littlemadamred @yondiii @cultish-corner @lllucere @escapismurmom @stillhere197 @hiireadstuff @amortencjja @queermaxwooo @telengraph @ivyflowers13 @estrela-rogers @greenvita @busy-buzzing @kitty-kei @universallyblizzardlove @suckstobrlaurie

[patricide1885]

Loosely connected observations I'd love to hear people's thoughts on:

As the video I just posted pointed out, people are remarkably receptive to new rules in a new setting. Often you can obey more than the people making the rules even expected, therefore you end up giving away more freedom than you would have been expected to.

In hypnosis (a topic I've been looking into for a long time but still don't seem to fully understand) there is a common tactic where you greet someone and reach out to shake their hand casually, and when they give you their hand you suddenly yank it towards yourself while acting normal and like you didn't just do something extremely weird. This functions as a hypnotic induction that puts the person into a highly suggestible state and they will start looking to you to tell them what to do for a period and will be more receptive to it. I understand this specific tactic to work by essentially dislodging a person's confidence in their understanding of the world and going into a sort of baby brain child-like state where they look to the confident person that has thrown their expectations into disarray to re-establish reality for them.

You might be familiar with this phenomenon if you're in a new social situation where everyone is doing things you don't understand or is operating based on ideas of reality that would normally sound weird and you go along with it because you have made the judgement that you don't inherently understand the culture or the situation and you are afraid of acting weird/you don't view your understanding of the world to be accurate. You are allowing those people to dictate reality to you. This generally happens without you realizing it.

[jusst-you-race]

Not really a new pairing, but Landoscar 18?

i will never say no to writing landoscar don't worry! this could be it's own thing, but also could definitely be set in the condo au... enjoy! from this prompt list

“Here, drink this.  You’ll feel better.”

Oscar winces as he hears yet another coughing fit break out through the wall. It’s a hacking sort of cough, the type that makes you feel like you’re about to throw up a lung, and it’s far from the first time he’s heard it today. His heart clenches with sympathy, and he finally makes up his mind on the internal debate he’s been having with himself for the last hour and a half.

He marches determinedly into the kitchen, and pulls out all the ingredients he keeps just for occasions like this. He’s sure that many mums have almost identical lemon honey and ginger tea recipes, but he still can’t help but think his mum’s is the best. 

Quickly, but carefully, he makes enough tea for maybe five people (which is definitely overkill but better to be safe than sorry), and pours as much as he can fit into his biggest thermos. The kitchen is a bit of a mess once he’s done, but he decides that’s a problem for future Oscar. He digs out some throat lozenges he hopes are still alright from his bathroom cupboard, and then grabs some painkillers too for good measure. With all his supplies bundled precariously into his arms he leaves his flat and shuffles down the hall to his neighbour’s door.

After two bouts of gentle knocking, the door swings open, revealing a very sick looking Lando. His face is flushed, eyes drooping, and his curls are in complete disarray. He sniffs as he blinks blearily at Oscar in the light of the hallway.

“Oscar?” he croaks. His voice is hoarse, barely making its way out of his throat, and Oscar winces again. He fumbles with the things in his arms before he thrusts the thermos at Lando.

“Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.”

Lando blinks at him, his brain clearly only working at a snail's pace. He takes the thermos from Oscar slowly, staring at it in his hands before looking up at Oscar with an adorable confused frown.

“Osc, what is this?”

Oscar shuffles in the doorway, suddenly self conscious.

“It’s uh… Lemon honey and ginger tea… My mum used to make it for me all the time when I was sick, and heard you coughing lots so I thought maybe I’d make some for you. Err… yeah, hope that’s not weird.” He brings a hand up to awkwardly rub the back of his neck, and manages to drop the painkillers he’s holding in the process. Lando’s eyes follow them to the ground.

“Are those drugs?” Lando murmurs half to himself. Oscar quickly picks them up.

“Yeah, just some painkillers. And some throat lozenges. I mean you probably have some so maybe this was stupid I was thinking maybe just in case…” He trails off uselessly. Lando is still frowning at him, a cute little crease in the middle of his eyebrows, and Oscar knows he’s flushing under the scrutiny. 

“You got all this for me?” Lando whispers, having given up on trying to properly talk now. Oscar nods stiffly. Lando’s face breaks into a sleepy smile that just about takes Oscar’s breath away. Even in his sick, bedraggled state Oscar thinks he’s beautiful. 

Lando sticks a hand out. It takes Oscar a second before he realised Lando’s asking for the drugs and Oscar clumsily hands them over, trying not to drop them. Lando gathers them up in the blanket he has draped around himself. He blinks back up at Oscar.

“I would invite you in but—” He’s cut off by another coughing fit that has him hunching in half for a few seconds, and Oscars hand hover uselessly in the air while he wonders if he should help. Lando recovers quickly though, and gives a wry smile. Oscar thinks the point he was about to make has definitely been made now. 

“Yeah..” Lando breathes. Oscar shakes his head.

“No, of course, don’t worry about it. I just wanted to drop those things off and let you get back to resting.” Oscar wrings his now empty hands. “Feel better soon, okay?”

Lando smiles at him again and it’s soft and sweet and Oscar feels a little bit like he’s standing too close to the sun.

“Thanks, Osc.”

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

Headcanon/Concept:

'The Tattle-Tale Heart'

"You should be dead." Lucifer advises, his tone bored and overall utterly unenthused about the whole situation. To be fair to his majesty, Lucifer was doing this under duress.

Said duress was a few feet away, eyes brimming with anxiety and worry as her father crouched over the pinned Overlord, clearly concerned for a number of reasons. The chief of which was the injured red prick, and a close second was likely the fact she'd had to use force against someone even for their own good.

A Princess of all that was dark and demonic, and yet, the little lives of sinners and their miserable woes seemed to wring her heart out. It was touching, and infuriating, in equal measure. Sometimes he can't help but wonder if she held more of Lillith or himself in that deceptively sweet humanoid form. Both had loved to help, in their own way... but only Lucifer had once agonised over enforcing his will on others.

Struggling against the bonds tethering the idiot to the floor, -and good luck with that you pompous fuck because those are divine bindings-, Alastor snarls at the King. Face so close they could just about kiss, though nothing would disgust him more, and he's pretty sure from what he's sussed out about the guy... Al here wouldn't be a big fan either.

Hah, maybe he should, just to get one over on the assho-... whoa, no, nope. That would cross a line. He blinks back to the situation at hand as Charlie touches his shoulder, a gentle query.

"Uh, Dad? Are you okay?"

"Er, yep, yup, yes totally my duckling! Just got lost in my head, you know how it is." Cemented into the current moment, Lucifer again rests his palm against the damaged flesh before him, the divine energy surging back at him was almost depleted through his earlier efforts but the wound looked pretty bad underneath.

"And you, you arrogant dick, should be dead."

"And you, your majesty, should have your eyes checked... it is merely an injury taking it's time to heal over. It's hardly the first time an angel has gotten too close... speaking of, would you care to remove your hands from me before I remove them for you?"

The warbling warning in the voice is easily batted aside by the royalty present, as the severity of the injury becomes clear as the light leaves it. Lucifer feels the divine surge of it in his palms as it joins his own half-divine, half-demonic form and writhes about for a bit.

An angelic essence tantrum, one could say, and knowing that it came from Adam of all the arrogant feathered fools above... Lucifer would have to say it was on-brand.

Charlie gasps, "Oh Al, you should have said something..."

Lucifer's gut clenches as he can actively see the way something sharp in Alastor's expression softens as he addresses Charlie.

"My dear, this is hardly the worst thing that has happened to me in Hell, it would have healed in time. What else do we have down here but time to make further mistakes? Hah-ha!

"No. I asked you to fight with me, and you took on the First Man to help defend my dream... so Im telling you, as your business partner and weird sort of managerial kid, that you should have said something to someone before it got this bad. And I am really, really angry with you, right now, because I hate seeing any of you hurt... and knowing that you didn't think you could come to ask for help was-... was-..." Charlie's expression dissolved into angry, desperate sobs that seemed to throw both the men into the room into disarray.

"Now, Charlotte-... "

"Char-Char, it's okay, Daddy's fixing it!"

"...indeed, 'Daddy' is trying, apparently." Alastor can't help but snipe, earning a tightening of the bindings until he snarled. He opens his mouth to deliver what might be a withering statement about Lucifer, when things go rather awry.

With a violent slam, the door opens, and Vaggie enters with the spear aimed point-first. "What's wrong, babe? What did he do?"

"Contrary to your opinion, Vagatha, it appears it may be what I did NOT do... that is cause for this kerfuffle." Alastor explains, and his ears flattened backward against his skull, clearly surprising Charlotte enough that she stopped crying.

"Wait, those are your EARS? Ohmygosh they look so fluffy, can I to-... no, wait, you don't like touch. I'm so sorry..."

"A negotiation for later, perhaps."

"Oh you sonovabitch, don't you dare try to make a deal with her-...!"

"I wouldn't dream of using such a paltry thing for-..."

"Actually, Sir, they already made a deal." Vaggie adds in, and the room goes dead silent. "Which yooooooooou clearly didn't know about, and I'm going to need you to take several deep breaths because we JUST rebuilt the hotel, your Majesty."

"Oh relax, she still has her soul... it was for a favour. It was the best way to ensure our reputations remained intac-..." the sentence broke into a sharp static scream as Lucifer's clawed hand slipped into the angry maw of the jagged wound. Blood, fever-hot, slipped down his arm as the King slipped under a frantically trembling set of lung to grasp-...

...nothing.

The confusion snapped him right out of the momentary malice, eyes flickering back to normal as horns and tail receeded. Only just noticing Charlotte and Vaggie's hands on him, trying to yank him back from a very dark place.

Anger surges back up, how dare this sinner make a deal with his Charlotte? And then dare to call out the King for being a terrible father?

And yet... the statistical anomaly doesn't line up here.

"You should be dead." Lucifer states in a monotonous voice, no inflection of the curiosity and bewilderment that races through him. He casts about again and feels Something that isn't right, beating away impossibly... and a trace of something familiar. "Where's-... where's your-..."

"Dad, STOP!"

"SIR, PLEASE!"

Heeding the frantic cries, he allows the women to haul him back and away from the Overlord, his arm covered to the elbow in slick crimson blood. With some small amount of smug pride, Lucifer notes that the Radio Demon is ashen and panting, the frayed stitches about the wound were snapped from his attempts to pull away in his bindings. He sure hoped that the fucker would feel his hand there anytime he thought to try making a deal with Char-Char again.

An enraged Charlie fills his vision, horns on full display.

"Dad, what the seven rings was THAT?! You had NO RIGHT to hurt him like that, and I can-... I can make a deal if I want to. If you ever do that again I'll-..." She looked to be struggling to find a good enough threat.

"...sell your soul to the porn moth guy?" Vaggie grimaces.

"Yes! That!" Charlie points, eyes wild. "I'll let Valentino have my soul, and probably all my ho-..."

There's a loud screech of static and a demonic "NO!" at the same moment Lucifer cried, "SWEETIE NO!"

"You will never even jest about such a thing!" Alastor adds, his fixed smile twisting into a truly disgusted grimace. Charlie turns to him immediately, as if to reassure, but chooses instead to snap away the bindings.

"I'm sorry, I won't... he licked my arm that one time I went there and I accidentally set fire to his studio, so I'd rather fight ten Adams than try that again, so-..." she was rambling, her hands hovering as if she wanted to help but didn't know where to start.

Thankfully, Vaggie happened to have at least basic field medic training and some excellent common sense (hell edition) in her possession. She did wrinkle her nose at the strong scent of blood, exposed innards and some sort of infection that had yet to flush out as she knelt beside the overlord.

"Well, this is gross. No two ways about it. I think we'll need to clean this up first and then do some dressings... do we have any antibiotics floating around the hotel? Or was draining the angelic energy enough to get your regeneration to kick in? Not sure how it works for Overlords compared to regular sinners."

All business. In the moment and handling the crisis in front of her like Lucifer should have.

Chagrined, Lucifer snapped his fingers and removed the extraneous blood from everyone present. "Charlie, I'm sorry you had to see that, I just-... you can't go making deals. Not with sinners, or goetia, or hellhounds, or the Sins - especially not Uncle Mammon if I see one sexbot version of you I will exterminate him to ashes- or ANYONE ever again. You're the Princess of Hell, a favour can be twisted to topple the entire realm if used carefully..."

"Dad, I know that. But I made a choice, and you don't get to come along and torture people I care about because of that choice." Charlie shoots back, there's a pointed venom in the statement, and briefly Lucifer considers what it must have looked like for her, to see him go from healer to harm-inflicter without a momentary pause.

"You're right. I overreacted." Next time he would wait until Charlie wasn't there to enact violent revenge. "Now, if you want me to I will heal the deer as long as he uses your favour up to get that healing."

"What?!" Charlie is indignant. "No, no you don't get to make my decisions for me like that. If you make that the condition, I'll just... make another deal for-... for twenty favours! Including weird sexy stuff that would make Angel blush!"

"...please don't, on my account." Alastor drawls, looking vaguely ill at the notion. "And do not trouble yourself over it sire... I have no intention of using the favour, it was necessary to share the information across. You created the rules for this place after all. "

Lucifer could second that. "True." Damn, he hated giving ground to the daughter-bewitching demon.

"Would you like to make a deal about the favour, little majesty, to make you feel better?" Alastor grinned, strained at the seams and uncomfortable to look at for too long.

"Oh fuck off... how about this, I heal you and you tell me where the FUCK your heart is?" He offers instead.

"WHAT?" It's unclear who shouted that lounder, Vaggie or Charlie. Telltale footfalls on the lower staircases meant that this little exchange had not gone unnoticed by other staff and their solitary guest. The door locked itself with a little devilish insurance against sudden intruders.

Alastor tried to glare hatefully at the King, but the effect was rather ruined by his pale features, and the obvious strain of remaining functional given everything going on.

"Perhaps you do need to have your eyes checked, I am certain you just missed it due to your ineptitude with anatomy. Isn't that why your wife le-...mmph?!"

Vaggie had taken the initiative to slam her hand over his mouth in a brave and very desperate action to stop the King from incinerating the Overlord they begrudgingly cared about and worked with.

She made a shrug gesture and tried to laugh it off. "Uh, Sir, sometimes the bloodloss makes people a bit delusional... and conceited... and really fucking rude... so let's pretend he didn't say that, okay?"

Seething, tail lashing, the Devil hiimself had to count to fifty-eight in his head to calm down... but he managed it. He could be the bigger-... uh, the better demon here. Can't let the guy bait you again, he's just deflecting.

"Oh come now, Bambi... is that the best you got?" He grins, moving closer and enjoying (a tad too strongly) the way the other pulled back from his outstretched hand, only Charlie and Vaggie's presence trapped him in place. Subtly moving to pin his arms down. "We're going to overlook your bullshit bignoting for now, because I can see that Adam really fucked you up, and I suppose that you do kinda deserve a little bit of help for defending the hotel. I just need you to tell me where your heart is... and how in the seven rings you're still breathing."

Those ears remained flattened.

"Al, is it... something you CAN speak about?" Charlie asks, and the red eyes shoot open to stare at her, taken aback. "I... I saw the collar, a little while back. It was by accident, I swear!"

"I would rather you not have known, little majesty, it will draw attention... but I can. Speak about the situation. I guess."

"I really appreciate you trusting us with this." Charlie encouraged, genuinely proud of getting honesty from her friend, whose past, secrets and motivation were all a mystery at this point.

With a flat sigh, refusing to look at Lucifer, Alastor simply advised "Vox has it."

There's a beat of silence.

"Like, in a jar or-...?"

"You mean, metaphorically...?"

"Ugh, is this a cannibal dating thing?"

As their questions garbled together, Lucifer could see the way the Overlord immediately closed off to them, that fake smile brightening until a fake persona was firmly in place.

"Nevermind. If you have sated your curiosity...?"

"Hold on, if what I think you did happened, then it's not possible. So what I want to know, is how you managed to do it?" Lucifer says, shifting on his knees because the carpet wasn't as plush as he'd originally assumed, and tentatively putting his hand against the wound. The weirdest thing... was that he could FEEL a heartbeat.

With concentration, he sent healing throughout the injury, encouraging broken vessels and torn muscles to mend, binding flesh and viscera back into place, and sending a sharp flush of energy to root out the infection he could just about taste in the air at this point.

As his magic passes through the pulse-point centres, a picture begins to form in Lucifer's mind.

"You have a pulse... so something's doing the pumping." He murmurs. "There's a shadowy something there, like a fake heart... made of something imbued with three different types of magical signature... and I can't think of anyone who would have known how to do this, in this ring. But it's not...real? Like an echo, but it's working."

"As I said... this is not the first encounter with an angel, your majesty."

"Hey, you alive in there?" a voice calls, multiple fists bang on the door. "Say the word, we got weapons!"

"We're okay! Thank you, though!" Charlie calls back.

"Use ya safeword if ya need it! We'll come... heh... right in and start blastin!"

"Fortheloveof-... OKAY, THANKS!"

Lucifer snapped his fingers in front of Alastor's face.

"Hey, focus, I need to know how this happened, it doesn't make SENSE and reeks of something sinners shouldn't be able to do. I healed you, so spit it out already."

"...fine. During a disagreement several years ago, in the manner in which we often disagreed, neither Vox nor I realised the Extermination had begun until angels flooded the area. Enlarged forms making us the centre of attention until one managed to pierce Vox's heart and take him down."

Alastor clenched his teeth so hard that rivulets of crimson began to run down his chin. A faint outline about his throat glowed a familiar colour, and Lucifer was rather hoping that the digs at his eyesight might be true, because there's no way that-...

"When the exorcists assumed we were both deceased or dying, they left... and someone else arrived. Someone who we all know... who would not be pleased to have their name shared. Someone whose magical healing was more... creative than most, and would use that for the chance to collar at least one overlord to their cause."

"Don't you hate Vox though?" Vaggie asked.

"Not really, no. I dislike what he has chosen to become, and the disagreement was around the liberties that foul moth was taking... if you think having him lick your arm was bad, Charlotte, try having him attempt to jam his tongue in your mouth before formal intorductions were even made. I wanted him dead. Vox saw potential and growth there... we disagreed."

"So you were... friends?"

Alastor tilted his head with a crunching sound, positively beaming as he added, "Why no, dear... we were married."

Lucifer rubs his temples, feeling like the main character of a sitcom at this point. "Okay, so you like the television, got it... next part, tell me about the heart!"

"I already have. To clarify, Vox was almost gone and Someone knew a way to move a willing participant's organ to the body of another, until such time as the recipient's own has healed or the living donor is killed. The specifics of it all remain somewhat... blurred, due to the nature of the situation, but it also creates a facsimile that works in place and at the same rate as it's real counterpart outside the body. I suspect it was bound with a trace of Vox's magic, as well as my own... and that of Someone."

"Ho-ho-hokay, that is ridiculous, that kind of thing has never worked. I saw some weird humans trying that sort of nonsense in the Living World a few centuries back, but they also seemed to think drilling holes in your skkull could make headaches stop, so I didn't take any notice!" Lucifer rambled, digging through the disorganised mess in his head for some clarity on where, when and which peoples that information pertained to. Downside of being immortal... you remembered a lot, but you only had the one main train of thought to check all the stations.

"Oh, it worked, alright... as you could see. Or more aptly, could not." Alastor rebutted. "It worked, because there were elements that Someone needed to use, that a living world counterpart would have no ability to extract or utilise. Such as memories, feelings, concepts that were given form as part of whatever it was they did."

"Does... Vox know?"

"No."

"Wait, how does he not know? Did you just like, not tell him 'oh hey by the way you have my heart in a literal and a metaphorical way'?" Lucifer frowned.

"Part of what Someone did required the blood of an enemy, the loss of an innate right, and the memories of affection shared. Somehow this conveyed into lost freedom and Vox's memories of our relationship being erased entirely. He is, however, alive."

"That, uh, that sucks... dude." Vaggie tries to provide comfort, but is wildly out of her wheelhouse here. Charlie looks likewise flummoxed.

"Hah! Why yes, it does suck... but what is done is done. I have chosen to see it as mildly hilarious... after all, if the picture box does get his fondest wish and manages to kill me, he'll drop dead right alongside my corpse! Hahahahahaaaaaa!"

Charlie grimaced. "Oooh-kaaaaay, Al... you know I love and value you... so please don't take this the wrong way but... I'd like you to maybe try a few of the therapy sessions."

"My dear, I'd rather have your faher go fishing for my non-existent heart again..." there's a pause. "Hah, how poetic... the Devil seeking after the heart of a sinner, it feels like one of those telenovelas Niffty loves to watch. Oh, she will get a kick out of this when I tell her!"

"Whoa, I was trying to hurt you... don't make it weird!" Lucifer backtracks, eyes wide in alarm.

"Were you not elbow-deep inside m-...?"

"Nope! No! Not doing this, I get enough innuendo from the tall guy downstairs, thanks. From you, it's horrifying. Just... no." Lucifer flushes, angry and a little horrified about how this had all gone to (heh) Hell from the minute Charlie had decided to ask for his help.

'Dad I'm worried about Alastor, he's really hurt and won't tell me what's wrong.' She'd said. 'Please help me corner him and see what we can do, Vaggie said she feels angelic energy on the guy.'

And so he'd trundled along to play hero dad for Charlie, as always, and the red fucker had thrown such a hissy fit that normal restraints couldn't pin him down. So Lucifer had to break out some blessed ropes that he hadn't seen since Lillith left, and Char-Char had to whip up some royalty-grade divine bindings. He was very proud of her, but this was a mess of a situation.

Not to mention the fuss the big baby kicked off when Lucifer had snapped his shirt and coat aside to get at the bandages. Ugh.

And now here he was dealing with the only person in all hell he thought wouldn't thrown an innuendo his way, making weird insinuations while Charlie and Vaggie sat in stunned apprehension.

What was his life these days?

Ah, fuck it.

"Okay, so... what does this mean for the hotel? If the Someone is who I think you're alluding to, 'cause I'd know that magic anywhere, then clearly you're here for more than entertainment." Lucifer levels at Alastor, who was subtly wiggling his way free of the restraining girls.

"Nothing I can share. It would suffice to say that I was with Someone in a place a Cut Above the Rest for seven or s years... and then was tasked with ensuring that the others remain In Their Place without overtly damaging anything. If that makes sense?"

"...loud and clear."

"But why would... that person... want to see me fail?" Charlie asked, crestfallen, and Vaggie was instantly shuffling across the carpet at her for a hug. "I... I called so many times..."

"The ties that bind sometimes have knots in them, my dear... and as I am a man of my word, so are they."

"Who did... they... make a deal with?" Lucifer asked, curious and anxious all at once, feeling rather like a well-shaken can of soda.

"...one whom Niffty managed to tidy away. I do not know what that means."

"Okay, this is not great, but its more info than I had before all this started. So... is Someone coming here? What does it mean for you if they do? Does the whole..." Lucifer taps at his own chest, "stop working if you tell us anything, or something happens to them?

"I... don't know. The deal was made under circumstances of altered consciousness and bloodloss... but I would not be willing to test shattering or pressing against the boundaries just yet. I will not put that idiot video podcast in harm's way, even if he will never remember why."

"Understood." Fuck this fucker for starting to feel relatable. But if it was Lillith, or Charlie... he'd do whatever it takes to keep them safe.

"Okay, so we just... prepare for whatever happens, then, I guess. And if we have to do magical CPR on a television or something, we do it." Charlie says, right eye twitching as she makes some elaborate plans in her terrifyingly clever brain. "Vaggie, I'm going to need to break out my glitter glue for this... but I have a plan."

A flash of fear in that bright eye, before love replaces it. "Anything for you, babe."

"Do you require assistance, or would you prefer I return to regular duties instead? I understand that one of the rooms may have gained sentience and has attempted to eat Niffty twice today." Alastor says, buttoning his shirt closed, and using a small flick of his magic to remove both rumples and bloodstains from the fabric.

"Oho no, mister, you are taking it easy!" Charlie threatens, finger pointing and waggling sternly.

"Yeah, you don't look great... your body at least needs a chance to restock. Magical healing doesn't mean it didn't deplete your energy, just that a little boost tried to get stuff jumpstarted." Vaggie adds, matching the Radio Demon's glare.

The room starts to go dark, as distortion swims freely through the air; no longer constrained by blessed rope and able to use his powers again.

"Yeah, no... not dealing with this." Lucifer rolls his eyes, extends a hand to the sinner's forehead and intones, "Sleep." Expression impassive as the Overlord crumples forwards, almost directly into Lucifer, who is thankfully stronger than his diminuitive form suggests.

As he rises from the floor and hefts the other into his arms, the King can't help but notice the frantic tempo of the other's pulse, visibly beating against that pale throat. Lucifer frowns, sure he'd managed to purge the infection from the Demon, because right now his pulse should be languid in sleep...

...and then a small flicker of movement outside the window catches his eye. A flash of crimson sunlight accidentally alerting the three royals and royal-to-bes of an unexpected voyeur.

"...he's gonna kill us all when he wakes up." Vaggie groans.

Charlie snaps her fingers and the drone shatters, but it's already too late.

-------

Across town, with his eyes wide in horrified awe, Vox finds himself putting a clawed hand atop his thundering heart.

"...fuck."

And wasn't that just the understatement of the day?

[a-canceled-stamp]

What is the Cake Misunderstanding?

What kind of cake? Who is doing the misunderstanding? Will Tim & Jason get to have the cake and eat it too???

I have so many questions.

Ok so this is what the WIP looks like atm. Plz note that this all takes place in a 'Tim gets adopted early' AU.

Tim's been part of the family for a few months now. He isn't walking on eggshells anymore as things finally seems to be settling down. It's still strange to find the Manor so alive whenever he comes home from school. He likes it though. It makes him feel...welcome. A simple misunderstanding almost throws a wrench into this. One day in the middle of July, Jason tells Tim he's busy when asked if he wants to hang out. He's lying. Tim can tell he's lying, which is weird, but he tries not to linger on it - being sort-of brothers doesn't mean they have to hang out all the time. Tim gets it. But when Jason makes yet another half-assed excuse for the fourth time in the same week, Tim comes to a horrible conclusion. Jason doesn't want to hang out with him. Calling Jason out on this is not something Tim wants to do. This behavior is so unlike Jason that it makes him feel like the rug has been pulled out from under him. And forcing Jason to hang out with him would just be cruel. So Tim hides the confusion behind a tight smile and makes himself scarce. Later that same day, Tim heads to the kitchen, looking for something to eat. His heart plummets to his stomach when the sound of laughter reaches his ears. He rounds the corner, and find the kitchen in complete disarray - flour strewn everywhere, empty bowls stacked in the kitchen sink. Jason and Dick are standing around the table, still laughing. The moment Jason's eyes land on Tim, his smile drops. He immediately rushes toward him, waving his arms wildly, as if chasing away an animal. Get out! he yells, eyes wide. Get out, you can't be here! Tim, confused and startled, listens. He retreats to his room, his head spinning. Maybe he did something wrong earlier this week. Did he say something that hurt Jason's feelings? But if that were the case, Jason would've said something, right? Sitting down by his writing desk, he angrily fights the tears burning in his eyes. He thought he was done with the feeling of guilt and confusion and hurt swirling in his gut. He thought- He thought this place would be different. He thought they were different. What doesn't cross Tim's mind during all of this is one small yet crucial detail. Tim's birthday is in a few days.

So technically you are correct - Tim & Jason will get to have the cake and eat it too. Just with some hurt/comfort on the side lmao.

Thank you for the ask Rae Bae! \\^w^//💞💞💞

Ask me about my WIPs!

[lunariiawrites]

Praise

Pairing: Cumulus x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Soft dom Cumulus, sexual content, dirty talk, praise

Summary: After a fight breaks out, you're left to clean up the mess, and Cumulus decides to show you a few notes on the piano, among other things.

a/n: My first smut in over seven years and my first f/f fic ever! Feedback is appreciated since I'm always hoping to grow, but I hope you like it!

----

Silence is both a blessing and a curse.

The morning had started oddly, the halls being almost silent save for the quiet footsteps of the siblings migrating to breakfast or whatever tasks they had assigned to them for the day. Fortunately, your tasks weren’t as time-consuming as normal, and having them done within a few hours allowed you to relax for a minute or two; hoping that Sister Imperator didn’t come rushing out of the shadows to scold you.

Sunlight decorated the wall in a multitude of colors, shining in from the stained glass window above. The clock overhead ticked ominously and you got the weird feeling that something wasn’t right. As time ticked on, the feeling nagged at you, gnawing at your brain like a pack of rabid wolves. 

It was the first crash that broke the silence. 

Being near the practice room, it would make sense that noise was being made. However, these weren’t the usual melodic tones that Papa and the ghouls would normally produce when practicing for a tour. Instead, it was a loud din of crashing, shouting, and growls that made you worried to move from your secluded bench in the hallway. After a few more minutes of shouting that suspiciously sounded like Dew and Swiss, the halls were almost quiet again. 

Carefully making your way to the practice room, you peered inside, shocked to see the instruments in chaotic disarray. Papa stood in the middle of the mess, a frown clear on his face as he rubbed his temples in frustration. The door creaked, revealing your presence to the normally cheerful leader. 

‘Strange. Where’d everyone go?’

“Ah, sister.” Giving a sad smile, he swept his hand around the room. “It’s quite a mess, no?” Indeed it was. Instruments were scattered haphazardly on the floor, joined by picks and sheets of music. It looked like a tornado had flung everything around before blinking out of existence.

“What happened?” 

“There was a fight.” Shrugging, he sighed. “Everything was going fine one moment, then the next… Poof.”

Honestly, you felt bad for him. A fight breaking out was never a good thing and being that Papa viewed the ghouls as friends, as many in the abbey did, you could tell that not knowing how to help was hitting him hard.

A soft knock tapped on the door as it creaked open again. Looking over your shoulder, Papa nodded solemnly. 

“Sister,” With a pleading look, he gestured around the room. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Don’t worry about it, Papa.” Picking up some music sheets from the floor, you gave a reassuring smile. “I got this.”

After Papa had left the room, muttering something about Sister Imperator and her constant meetings, you set to work. Picking up a few more stray music sheets, you set them on a stand, almost painfully aware of a gaze locked onto you. 

“Need some help?” A sweet voice startles you, as does the warm breath that tickles your ear. Turning, you’re surprised to see Cumulus standing behind you, surprisingly not wearing her mask. Instead, her glamour was almost fully off, as were the ghouls’ rights within the abbey. 

“Sure.” Handing her the music notes, you smiled sheepishly. “Could you help me sort these? You’d know the order better than I would.”

Nodding, she took the sheets from you, arranging them so they were actually readable. Turning, you began to pick up the various instruments strewn all over, hoping that none of them were broken. 

“It’ll be ok.” Cumulus broke the silence, setting the finished stack of papers back onto the stand. 

“What?”

“The whole fight thing? Dew and Swiss were messing around and it got taken too far.” She explained casually, picking up her keyboard. “They’ll be fine. Probably make up by the end of the night.”

That wasn’t a surprise. Both Dew and Swiss had tempers that sometimes flared as a result of their banter. Thankfully, you had never been on the receiving end of either, the two usually treating you with respect and delivering good natured teasing at the most. 

Cumulus hummed thoughtfully as she played a bit on her keyboard, her fingers tapping the keys lightly. Staring at her reverently, you smiled, getting lost in the music. After a bit, she nodded, satisfied. 

“I wish I could play like you.” 

“Come here.” Cumulus patted the seat next to her and you climbed the short steps of the stage, taking a seat on the padded cushion. “I’ll show you some things.” 

Her hands were soft as they held yours, showing you where to press to produce certain notes and demonstrating certain chords. Eventually, she stood behind you, chin resting on your shoulder as she calmly guided you.

“Good girl.” Cumulus’ unique scent of vanilla and honey floats around you, invading your senses and making you shiver along with her words. “You’re doing so well.”

Your eyes closed as her hands left yours, goosebumps raising as cool fingertips caressed your heated skin, trailing up your arms. 

“I’ve watched you, you know.” Running a hand through your hair, she chuckles as you tilt your head towards her touch. “Always running around, always helping everyone but never quite taking the time to relax.” Claws lightly scratch at your scalp and you groan, the noise barely slipping out.

“You’re so adorable.” Humming, she released your hair and gently grasped your jaw. “Look at me.” The words were a command, wrapped in a soft and gentle tone.

Opening your eyes made you flinch at first, not expecting her to be that close. Her hair spilled over her shoulder, almost tickling your face as you searched her own.

“You’re gorgeous.” Cumulus smiles at the compliment, a light blush blooming across her cheeks.

“So are you, sweetheart.” The words catch you off guard, and a blush flares across your cheeks, and the temptation to avert your eyes is high. Somehow, you keep your attention in front of you. 

“I’d love to help you unwind a little.” Her thumb caressed your cheek almost lovingly, and you smiled. Cumulus waited for an answer, the hand not holding your face trailing up your thigh to squeeze lightly, grounding you for the moment. “What do you say?”

Word of what all ghouls were like behind closed doors frequently spread among the siblings, and the ghoulettes were said to be passionate lovers, if not a bit rough once in a while. Heat pooled in your gut as your mind brought unbidden images of what exactly Cumulus had in store for you if you were to say yes. 

Hand on your thigh tightening, Cumulus growled softly, her tail waving back and forth in anticipation.

It didn’t take much to make a choice.

“Yes.” 

The world spun as Cumulus pulled you from the semi-clean practice room. After a minute or so of walking and trying to keep up with her hurried pace, you ended up in a room decorated in white and blue.

Cumulus’ room.

Pressing you against the door, Cumulus pressed a hand next to your head, slotting a thigh in between your legs as she partially caged you in, a hungry look in her eyes. Control was something that the air ghoulette was normally praised for, but in this instance it looked like she was struggling.

“Last chance, love.” A purr rose from her throat as she nuzzled your throat, nipping gently. “If you don’t leave now, that’s it. You’re mine.” 

Instead of answering with words, you answered with a harsh kiss, pulling her down towards you. 

Her eyes flashed briefly before closing, not that she gave enough time for you to properly notice the flicker of her iris’. Instead of the soft and gentle ghoul you’d come to perceive her as, Cumulus’ demeanor now changed to that of the predator all the ghouls could be at heart.

You weren’t afraid in the least.

Shallow breaths left you as her plush lips continually met yours, the pace of the kiss almost seeming feverish. Your hands wound into her hair, tugging lightly on the blonde curls and coaxing a gentle moan from her. Her lips traveled down your neck, leaving wet kisses and the occasional bite. 

Some of the siblings expressed a fear of being bitten, thinking that the ghouls’ fangs were too sharp. Instead, it seemed to offer just the right amount of pain among the pleasure, and Cumulus was careful not to break the delicate skin between her teeth. She chuckled as you craned your neck to give her more room. 

“Such a good girl.” A lightning bolt of arousal shot through you at her words and she smirked, gripping your chin and directing your hooded eyes to focus on her.

“I think someone likes to be praised.” 

Before long, you’re seated on the plush bed, covers silky against your skin as you fumbled with the buttons of your habit. You had managed to pull the top over your head, making your hair a mess. Cumulus kneeled in front of you, already undressed, a smile on her lips as she pulled off your skirt, claws leaving light scratches on your skin. 

Leaning forward, you kiss down her collarbone and she sighs, fingers tangling in your hair. Murmuring her assent, she pushes your head down and moans when your breath ghosts her chest, tongue darting out to lick a hardened nipple. Cumulus purrs as you worship her, massaging her breasts as you lick, bite and suck. 

Without warning, you’re flipped, Cumulus straddling your waist. She hums, kissing down your collarbone before copying your earlier actions, sucking hard. Your hips bucked, barely moving with the way she was holding your hips down. A keening whine left your throat, and you couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Please!” You begged, the plea sounding semi-broken from your throat. Cumulus smiled, lifting her head to regard you carefully. Purring, she stroked a cool hand down the flushed skin of your face, trailing her touch down to your waist.

“What is it, baby?” She cooed, voice soft and sweet once more. “Want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes!” 

“I’ll give you my fingers tonight.” Cumulus agreed, dipping a hand beneath your underwear to stroke your core lightly, adding to the fire. “Then if you’re good, you might get something else tomorrow.” A devious light entered her eyes for a moment and she smiled innocently.

“I might even share.”

The bloom of heat raged inside you at her words, and you gasped, bucking against her hand. Cumulus watched lovingly, seeing you become more desperate, stroking your clit with a steady hand and bending down to say the most filthy things in your ear. 

“My good girl.” Pressing a finger into your folds, she whispered sweetly to you, curling her fingers just right to make you see stars. “If I had my way, you’d never leave this bed.”

“Fuck!” Arousal spiked as she played with the sensitive bundle of nerves. A knot settled in your stomach, and bucking your hips again, you pleaded with her to go faster. 

Speeding up her pace, she pressed a kiss to your stomach, enjoying your high pitched moan and the soft squelching noises she was making with her fingers.

“So wet for me.” A broken plea burst from your lips and she leaned down, breath ghosting onto your cunt as she pulled her fingers out, inspecting how wet they were in the light. “So responsive.”

“Cumulus, plea–” Her mouth latched onto you, tongue circling your clit and diving through your folds. “Fuck!” 

The knot burst as she sucked lightly on your clit, groaning contentedly as you came for her as she coaxed you through your orgasm, a pleased purr rumbling in her chest. 

“Good job, baby.” Exhausted, you laid next to her, sighing as she pulled you into her arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get some rest, okay?”

“Not tired.” You mumbled, honestly wanting to stay up and talk with her some more. Cumulus chuckled, pulling the covers over you and watching as you nestled your head into the pillow. 

“We’ll talk tomorrow, I promise.” She whispered, resting her chin on the crown of your head. “I’m not letting you go anytime soon.” 

Falling asleep came easily after that, the melody Cumulus was humming making you drift off peacefully, feeling safe with her arms wrapped around you. 

As you drifted off, Cumulus hugged you possessively as she heard the other ghouls through the wall, groaning at the sinful noise you two had made. Closing her eyes, the ghoulette smirked.

“She’s mine.”

[multifandomthoughts]

AFAB READER

NSFW, MINORS DNI

“I want to play a game.”

Those were the words uttered from one Deidara as he sits across from you, a mischievous grin on his face. It had all started when, a few weeks before Halloween, you decided that you were done feeling left out of the Halloween festivities year after year, and that you wanted to throw a party.

A costume party, filled with treats and games and spooky surprises….you invited all your friends, including Deidara. You had a crush on him, but were afraid of his reaction. You knew he could be quite arrogant, and weren’t sure how he’d react.

The day of the party comes, all your friends file in with intricate costumes. And there he is. Deidara. Strutting in to nobody’s surprise in a completely home made sexy peacock outfit. His body was adorned with sequins, feathers, and studs. It’s clear that he spent a lot of time on this costume, and frankly you can’t take your eyes off it.

“I like your outfit Deidara!” He smirks at you, booping your noise. “Of course you like it, it’s a work of art! And I know how much you love my art…” Sauntering off, he goes to join the rest of the guests. You sit down on your couch, putting on a Halloween movie for background noise.

Everything goes off without a hitch as candy and other food and drinks are being passed around, and joy is being spread. Deidara sits directly across from you, a smirk rising upon his face.

He recites those words, and everyone’s ears perk up. He goes into the kitchen, and grabs an empty wine bottle, walking back and raising it over his head. “Okay, we’re going to play a mix of seven minutes in heaven and spin the bottle.”

And the game begins. You would spin the bottle, and whoever it landed on, you would play seven minutes in heaven with. It felt a little bit childish, but you just kept it to yourself and went along with it. You watched as one by one, your friends would go into the closet, and return in various states of disarray.

You can feel yourself beginning to get more and more nervous, as potentially hundreds of possibilities fill your brain. You could also feel a secondary emotion: want. You want to feel needed, you want to be in someone’s arms, you wouldn’t mind even potentially being used. Just to feel that connection. Seconds feel like hours as you continue to wait.

Finally, the bottle lands on you. And to nobody’s surprise, you were expected to go to the closet with Deidara. Before you can every say a word, Deidara pipes up with “I hope you don’t mind that I was kind of waiting for this. I know you love me, because every time you look at me, you light up like a jack’o’lantern.” Your face flushes, as you look down at the ground.

“Oh come on sweetheart, don’t be like that! You look so cute when you’re embarrassed…now why don’t we start off things a bit slow, hmm?” He presses his lips to yours, his lips tasting like cherry chapstick. You hesitate at first, but his lips, so inviting, so plump, cause you to lean into the kiss.

You can feel his hands grip your shoulders as he kisses you. His kisses get slightly sloppier, showing how much you really turn him on. He begins to put his hand under your shirt, which you gladly welcome with a moan. He continues to gently knead and rub the flesh, unassumingly. That is until, you feel some sort of strange sensation.

You jump, breaking the kiss. “What the hell is that? It feels weird but….I kind of like it. Deidara laughs manically, pulling out his hands. Upon his hands, where they were not before, were two small mouths, tongue included.

“I usually use them for my art, but I guess making you moan is in art in it of itself.” He proceeds to put his hands back up your shirt, squeezing your breasts as the tongues on his hands lick and tease your nipples. You could barely make a sound, as you’re attacked by his soft lips. You can’t help but kiss him back passionately, making this experience wonderful.

Before you can say anything, one of his tongued hands slips down inside your pants and underneath your panties. You can’t help but gasp in pleasure as you can feel his tongue connect with your clit. You let out a whine, and that’s his key to keep kissing you harder.

You can feel yourself get wetter by the second as both hands caress your sensitive spots. “Hey, is it okay if I insert a finger? I don’t want to damage my work of art….” Deidara asks, a gentle but flirtatious tone to his voice.

“Please do…” You gasp. He nods and slips a single digit inside you. Moaning loudly, Deidara silences you with another rough kiss. “We don’t want anyone to open this door, don’t we?” You shake your head. “Good, now let’s try to be quiet for the time being. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want you to be loud in the future, though.

That last comment caught you off guard, causing you to blush deeply. Between the hand on and in your cunt, the hand on your breast, and Deidara kissing you, you could feel yourself coming close to your climax. Deidara can clearly sense it, as that finger begins to move much faster.

“Deidara, I-“ He silences you with another kiss to keep you from moaning and alerting everyone to what you were doing. His finger pumps faster into you and you reach your climax, biting his lip as hard as you possibly can to keep you from crying out in pleasure. Once you ride out your orgasm, you detach your lips from his, noticing that you drew blood from biting so hard. It doesn’t seem to bother him so much, as he pulls out his finger, licking the cum off of it.

“Sorry babe, I didn’t mean to….” You apologize profusely. “D-Did you just call me babe? Does that mean you want to be with me?” Deidara responds, his tone drips teasingly. Once again you blush, the words stuck in your throat. “Yes, that means I want to be with you Deidara.”

“Good, because I was thinking I’d like to ditch this party and go for round two. As much as I loved dressing like a peacock, it’s not as comfortable as you might think. Are you in?”

“I’m in.”

[hall0wedwyrm]

sorry franklydear enjoyers i didn't mean to hit you with this one so soon (i did)

based on the idea i had when i was analysing the newest WH update so obviously spoilers for that. anyway enjoy <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a few days since Homewarming festivities had ended. 

Eddie had left the party abruptly that day, and no one had really seen him since. It was a point of concern for everyone... but also no one really knew what to do. 

Frank had spent the past day asking and looking around, clearly reaching his peak of concern. Initially, he thought that Eddie just needed some time for himself. He looked overwhelmed when the two of them had made eyecontact, and it was best to let him take some time off. But eventually he couldn't wait any longer. He started by asking some of the neighbours, but they came up with nothing.  

“He did look awfully tired...” Sally sighed, “But I don’t think even Eddie could sleep that long...”  

“Have you seen him leave the post office since?” Frank asked, using the question that he would proceed to ask every other member of the town. 

“Hmm... now that you mention it...” She pondered, “I haven’t no... I support the sentiment of going to check on him, though.” 

“Eddie was supposed to deliver some things to my shop!” Howdy threw his hands up in despair, “I haven’t had my batch of new stock... but Eddie is more important. I just hope hes okay.” 

“Maybe... he’s doing something that's taking a long time...” Julie remained her joyful self, “What if he’s making us a surprise?!” Frank appreciated her ideas, but this wasn’t helping. He thanked her and moved on. 

“Oh dear, I do hope he’s okay...” Poppy placed down her baking tray, “I’ve been so busy baking and trying out this new cookbook that it’s completely passed my mind... Would you keep me updated?” 

Barnaby seemed to be the most passive about the situation, “Eh. Maybe he’s just holed up in there for a reason.” He shrugged, “He’ll come out of there on his own. I’m sure of it.”  

“Very nice of you, Barnaby,” Frank rolled his eyes, “I’ll keep you updated, I suppose.” 

Frank took this as the last stand. He began his march towards the post office across town. It wasn’t that far of a walk, but it felt like hours. The dread building slowly, making Frank worry about what on earth he would find in there.  

He had to tell himself that Eddie was fine, and that he would walk into the office and find him doing something incredibly mundane, like organising the mail or sweeping up bits of paper from his latest craft. 

“Where are you going, Frank?”  

A voice cut through his panicked thoughts. He jumped in surprise, immediately spinning around to be met with a familiar empty stare.  

Wally Darling... 

“O-Oh! Wally!” Frank stammered, “What a... pleasant surprise...!” He tried to pull of his shock in any way that wasn’t a weird mild fear he suddenly had, “I’m... going to visit Eddie! I haven’t seen him since Homewarming so I was worried about him.”  

“Oh...” a very blunt response, “That’s very nice of you.” Wally pulled his best smile he could, considering he had some kind of permanent grin anyway. Frank smiled back, but it was more of a strained grin.  

“Good luck, Frank.” Wally didn’t move, hinting at Frank to make his own exit from the conversation.  

“Ah... Th-Thank you.” Frank hurries off, leaving Wally to watch as he leaves. 

The door to the post office was covered by the blinds that Frank didn’t know it had. It also looked completely dark inside, adding to the dread. Frank tried his best to peek inside, but it was futile. He thought it would be best to just go inside. 

Frank took a deep breath... and opened the door slowly. 

The lights were off inside, as he has suspected, but there was no sign of life either.  

“Eddie...?” Frank could barely speak, his nerves getting the better of him.  

He looked around the empty room. It wasn’t in any sort of disarray, rather that it was organised. Like it had been untouched for a while. Not a speck of dust though, as if something had been looking after it, or it had become stuck in time without Eddie. 

“Hello...??” He calls out again, standing in the middle of the main room. He had spun around a few times, hoping maybe one turn would help him find something he hadn’t seen before. Unfortunately, it didn’t work like that, and he knew it.  

Frank went behind the counter, into the back room. On the counter in front of him was Howdy’s parcel, wrapped and assigned to him. Eddie was going to deliver it before whatever happened to him or wherever he went.  

Panicking further, Frank rushed out of the back, and then trying to find an upstairs or where Eddie would have been living. Off in the corner of the room, there was a very plain looking door, leading Frank to suspect that it was potentially what he could be looking for.  

He approached, took another much deeper breath this time, and placed his hand on the door handle. He hesitated for a few moments, the dread lingering harder than before. He had a voice in his head screaming that something very bad had happened to Eddie... or he had done something to...

Eddie would never. He’s probably just having a bad spell, and he’s be fine... 

In a swift movement, he turned the handle and flung open the door.  

Silence. 

Eddie’s room was completely untouched. It has been perfectly organised and cleaned. Not an item out of place. It was unsettling, to say the least.

A shiver went down Frank’s spine... He was completely clueless.  

...

Where is Eddie...?

[littleeyesofpallas]

Oh hey so here's a thing that we never really got proper follow up on, and in fact if anything some late additions to canon just kind of... not quite "contradict" the implicit world building but kind of just exist without addressing the existing hooks?(i hope that makes sense) I'm talking around the subject... I mean the dual zanpakutou and what that actually seems to say about their wielders and how Ichigo absolutely does not fulfill that same criteria with his bullshit final zanpakutou, either played straight or as a subversion.

I have sort of talked about the zanpakutou names themselves but I didn't really stray into the territory of character analysis too much. Kyroraku and Ukitake both have implicit dual personas that are reflected in their swords, at least at first. And Ichigo pretty distinctly doesn't, not in the same way at least, although there is sort of a caveat to that, but I'm already getting ahead of myself...

I'll start with Kyouraku since his is probably the least consequential, and the most overtly addressed... On the one hand Katen[花天] probably comes from the more specific Chinese phrase Huā tiānnǚ[花天女], I specify because it has much more concrete artistic associations than [花天] does, either in Chinese or Japanese, and is a minor figure of Chinese celestial bureaucracy often depicted as a beautiful young woman flying thru the heavens scattering flower petals from a bouquet or basket of flowers. The garden she tends is comprised of all the most beautiful and exotic flowers, posses magical qualities such that the fruits of her garden can grant immorality or magical powers, and the petals she scatters all over the world bring happiness and good fortune.

Clearly her evocation here is an allusion to Kyoruaku's outward demeanor as a kind of pampered, decedent lover of good drink, music/poetry, and women. There are a few things in his name that all point to this as well, beyond just his visual design: Kyoraku[京楽] reading as "(Imperial)Capitol + Music/pleasure/comfort" and Shunsui[春水] as "Spring(the season) + Water," the associations with spring somewhat implicitly involving cherry blossoms, making the phrase sort of analogous to "rose water" or "sweet water."

And then Kyoukotsu[狂骨] is a yokai that takes the form of a skeletal old man that haunts the bucket of an abandoned well. It's got some weird uncertain regional etymologies that sort of suggest it could be any of a number of euphemisms, but I'm not certain which if any are relevant to this. There is one i stumbled into that, given the casual nature of all this, i did not think to record like a citation as i didnt think it'd be so hard to track down again... that said it was used as a kind of slang towards a crazy person or a raucous drunk. I don't want to lean too heavily on that when I can't corroborate it, but it did feel like it made a lot of sense: you drink(from a well) something you shouldn't(i.e. cursed) and it makes you violent and/or crazy.

And more over, their release call is,

Hanakaze midarete Kashin naki, Tenpuu midarete Tenma warau

[花風紊れて花神啼き, 天風紊れて天魔嗤う]

"FlowerWind in disarray FlowerSpirit(s) cry, HeavenWind in disarray Tenma* laughs/ridicules."

There is a distinct bit of poeticism here with Hana... ka[花... 花...] referring to "flowers," Ten... Ten[天... 天...] referring to "heaven," midarete[紊れて... 紊れて...] referring to things "in disarray," and kaze... fuu[...風, ...風] referring to "wind." And notably while there are obvious thematic links back to Katen, there's not actually much reference to Kyokotsu, apart from vague tonal implications. Still, the message seems very clear: The pleasant scent of flowers and aesthetic of petals on the wind are disrupted, flower spirits/god(s) cry/wail in pain or otherwise distress. And at the same time, in the same way, a divine wind/winds of heaven, something that is implicitly a blessing or relief, a kind of god send, is disrupted and the evil spirit Mara laughs or jeers. A good thing is spoiled and divine forces make noises of distress and malice.

This just reinforces the names' dualistic themes that suggest there is a dark side to Kyoraku's penchant for unrestrained revelry. While that could be taken a number of ways, the most surface level one would seem to suggest that for all the boisterous drinking and partying he does, he in fact has a violent abusive drunken side to him as well, past some certain point.

Mara btw is a sort of "demon" in buddhism with a lot of associated themes, not the least of which being seduction, and the derailing of one's path towards enlightenment --in Japanese in particular his name is associated with sexual temptation and masturbation, and yeah he's the penis chariot summon in SMT. He is very specifically the giant demon featured in classical art of the samsara --the cosmological wheel of reincarnation within which all living things exist. So when Mara laughs, it's not just a matter of generic evil, it's the victory of base material temptation over enlightenment. By all rights this makes it sound like Kyoraku's shikai is a matter of trading in his easygoing demeanor for a more violent and darker side.

But as we know that isn't quite how things panned out... Rather, the reveal of that very change in tone just got sorta kicked down the road a bit and became a part of his bankai rather than his shikai. But the implicit themes of the zanpakutou's name, and the zanpakutout themselves, suggests that Kyoraku has two swords because he has two truths, two inner selves rather than one: the one that is personified by heavenly flowers, and the one personified by malice and drink.

And I guess just to clarify, I find it really weird that Kubo went and canonized Masashi Kudo's zanpakutou filler arc designs that way he did, and I still sort of regard them and even their inclusion in the manga proper to be kind of non-canon? I know that's a weird bold arbitrary claim, but even as he used the designs they don't feel like they contribute at all to their own theme or shtick. Like, they were clearly designed with no insight to the shikai's actual powers, the designs are nonsensical (the swords printed on her kimono? european oujo drills on a japanese design? the frills on a kimono? the nonsense exposed midriff on kyoukotsu? it's just a mess) they aren't even named accordingly, you'd think the light tone of Katen would lend itself to the shikai's children's game theme and thus the diminutive one of the pair, and Kyoukotsu the darker themes and thus the noh and bunraku theatre thus the older of the two, splitting them between children's play and adult play. But no.

Anyway... that just being part of the set up for the fact that...

Ukitake's got a whole daoist yin-yang thing going on. His theming is a little less obvious at a glance, but pretty distinct in the broader context of things, and eventually ironically nailed down a little more firmly by Kudo's still not especially canon design work for the anime filler: The courtly heian robes the kids are put in are part of the iconic onmyoji image of daoist mystics who served the imperial court as advisors in spite of their non samurai/nobility status. The yin and yang motif is alluded to in the "twin fish" aspect of Sougyo no Kotowari[双魚理]: "Law of Pair(ed) Fish" which is itself later alluded to in the Hell Jaws Wailing/Christening oneshot. Unlike Katen Kyokotsu, there aren't two distinct facets to the sword name, and unlike Kyoraku's katana and wakizashi set, Ukitake has a single sealed katana that splits into two for shikai, all suggesting that the nature of the two fish is that they are a singular unit rather than distinct facets. This makes sense of course because the nature of yin and yang as positive and negative elements is that they are in constant struggle but balanced, and cannot exist without one another.

But the nature of the zanpakutou, again, suggests that Ukitake's soul exists as both sides of that balance, that he is is innately capable of just as much "evil" as he is good. And this underlying tone of something sinister beneath his kindly demeanor is something Kubo sort of tries to paly with but never really fully pulls the trigger on. This theme is where the Fullbringer arc's underutilized bit where Ukitake has been using the substitute badge as a means of surveillance, and where Ukitake is implicitly the one who stripped Ginjo of his powers in the first place, having also monitored him during his tenure as substitute. It implies that, like Kyoraku's two sides to his drink and revelry, Ukitake's inner truth about being an agent of cosmic balance comes in a dark and a light form.

So then there's this thing about Ichigo's stupid new zangetsu(s) where he both has two swords now like Kyoraku and Ukitake, but also doesn't because we get the janky sort of excuse that "oh they're not really two different swords one's just a sheath and their true form is one sword."

And to be fair, while I find the explicit use of that line to try and handwave... i don't know what exactly, but it definitely felt like Kubo thought he was patching up some kind of plothole when he brought it up... we technically already knew that was the case leading up to the first time he addressed it with the final getsuga thing.

In the first inner world fight, the hollow was just a part of Zangetsu that he was able to sort of produce and later reabsorb, and implicitly the opposite was true when the hollow appeared alone during the Visored training: they exist as two sides of the same coin, and can just kind of flip flop control as needed. This made sense as an expression of Ichigo's misguided struggle to deny and rid himself of his hollow --he didn't have two spirits he had one, which again we already knew, but it needed to be confirmed and addressed to cap off Ichgio's arc of self discovery.

Then Kubo tried to sort of rehash this dynamic with the whole the hollow is the sword, and Zangetsu is actually Yhwach's quincy blood just holding the hollow/shinigami side back, but it makes distinctly less sense because when Nimaiya forges the new sword(s) the two spirits show up as separate entities, one per sword. Plus the stupid retconned excuse that, oh no they weren't ever actually the same thing, the whole absorbing thing was just Yhwach actively suppressing the shinigami side. So then what does this really say about Ichigo's nature? Does he have a dualistic nature or doesn't he? Are they two facets of his inner truth, or are/were they always the same singular truth and realizing that was the entire key to self actualization and his true power?

At face value the new explanation divides his identity into shinigami and quincy, despite him having no actual functioning identity as a quincy factionally or culturally, and on a personal level he never actually does anything to reconcile this identity crisis. I know it's a long way around to just point out that it fumbles the theming a lot here, when that was fairly evident even without the context, but I guess I just wanted to bolster that. In the first place i think everyone reading at the time understood it to feel very inauthentic as a twist? like most of the developments of the late arc. Just another case of Kubo phishing around fandom chatter for stupid ideas he could play into to siphon ratings out of.

But again the bottom line being that we had precedent for Ichigo to have two swords in one of two ways: Ukitake's style of having a single identity that encompasses both the best and worst of his inner truth, or Kyoraku's suggested style in which his two facets exist in distinct and separate entities but ultimately both reflect him as truths about his nature. But Ichgio doesn't really do that. His original balance of shinigami and hollow seemed to be a satisfactory solution in the style of Ukitake's, and if he'd just had one shinigami/hollow sword and one quincy sword, that might have been acceptable in Kyouraku's style, but the flipflopping between the two by making the final form just a big sword inside a different big sword where one of the big swords is a sword, but the other sword is just a sheath to hold the first sword(???) is just this bizarre gibberish of themes and symbols.

(I've had this thing sitting in drafts for so long i forgot abotu it. and I swear I had some kind of actual conclusion I was working toward across various rewrites but i don't remember what it was anymore... anyway it's taking up space in my drafts that could be better used, so out it goes..)

[winduska]

₊  🎞️ ⊹  .ᐟ Understand me | Hyunjin x Jeongin

.ᐟ Pairing: Hyunjin x Jeongin

.ᐟ Genre: Angst, Fluff

.ᐟ Word count: 5.2k

.ᐟ Author's note: My friend gave me a prompt and I made this? This is my very first one shot so I hope you'll like it.

Ps: If you want to have the best experience, put some classical music in the background

୧ .ᐟ Wana, this is for you

Forelsket - The euphoria you experience while falling in love

Yang Jeongin—not a day goes by where his name doesn't flatter in a conversation. Everyone gossips like crazy. The media are fighting for who will have a better photo of this man, and even the fans don't disappoint. Yang Jeongin is a model, but not a normal one. If we're talking about measure, he's a huge one. The whole of South Korea knows his name by now, and he's aware of it. Despite his popularity, he's definitely not a snobbish person who only takes an interest in himself. Everyone tries to make him seem bad, narcissistic and mostly arrogant. Probably to achieve some sort of victory for themselves. Hundreds and thousands of people are jealous of this man's success and wealth. Success, that was hardly worked for by Jeongin himself. Making himself grow and climb a high ladder full of obstacles and unnecessary weight. That's what his life was all about. From a kid to an adult, without any breaks or time for himself. Being raised into such mindset doesn't help at all. His parents didn't make anything easy for him, it being quite the opposite. Anytime Jeongin craved an answer from his parents, a reason for his mistreatment and under appreciation, he got a simple explanation. Explanation that contained the thought of having to work for everything by yourself. If you want to reach something in life, study and work for it without needing help. You don't need the help of others, even your own family. They perceived him as a strong, self standing man that doesn't struggle with minor occurrences. But the minor occurrence called 'love' is something that no one warned him about. Not even his own mind. His mind didn't even try to trick him into avoiding it, which he deeply wished for.

A few souls caught his attention and blossomed into dating and the thing called 'love'. But those flowers quickly lost their petals, and thorns were the only thing left. Left to rot and spoil into pathetic disarray. To put it simply, most of the people he dated used him for money, fame, and many more things. Not caring about Jeongin's needs for understanding and care. Devastation was a disease, and Jeongin had one. The emotions that Jeongin lived through every time were harsh and sharp with reality and endless disappointment.

It's been a month since Jeongin's last relationship. Many things have changed, including his mindset and some major personality traits. Don't get me wrong, he's a sweetheart and a wonderful man, but he's not that easy to get anymore. Being easy to get is a trait that you physically can't have in relationships, not to mention in the work industry. Many people used that side of Jeongin, which only brought him sorrow and hurt. Some may call him rude or mean, but it's not his true self. His fabulous colors are hidden from the outside world, which is gray and full of black accents. A world that doesn't appreciate the stupendous nature and grace of Jeongin himself.

One thing that has changed is a key person in his work who seems to be his main photographer. His last one didn't like Jeongin. It's weird, isn't it? Jeongin thought so too. He didn't understand why some people would work a job where you spend most of your time fulfilling quotas for someone you hate. Isn't that humorous and impolite? But then again, money move with our world, and the lengths people are willing to go through are insanely long. It's true that his last photographer took more money than he originally thought. Hiring a new one, and, to his surprise, acquiring the cheapest one yet. His suspicion was high, but when he looked through his artwork, which was full of photos and even photos of his own art, it was amazing. He caught himself getting lost in those distinct pieces. Admiring and absorbing those marvelous artworks, he shook his head and looked away from the monitor.

Hwang Hyunjin—that's the name of Jeongin's photographer. The moment Jeongin's manager recommended him and showed him his portfolio, he knew he had to hire him. Even though, on the outside, he didn't really care who this person was. The only thing that mattered was that his work is considerably cheap, and his artwork looks good. So what could go wrong? Getting scammed by him didn't sound valid, and according to the reviews, no one said anything bad. So why not give him a shot?

At the end of the day, Jeongin was very glad that he had indeed hired Hyunjin. Their work connection is good, even great. On some occasions, other photographers took advice from Hyunjin. Many were seeking help, and Hyunjin always caught their eye. So they just flew straight to the source. That itself may sound foolish, but it's what happens sometimes. Both of them know how to get their job done and what to do without having to talk much. That's something both of them value, since neither of them are superb with words.

Jeongin poses naturally, Hyunjin takes photos amazingly.

That's how most people would summarize their work flow. Sure, it's different when you're at your client's studio, where hundreds of different people walk by and order you. The stress and expectations make Hyunjin a bit uneasy, but the true beauty is in their own studio. Quiet, peace—only a loud clicking sound that's heard every time Hyunjin's focus reaches its highest and his confidence tells him to press the camera button. But he would be lying if he said that he focuses on the photo all the time. True, his main focus is on the composition and perfect angle. But maybe his eyes concentrate on the man that's shown on the square display. He can't help but adore the way Jeongin's stylist always makes him look so ethereal and brilliant. A simple job that makes Hyunjin lose his breath all the time. Jeongin was always styled in a way that was atypical, attractive and special. Clothes? Fancy and really fitting, complementing Jeongin's body perfectly. They hugged his figure impressively, with Hyunjin wishing that he could see Jeongin in those clothes for more than these stupid few hours.

"You're staring." The voice was sharp, but warm. Admonishing, but soft. It was a voice that Hyunjin knew very well; at this point, it was like a magical harmony. Hyunjin quickly refocused and shook his head a bit, just to make sense of what's real and what's not.

"Sorry." Hyunjin didn't bother to explain why he was staring or why his voice was so quiet and shaky. To him, it was obvious, and he had to play this safely. On the other hand, Jeongin didn't pay much attention to it. This was a common occurrence by now. He caught him staring numerous times but didn't really care about it, nor did he warn him. He always presumed that Hyunjin was focused on the angles, lights and overall composition. A thought of him looking at him never crossed his mind; he didn't even brush it lightly.

Hyunjin sighed and looked at the photo. "Sorry I set the iso wrong." Few clicks and Hyunjin set it right in the blink of an eye. But afterwards, Jeongin noticed his photographer's change of mood and stopped posing. He walked away from the set and began to walk towards Hyunjin himself. Hyunjin's stare raised, looking at the heavenly creature that was walking towards him. Is he an angel? The next thing he knows is that the younger man is standing next to him, taking the camera and wrapping his fingers around the handle. The photos on the little display changed as Jeongin looked through them and paid attention to every single one of them.

The proximity was a little too much for Hyunjin. Seeing him up close is a whole different level that no one could ever prepare him for. The smell of Jeongin's absurdly expensive cologne was so sharp that Hyunjin will remember it until the day his soul vanishes.

It didn't take much for Hyunjin to realize that he had developed a crush. At first, he wasn't sure if these euphonious feelings would be there forever. And he still isn't; who knows if he'll ever be? But what he did know is that it's the most beautiful but, at the same time, the most frustrating thing Hyunjin has ever experienced.

Beautiful in the sense of spending time with Jeongin. Sure, they don't hang out at all, but at work, it's their time to shine. Seeing him regularly and in his best moments. Seeing those stupid dimples whenever he smiles, his eyes that shine like stars in galaxies, and his perfectly shaped lips. And to his surprise, even the moments of Jeongin's casual state were there to be seen. Sometimes Hyunjin had to come over and have a chat with Jeongin about their work, mostly about Hyunjin's vision as a photographer. There are many spots and places where Hyunjin wants to shoot, most of them being easy to get to. Following this, the moments when Jeongin opens the door are simply the most precious. His hair was a complete mess, and his clothes casual, no fancy and expensive pieces, just a casual shirt and pants. A quick sneak peek is always present when Hyunjin watches the sight. He eyes him up and down, taking in his state.

Frustrating in a sense of desperation. He knows, or at least he thinks he knows, that Jeongin doesn't want a relationship. There wasn't a single hint of Jeongin looking for a significant other. Heck, Hyunjin doesn't even know if he likes men in the first place. It's frustrating to see how someone you like doesn't even take a slight interest in you. The look he wishes to get is nowhere near Jeongin's eyes. If he saw at least a little sparkle in them, he would feel better and slightly more confident in his emotions and feelings. Sometimes he wonders if frustration is a strong enough word. And the worst thing? He doesn't know if he should be frustrated with Jeongin or with himself. Is he making false illusions in his head, making up a world of delusions and wishes? Wishes, that will most likely not happen. It's okay to have a crush, but it's definitely not okay to have an unhealthy obsession with someone who doesn't even acknowledge your grief.

April 14th 2023

And here they are, in a park before sunset. The weather was good—a typical spring afternoon. A warm one, but with a hint of a cold breeze in the air. The sun was slowly setting in, and they're still having enough time for some photos. It was Hyunjin's idea to come here, obviously. The theme of the client's commission fits this setting perfectly, and the view is mesmerizing, full of beautiful, colorful accents.

"What do we think?" Hyunjin asked, playing around with the settings of the camera that was set in his hands and walking towards the spot. Jeongin was walking next to him, absorbing the nature that was surrounding them. As sad as it sounds, he doesn't have a lot of time to go for walks like this. His time is precious, and going for walks isn't in his schedule at all. Hyunjin looked up from the camera and let his gaze fall on Jeongin. Jeongin's eyes held a more sorrowful expression, which broke Hyunjin's heart a bit. Those gloomy eyes didn't suit him at all.

"What's the matter?" A hand landed on Jeongin's shoulder, and his head perked up in Hyunjin's direction. He noticed a slight hint of worry in Hyunjin's eyes. He didn't know why, but it felt nice knowing that someone's at least a tiny bit worried about your emotions. The younger man sighed, breaking eye contact in a quick motion and pulling Hyunjin's hand down from his shoulder. Hyunjin realized what he did, and he felt a bit embarrassed about such a gesture. He cleared his throat and walked again.

"It's just that you seem down." Jeongin knew that worries were acceptable, according to the fact that they were really visible. Still, talking about his feelings and emotions is hard. It's just something that he struggles with and doesn't want to deal with. It's a long and tough way, which he doesn't want to commit to yet. He nodded a bit and smiled, throwing a reassuring look at Hyunjin. This particular look made Hyunjin be more at ease, knowing that he didn't overstep any kind of boundary.

"I'm fine now, so don't worry about me." Suddenly, dimples were shining like stars, and Hyunjin was speechless. He wanted to say something, anything, to change Jeongin's mind and tell him what's wrong. But the more he looked at him, the more he understood him. Opening scars that aren't healed yet is a dangerous game, which he definitely doesn't want to play right now. Hyunjin gave him a small smile back to show that he understood him.

Both of them looked away from each other in awkwardness, not knowing what to say next. Hyunjin cleared his throat once again and pointed at the spot in front of him.

"You can go stand right there." Jeongin nodded back and trailed off. It was a beautiful spot, to say the least. And it was even more beautiful when Hyunjin saw the boy walk and pose for the camera. For a second, he forgot how to breathe. Whenever this sentence was written in a story, he thought it'd be humorous. Thinking, that it's not real. His mind quickly changed its opinion when it saw Jeongin. When Hyunjin looked at Jeongin posing, the beautiful sunset created the perfect scenery behind him. The field of white flowers that was scattered all over the ground, making this the perfect place for literary anything. With almost shaky hands, Hyunjin raised the camera, looked through it, and focused it. His focus was on so many things, not knowing if he should look at Jeongin or the whole photo. After shifting his looks from place to place, a click was heard, and a photo showed on the small camera display. When Hyunjin looked at it, he was left flabbergasted. Utter disbelief flushed his eyes as his gaze stayed locked on the photo. Jeongin looked ethereal and perfect; nothing else could ever compare to this beauty. Not a single being on this planet could've ever existed as handsome as Jeongin. And if so, it was a poor copy of atoms and molecules that didn't carry as much personality and story as Jeongin.

"Are they good?" Hyunjin's gaze perked up, and he didn't even notice that Jeongin was standing right in front of him. Trying to maintain his composure, Hyunjin started to speak. "Actually it's just one photo but-" Before he could finish his sentence, the battery in his camera died. A little battery indicator shined on the display before dying. He looked at the annoying sight and roamed around his pockets, getting reminded that he forgot to bring his extra battery. He groaned and sighed, knowing there's nothing he can do. Jeongin watched him, and it wasn't really comfortable to see him annoyed. But well, his annoyance was valid.

"Let's go take a stroll by the river, then." Jeongin offered, and Hyunjin gave him a surprised face. What's this? He never asked for such a thing. Hyunjin, of course, nodded and smiled a bit. It was such a small gesture, and it made him feel better and even happier. Happy that his angel offered him to spend some alone time with him. Gosh, since when did he become so cheesy? Is this what 'love' does to a person? One thing is certain: He needs to treasure this and keep himself at bay.

The walk was peaceful—a little too peaceful. Private schedules are the best and Jeongin's favorite ones. No fans, no paparazzi, and no annoying cameras - except Hyunjin. His favorite. The only camera that he's willing to stand and look at. Honestly, he never thought that a random photographer would be such a huge part of his career. But not only his career; his life as well.

Lots of thoughts are crossing Jeongin's mind, but the one that keeps bothering him is his fame. Being famous is not easy, and it's definitely not a dream land, as everyone perceives it. Everyone thinks that being famous is just taking photos, shooting videos and doing sponsorships. But it's nowhere near that easy and sweet. Actually, it's hell itself most of the time, if not all the time. Companies force you into stuff you don't feel comfortable doing. Making you sign contracts that take away your whole piece of self. Not being able to express yourself the way you want to, just the way you're told to. Mistakes? There is no room for those. Luckily for Jeongin, his manager has a little bit of sense left in his head. Never pushing him into anything. Only stuff that's ordered from above. Being big in an industry where everyone is secretly praying for each other's downfall is heartbreaking for Jeongin. He never used money to his advantage, let alone bribing someone. Never used a celebrity for his own success or to feed his ego. Maybe that's what makes him special? Not being a complete bastard and having empathy in his veins and mind?

It's definitely something that Hyunjin adored with every single piece of his mind. He and Jeongin grew closer without them knowing, adapting to the messed up word and circumstances they were in. Hyunjin himself didn't understand how much Jeongin meant to him, not until now. Fear of losing him overflowed his senses and even thinking about separation made him sick to his stomach. While talking to Jeongin, Hyunjin could see things he had never saw before. Feel emotions that he never knew existed. Hyunjin hasn't realized for a long time, but Jeongin really is the closest person that he has. Bold to say considering their relationship. It's a heavily work one, built on success and price. Is he that stupid to think that this has anything to do with real love and feelings? Despite his thoughts, Jeongin will forever hold a special place in Hyunjin's heart. A place reserved for him. A place that will never be held by anyone else. Not a single form of living will be able to supplant Jeongin's being.

Only if Jeongin could get the message.

"Hyunjin." When he heard his name escape Jeongin's lips, he immediately got thrown out of his thoughts. Whenever he gets lost in his own head, the sense of what's real and what's not is nonexistent. World stops, basic human needs suddenly don't exist and only the thing that he thinks about is present in every corner of his mind and body. "You're crying."

Silence. The kind of silence that neither of them expected nor did they think that they would get into such a predicament. The mood wasn't able to say how it was feeling. Was this whole thing uncomfortable? Or is it just unknown? They kept standing and looking, not knowing what to say or do. In this situation, normal human beings would say stupid things. Resulting into temporary happiness and peace, but is this what they should do? On one side, there's a person that's deep with unspoken and kept in feelings. And on the other side, there's a person that's not even thinking about such things. A man that's escaping from the whole apprehensive sphere, the beings in there threatening his stand and breaking the solid ground by the form of love.

May 26th 2023

Hyunjin's Diary

I still see you in everything that I do. I keep chasing you with my thoughts, thinking about how things could've gone differently. Furthermore, I will never stop, you know? Those months of work, the amount of feelings we shared and traded. I wish I could talk to you again, just one more time. I wish to not be scared of your reaction. In my years of existing and 'living', I never thought that I would do such a thing. I was scared of separation, yet I still separated us. Isn't that funny? No, I can't use the word funny. Not anymore. It keeps reminding me of you. I've always described and perceived you as a funny person, even though your smiles were rare. Whenever I caught a glance of them, I didn't care about anything else. Wishing you only the best and not wanting anything spiteful to happen to you. But in the end, I hurt you, didn't I? My withdrawal was sudden to you, but it longed in my mind for a good couple of months. I don't want to blame you, even though I did at first. I thought, how can someone be so oblivious? For me, it was clear that my feelings were visible. To this day, I don't know if you truly were that oblivious or if you actually caught them. Neither of that matters anymore, because I can't stand this. The reason I left and resigned was that I simply couldn't stand it. Or, more likely, I couldn't stand myself. Fighting those malicious thoughts every day wasn't going to last forever. I still fight them, trying to understand and befriend them. But it's hard. I don't know for how long I will have to keep fighting this battle. But I know one thing: I won't win it. I can keep trying, but it's not possible. By separating, I made this battle easier for myself, debilitated the enemy's feelings, and strengthened my own. If there's one thing that I wish I could've said while you were in my life, it would be a simple sentence.

I love you Yang Jeongin.

Hyunjin sighed, putting the barely working pen down and looking up at the ceiling. He was tired. Tired of everything that he'd been through. Life took a toll on him, and not knowing what he did, he ended up in such a state. Every single day, these thoughts keep coming back into his head, hoping that they'll be seen by the so-called Jeongin.

Hyunjin shifted his hands, picking up the diary from the table and closing it. But before the book made a closing ruckus, a thin piece of paper fell. Swaying in the air and hitting the ground, Hyunjin crouched and picked it up with his plane hands. When he turned the piece of paper around, his whole being turned pale. He was pale and confused of his own emotions. Emotions that were sudden and unexpected. There was the photo he hid in the depths of his diary. It was the one photo of Jeongin that he took, in spring. It was their last encounter, yet the most memorable one. The spring colors that were sprayed all over the photo were ravishing, being sunkissed by the enchanting sunset. His grip tightened, wanting to tear it apart and make it go away as fast as possible. He wasn't mad, but frustrated. This frustration was very familiar by now, showing and proving his actions and wrongdoings.

March 13th 2024

Rain was the only thing that was going on for the past week. It kept raining and raining, occasional thunderstorms. But something like that never stopped Jeongin from going out, especially it's meaning that fewer fans and annoying cameras would be present. Having alone time is hard, not to mention when you want to go for a walk. So, catching this opportunity, Jeongin immediately took his umbrella and grabbed his coat. Walking out into the cold, rainy weather mixed with a refreshing breeze. It didn't rain too much, but just enough to help him clear his mind.

Walking around, Jeongin stumbled upon a familiar park entrance. He froze, thinking back on the moment of shooting a particular spring commission. And thinking about a specific person. His heart ached, like someone pinched a needle into it. It's been almost a year since the separation, and he's still not sure where Hyunjin went. He left without a word. Not a single letter or a piece of paper with stupid cliché words on it.

Without needing to think twice, his legs were leading him into the park. He didn't need a particular reason or an excuse; he just wanted to go there and think about everything. Will it hurt? Maybe. Does he care? Absolutely not. In the end, it was his fault and his alone. Not thinking twice and forcefully blinding himself, thinking that he's not strong enough to carry the weight of Hyunjin's feelings.

First step into the park, rain hitting a bit more. Suddenly his mind enhanced, feeling like it's burning under the heaviness of limpid raindrops. It was like his skin was aware of every single raindrop that fell.

Second step brought him into his mind, feeling both the rain and the thunderstorm in his head. How is he going to do this? What's his plan, and what is he trying to achieve? Is he just searching for some kind of clue? He doesn't know, and in the end, he doesn't need to know.

Third step feels heavy, both physically and mentally. He's not prepared for whatever this despair will bring him. He's alone in this world. Millions of people know him, adore him and love him. But he's the only one who knows that none of that is real. They don't love or adore Jeongin; they adore the piece of him that's shown and made up by his acting skills and personality. Not because he wants it to be like that, but because it has to be like that. And that's why he always wondered: does Hyunjin adore that side of Jeongin that's made up by his other self, or does he adore the real Jeongin? He wants to know. Actually, he needs to know. Because he himself can't find the answer. He doesn't know how he was acting in Hyunjin's presence, because reality stops every time. He didn't understand it at first, thinking that Hyunjin is yet another person who's just comfortable. Likewise, he found comfort in him, not knowing why.

Jeongin's steps led him to the spot. The memories came back like a dream that never ended. This whole scene felt like a dream, but the burning sensation of raindrops kept reminding him that this was indeed very real. He stopped, and everything stopped. His stand was firm without any sort of movement. Divine thoughts filled his mind once again, yearning to be seen and understood. Is this how Hyunjin felt all along? If so, Jeongin feels even more cruel than before.

All of this felt like hours, and at this point, he was not sure if the wet things on his face were raindrops or tears. It can be a mixture of both, but it doesn't matter at all. His heart ached, his mind swayed, and his being stayed. It stayed in the same position and place, not wanting to move because it would distinguish all of his thoughts.

"Still the same cologne?"

Reality broke and words dissolved. Jeongin smiled a bit and let out a tired chuckle.

"How could I ever use a different one after knowing you." Those words were symbolic and very true. A different cologne could never replace this one. It was too meaningful, holding a special significance and life period.

"I never knew you were so cheesy." Both of them laughed, not caring about their situation or the ridiculous reality. It definitely does feel like a dream, but not even a dream could be this hitting and sharp with their presence. Both Jeongin and Hyunjin stared at the horizon, keeping the silence to speak for itself and letting it treat their wounds. Wounds that were too deep, but still fixable.

Catharsis was very present, yet still hidden behind the wall of silence. All of their feelings want to scream: Be let free. At the end of the day, that's what they deserve. They deserve to be seen after being kept in for a long time.

"Isn't it funny how we all do things that are bad for us? They hurt us, yet we still let them happen." Hyunjin said these words with awareness. Knowing that they're true for both of them. They symbolized everything that had happened. Hyunjin knew that loving Jeongin would bring sorrow. Sorrow, that will be a spiteful thing. And on the other hand, Jeongin knew that being forcefully oblivious was going to be bad. And not only for Hyunjin, but for himself too.

"But those things make us the happiest." Knowing the meaning behind these words, both of them took them in. For Hyunjin, loving Jeongin was the happiest thing in his life. All of those moments that they had were very precious and special. Something that Hyunjin could never forget. For Jeongin, he managed to be the happiest while not caring about the truth. Facing the truth of love would be something that would break him. Choosing a world of careless acts was something that protected Jeongin. It was a pitiful protection, but it was enough to escape reality. Taking responsibility was something that he couldn't manage to do.

Jeongin mustered up his confidence, thinking that this moment would be a confirmation of reality. He turned his head to look at Hyunjin, his eyes catching a glimpse of him. It's been a year, yet he still looks like the same bewitching person that worked for him.

Hyunjin stared back, turning his body to face him. After a couple of seconds, they realized that they were real. In this situation, there wasn't any room for agitation. Anything could go wrong, but they won't let it happen. Not after this year of suffering. Jeongin didn't let the outside world stop him, reaching for Hyunjin's hand and taking it into his own. Their fingers interlocked, hands felt like silk that was meant to be held. Their hands fit perfectly, not wanting to be touched by anyone else. Jeongin's other hand made its way to Hyunjin's cheek, making itself comfortable. He stroked the face that held many qualities. A face that was meant for Jeongin. He will treasure it forever, keeping it in his possession until the day he dies. He closed his eyes, not waiting for anything else to happen, and pressed his lips to Hyunjin's. There it was—the moment they both longed for. Not believing it, Hyunjin moved his lips and kissed Jeongin with more pressure and love. Everything was happening, and not a single thing could stop this moment. They broke the kiss, not wanting to overdo anything. Jeongin smiled, showing Hyunjin his true nature and letting his heart speak.

"I love you, Hwang Hyunjin." Hyunjin stared into Jeongin's eyes. Eyes deep with affection and unspoken feelings that were yearning to be known. And finally, they made their revelation. They didn't care about the word's problems and circumstances; they just needed to get to the person that they belonged to.

"I love you too, Yang Jeongin."

[bretongirlwrites]

The Postmaster was not in his chair when I returned: rather standing most pensively at the window; and without turning, he asked of me if I had made my choice.

I made to reply, but after a moment, supposing he did not mean that between beef and chicken at the Solitude pasty-stand, invited his continuation.

At which he indicated a selection of letters, sealed and unsealed, on his desk; and informed me that I was on a priority hiring-list for the position of Imperial courier. – ‘You are in the running for it,’ said he, ‘which if nothing else is an admirable wordplay; but you must refuse.’

‘I have heard nothing of it,’ said I: ‘but, sir, there is one thing, we have been asked for help by, –’

‘The Stormcloaks?’ he returned: ‘no, no, that won’t do. Talos is too many men at the same address, and I cannot uphold it. Leastways we cannot afford to take sides, –’

‘No, sir,’ said I: ‘we have been asked for help by the Blades.’

The Postmaster, whose moustache was in positive disarray, – or perhaps it was the latest fashion, in whichever eccentric lands he frequented when he was not in his sorting-office, – came at last to sit down: and actually contemplated putting a letter-opener through the offending correspondence, save that he cherished paper (and his table) more than most things, and wanted his knife in a moment for the missive I handed over. It was postmarked: Don’t ask; and put upon his face an expression of perplexity.

‘The Blades?’ said he: ‘the Long sort, or the Short sort?’

It was my turn to be baffled.

‘Oh!’ he went on, ‘you are young, of course, – it is One-handed and Two-handed these days, if I am not mistaken? – you youths and your weird ideas of swordsmanship.’

I was about to protest that I knew what a long blade and a short blade were; save that halfway to my speaking, I realised I did not know where the one ended and the other began; and that none of this was relevant. Rather I said:

‘No, sir… the Blades, the dragon-fighting sort.’

The Postmaster looked again at the postmark as if it said: Here be no dragons, and raised both of his eyebrows, – which, I now saw, were beneath his cap, almost as elaborately done as his moustache, which must be a fashion as inexplicable as our weird swordsmanship. I shrugged at his astonishment and said only: that I’d been approached by a smallish woman who had, despite her pretty little apron, somehow put the fear of the gods into me; that she trusted me for some reason with a secret business; and that she’d followed it with this letter, which I had not yet opened, since it was addressed to our Guildmaster.

‘A short Blade, then,’ the Postmaster chuckled: ‘but come, they are all in Talos-veneration as well… I did not think the Blades yet existed; but then nor did I think the dragons did; and the Dwemer neither, until I must personally deliver to a Mr Bagarn, a great stack of centuries-overdue life-insurance letters. – So you spoke to one of them?’

‘Just as you speak to one now,’ said I.

I only realised my slip, when the Postmaster’s eyebrows and moustache joined forces in some kind of twirling face-waltz. He nearly dropped the letter; thought better of it, as one might think better of dropping an infant; and with an eagerness unmatched, began to open the envelope with his eyes still on me, which resulted in two paper-cuts on his part, and my quavering miserably under the weight of my errors. 

‘I speak to a Blade?’ said he: ‘well, well, there’s a thing I haven’t done in two hundred years… The last one, I think, was a little more well-built and didn’t look as if he’d blow to pieces in a storm; but since most of them have been exterminated, I suppose they must settle for, –’

‘I am a Blades Courier,’ said I: ‘I am not required to fight, or even to hold a sword. I swore fealty to the smallish woman, – I think she would have exterminated me if I had not, – and, – and, –’

‘I hope you know what you have done,’ said my Postmaster, furrowing his extraordinary brow.

‘I have become a Blade, sir,’ I returned, stupidly. 

It had seemed, after all, so glorious in the moment: my smallish woman, like a queen of ancient times, with her very long blade and her very pretty dress and the sort of eyes which persuade you to do foolish things; except that I had done something more foolish yet. The Postmaster had opened the letter, but was looking at it only halfway, for still he watched me over the top of it, and studied still, my badly built frame. I must return his glare in indignation: I was after all, built extremely well for postal delivery, –

‘Well!’ said he at last, ‘I shall have to think over it. – Come, you are two-handed, are you not?’ and piling both high with stacks of post, sent me, moustache more fashionable than ever, on my way.

[msfcatlover]

IWCTW ramble

A commenter mentioned every Robin trying to warn Barbara about the Joker. And it’s thrown me into a complete disarray because… it makes so much sense, but completely cuts out so many plot lines I wanted to do.

Because it would be Jason.

Tim is too independent & wants to keep everyone else off the radar of, y’know, the cult he’s trying to join. Steph’s already made her attempt (leaving a voicemail) and doesn’t really know the details of what happened. Damian’s on the other side of the planet with no access to communication devices. Dick knows the exact timeline for what happened and knows he has a little more than a year before Barbara gets shot, so to avoid it it’s best to monitor the situation closely & try to stick to the original timeline as much as possible so that his info stays trustworthy.

But Jason… Jason would. Jason’s memories of this timeframe are a little hazy still, and he’s never going to let the Joker hurt his family if there’s a chance to prevent it. Jason doesn’t have anyone to hold him accountable right now. Jason can’t afford to waste what little money he has on a pay phone. Jason would just track Babs to her school and wait outside to give her the warning in person. With as much detail as he can give to make her take it seriously.

And Barbara Gordon is not going to look at a street kid with haunted eyes telling her he knows all about her being Batgirl & giving an in-depth breakdown of what the Joker is apparently planning to do to her… and not insert herself directly into that kid’s life to find out wtf is going on & whether/how she can help Jason out.

But then Dick is just one conversation with Babs away from finding out about Jason. Jason probably wouldn’t move in with Tim, because he’d already be crashing with Babs—and even if Jason was already staying with Tim (which he wouldn’t be, because Tim’s not going to go looking for Jason for at least a month & Jason would be approaching Babs about this in a matter of days probably) well that just draws Barbara’s attention to the Drakes, which means she’ll figure out about the Court of Owls subplot. And once Jason finds out what Tim’s doing, they were always going to have a big fight about it (which is how they realize they’re both from the future) but now it’ll be in a less time-sensitive situation and with Babs there to get Dick on speed dial to ask if he’s been acting weird because of the future thing. At which point you have a pattern, time to track Steph down to see if it holds.

And I’ll have to throw out Damian’s entire “joining the Superfam” plot, because Jason would not have a conversation with Barbara “The Woman Who Would Be Oracle”/“Current Active Superhero” Gordon and not find some way to let her know Damian probably needs rescuing.

It makes sense for Jason to reach out to Barbara. It doesn’t make sense for Babs not to get involved the moment she realizes there’s a kid in some sort of trouble, especially if she knows that kid knows her secret identity. But Babs is too smart & too nosy not to pull this whole thing apart in a matter of weeks once she does get involved.

I don’t know what to do with this realization.

[youngpettyqueen]

inspired by @blessyouhawkeye, here's my list of MASH episodes I would've written if I was in charge

this one

bottle episode set entirely in the swamp that just follows a regular day for the swamp rats going in and out. what they do while they're in their together, what they do alone, highlight the different interactions, that sort of thing. plot itself would be all three of them being stumped by the same case and trying to work through it, but the overall tone would be surprisingly domestic with things like Charles cutting Hawkeye's hair, Hawkeye making BJ's bed, BJ bringing them both lunch when he gets off his shift, until at the end they figure it out and rush to the patient together, and finally ending on them all sharing drinks and celebrating their success

Dreams except it's really funny nonsense dreams. Radar is inexplicably in everyone's dreams. at the end of the episode they're all talking about their weird dreams and Radar stumbles in tired and miserable-looking explaining how he barely slept last night and the episode ends on a freeze frame of everyone looking at him suspiciously

Hangover-style episode. everybody wakes up in various states of disarray and chaos, and they need to try to figure out what happened last night. B plot is they can't find Klinger and it looks like he might've successfully actually deserted this time, only for him to have been passed out underneath Rosie's counter the entire time, and he stumbles in at the very end right as they're toasting him and everyone runs to hug him while he's like "what'd I miss?"

Sidney episode where shelling in camp has him and BJ trapped together

BJ gets put in command a la Commander Pierce and this goes as terribly as you would expect

[mllemaenad]

Right, well, I wanted to write, so I'm going to do that, even if my wrists hurt. Things I will pay for later, but make me feel better now.

Have now listened to episodes 1 and 2 of The Magnus Protocol.

My first impression is that this is much worse than what was going on in The Magnus Archives.

The Magnus Institute was a private institution with no obvious access to other people's information (Magnus's occasional psychic spying notwithstanding). Most information it received seems to have at least been given willingly. There are a handful of instances of John forcing people to talk, yes, but not so many that I am constantly concerned for the privacy of London's citizens. Gertrude is said to have disliked compelling people to talk (Family Business), so while her tally very likely exceeds John's purely due to the length of time she was in the job, it's still probably not very high. It's impossible to account for the behaviour of previous archivists of course but, well, the whole place is set up to entice people in to tell their tales. I would hazard that most of the materiel in the archives was volunteered.

Even in cases where someone was forced – at least they knew about it, because they were there. The lady in Scrutiny who was so deeply disturbed by John's behaviour was also able to make that behaviour stop just by rolling up to The Magnus Institute and reporting it – which is a reasonably straightforward outcome, given the general weirdness of their world.

I don't mean to say that The Magnus Institute didn't do harm – it very obviously did. But even in terms of its final apocalypse, we're looking at a horror that lasted mere months (assuming a passage of time that broadly corresponds to the broadcasting schedule) before a group of disgruntled employees (and Georgie) burned the nightmare tower down, stabbed Magnus and reset reality. There were limitations to The Magnus Institute's reach, and Jonah Magnus's personal ambitions concluded with an utter, embarrassing flop by any reasonable estimation.

Here, though, you're looking at a government department with truly concerning access to people's data. The forum-based statement in First Shift is perhaps not too awful (forum threads can often be read by anyone, even if actually posting requires an account), but the earlier piece regarding the bereaved woman was a private email thread, and the story in Making Adjustments is drawn from a recording of a woman's session with her therapist. Sam calls out the massive invasion of privacy this sort of thing entails, but is shut down on the grounds that it's fine because they "work for the government".

Alice Ok, so looks like it's an email. Sam And I just… read it? Is that even legal? Alice Probably. We do work for the government. Sort of. Sam What about GDPR? Alice Look, Sam, I don't know what to tell you. This is the job. I've been doing it for years and there's never been any problems. Maybe ask Lena? She’d probably know. – The Magnus Protocol: First Shift

While it is too early to definitively establish the worldbuilding rules here:

In The Magnus Archives, giving a statement was functionally feeding an eldritch power

Gertrude Robinson took statements, but kept the archives themselves in a state of disarray, to impede Magnus's plans (Dwelling)

Much of The Magnus Archives played on the difference between knowing a thing and understanding it

The characters in The Magnus Protocol are not just collecting, but blindly categorising statements – they are organising them by keyword, but not encouraged to analyse what they see or hear – Alice notes that they are paid not to care (Making Adjustments)

At least in The Magnus Archives, making a statement tended to come with consequences: typically horrifying recurring nightmares

So you have to wonder – what consequences will there be for these people, who have had their stories stolen from them?

In terms of workplace horror, this is very much coming at it from the opposite direction. The Magnus Archives was about the horrible job you couldn't quit. Most people find themselves stuck in these for economic reasons rather than supernatural ones, although in fairness both Martin (Children of the Night) and Melanie (Dig) are explicitly called out as very much needing the work, but the characters are nevertheless stuck and constantly call back to the fact that they would absolutely quit – if only they could.

It ran on punishing hours and constant exhaustion, the expectation that you would take on tasks you were in no way qualified or trained for (this started with "archiving" and escalated quickly to "apocalypses"), the boss who expected you to "just know" things you couldn't possibly know at all, and a soul destroying amount of responsibility with little hope of advancement. The same person ran the institute since its founding, literally consuming his employees along the way, and if you wanted, say, to be Head Archivist, you were very much stuck waiting for the current occupant of the role to die.

It is significant that, with the noted exception of Eric Delano, all of Gertrude's assistants died on the job (some of them by her hand), and tallying John's assistants is a bit like listing off the wives of Henry VIII: dead, dead, dead, divorced, survived, status unknown. While the story leans on deaths for drama, it gets a lot of mileage out of using historical data, so characters stick around. It's weird for them to be actually gone.

The Magnus Protocol opens with Teddy quitting the OIAR to take a job in insurance. The very first thing you learn about this place is that people leave, and this idea is reinforced a number of times even in the first two episodes: Gwen is pressured to resign by Lena because she is "difficult", and Lena notes outright that, for most people, this job is strictly short term:

Lena Hmmm. I’ve always known you thought you were slumming it down here, but I never actually considered you might think of this as the first step of a career. Most people simply move on within 12 months or so. Gwen I’m not most people. – The Magnus Protocol: First Shift

Moreover, Making Adjustments concludes first with a fraught conversation about possible redundancies and then with Alice accusing Sam (however playfully) of looking to "jump ship" when he's seen researching The Magnus Institute.

This is the horrible job you might lose tomorrow. While the threat in The Magnus Archives was that you were probably going to die in this job, here it leans more toward – if you didn't show up tomorrow, who would question it? People leave.

It is a night shift, for no clear reason – they're doing data entry on what definitely looks like non-essential information so why the hell can't they do that in the day? Employees are not encouraged to think about their work, and Gwen is criticised for favouring accuracy over speed. It is grimly impersonal, and what little solidarity there is appears to be hard won; it's noted, for instance, that Colin is really only social with Alice, and Alice seems committed to team camaraderie.

But above that is the sense that the employees are considered too insignificant to participate in what is really happening here. I mean, among other things, Colin seems to be having a wildly different workplace experience to everyone else.

Alice postulates that they are a fossilised department – one that only really exists because it's been forgotten – although even she notes that the theory only works if you don't poke at it too hard:

Sam I've no real idea what the OIAR even is. Alice You and everyone else. I’ve checked and there's not really much info on it. My current working theory is that maybe it got set up in the 70s, back when everyone was off their tits on LSD and giving ghost-hunters massive grants to wave crystals in graveyards. I reckon at some point they must have put together a small government department to, like, oversee the spending and monitor this stuff and no-one's noticed it's still going. Sam Makes sense. Alice As long as you don’t pay too much attention. – The Magnus Protocol: First Shift

Even if that is a bit extreme, the general consensus is that their work goes nowhere and does nothing. Which fits broadly with the general lack of action and urgency in the department ... unless you happen to be Colin.

Alice Colin! There’s my guy! How's it hanging? Is it an app yet? Do we have a minimalist logo? I assume you’ve finished all the social features? Colin Don't you start. I swear I'm going to shove a cable down that prick's throat, pull it out his ministerial anus and floss him to death. ... Teddy Colin, mate, you know you’re never getting out of here. Colin Christ, don’t say that. Teddy Even if his nibs lets you off the hook, which he won’t, you couldn’t bring yourself to just leave. Not 'til you’ve figured out all these fun little errors. Colin Or they finally kill me. ... Colin I already have to explain to some chinless inbred politician that we’re running on something as old as the goddamn Atari Falcon, now I’ve got some green little smartarse giving me lip for it too? Well you can take your funny little lines and shove them up – – The Magnus Protocol: First Shift

Colin, specifically, is suffering from ministerial oversight. A lot of it, apparently. Departments that only continue to exist because they've been forgotten don't typically have the responsible minister leaning on the IT manager. Not even on the boss – the IT guy. It's interesting because his specific level of stress and frustration seems more consistent with what was going on in The Magnus Archives than here.

And then, of course, there are the stories themselves. It's impossible not to note that the text-to-speech programs sound an awful lot like the protagonists of the previous series. Presumably this is plot relevant, or else it's a really distracting choice. It's impossible to state at this stage whether that means it actually is them or not, but assuming for the moment that it is (because it is not interesting to discuss other possibilities until they become interesting) then what they have to say seems noteworthy.

They are presumably reacting to Sam specifically (welcome to the cursed protagonist club, new guy!), possibly to the box he ticked during onboarding, and likely to whatever past trauma led him to this job in the first place. And both seem to be issuing a warning.

Norris/Martin tells a story that Gwen classifies as "reanimation", but I admit I'm not sure I agree. The thing sounds like an iteration of the Anglerfish monster.

Norris/Harriet Winstead “Arthur? Is that you?” And that voice I have loved for twenty years answered: “Some of him.” – The Magnus Protocol: First Shift

Archivist Are you the same Sarah Baldwin that disappeared in Edinburgh in August 2006? Sarah Some of her. Skin. A few memories. Not on the inside. – The Magnus Archives: Return to Sender

That feels at least in part like an Easter egg – no newcomer is going to recognise the Anglerfish – but it is the crossing of the boundary: this is the first true story they heard, and proof that there is something very wrong with the world. And presumably the themes of grief and loss that pervade the story would relate pretty strongly to Martin's whole ... situation. I'm assuming nobody here chose to be a text-to-speech program.

Chester/John, meanwhile, issues a fairly stern warning about The Magnus Institute. The canary in the coal mine is a bit on-the-nose as a metaphor, sure, but if I were trying to explain to someone what was wrong with that place, I would likely also be blunt. The rough thing, though, is that quite explicitly no one heeds the warning: while the "removed" image is not described it pretty clearly illustrated RedCanary's fate. It's not just that the canary died down the mine. It's that it died in vain, because no one understood what killed it. And of course, it does pique Sam's interest to the point that he starts digging in to what happened. I'm disinclined to believe that curiosity is bad in these stories – if anything, John's issue was that he could never find out the things he needed to know fast enough to make a good decision. But there is a point there ... if you start looking into things, you have to be prepared to deal with them.

The third one, in Making Adjustments seems to be playing somewhat on The Picture of Dorian Gray: Sam and Gwen start the episode by doing practice runs on classification using classic horror, and the story, when it begins, draws on that confusion between art and subject. You can line Dorian up beside Dracula and Frankenstein any day. But the bigger point seems to be that the catalyst for this happened on camera:

Daria Before I could reply they hit a button on their set-up and suddenly we were live streaming with lights in my eyes and their arm tight around my shoulders. I don’t remember much of what they said to their viewers, but they kept telling everyone how lucky I was whilst they dragged me into the chair. – The Magnus Protocol: Making Adjustments

There are nested violations in this story: Daria expected a photo shoot, but at no point agreed to be tattooed on camera. Beyond that, the story she told in private to her therapist is now being recorded and catalogued by the OIAR. And whatever happened to Daria, this "Ink5oul" person seems to have profited by it, and by things like it.

I must admit, I'm not much of a "what entity is this" person, because as far as I could tell the general consensus on that in general fell between "that's arbitrary" and "all of them, probably, if only by their conspicuous absence". That sort of thing is very useful when talking about the people and their particular obsessions – if Simon Fairchild turned up, for example, you knew exactly what sort of aggravating bullshit you were in for – but worrying too much about the exact nature of a supernatural manifestation rarely leads anywhere useful.

I am more interested in the broader implications of how the story is told. In The Magnus Archives, the characters read the stories aloud – and usually adopted the persona, and sometimes even the accent – of the original statement giver. That had supernatural implications, of course, but also played into the broader themes of the story: John is very much invested in the individuals. The tragedy of Jane Prentiss, the mystery of Gertrude Robinson – these are his obsessions. Pretty much the only point he scores in his conversation with Leitner (The Librarian) is being able to instantly spot a passing reference to Gerard Keay: John is crap at the cosmology, but he's been paying attention to the people. Many of the recurring characters are very dead by the time the story starts, but they are kept alive in the narrative because the living characters step into their shoes, and care about what they did and what became of them.

Here, though, there is built in distance between the active protagonists and the individual horror stories. They largely don't even read them – Alice says she "skim(s) the case for keywords" (Making Adjustments) and otherwise tries to ignore what is happening. When a story is read aloud it is done by the text-to-speech programs, and they, as John and Martin did, adopt the personas of the authors in a way that sounds much more fluid than software from the 90s should be capable of. When the story comes straight from the source, it is not told to Sam or Alice or Gwen, but to someone else entirely. There is a reason for the audience to connect with the stories – from that external perspective you're getting pretty much the same thing you did in The Magnus Archives – but the actual characters have no reason to connect, or even to truly listen or empathise with what they're hearing, and doing so is regarded as a mistake.

Which makes you wonder – what might you miss when you're not paying attention to the people?