#to understand how she thinks and why she’s still sane

[riicky-ye]

Furina headcanons:

• Can play piano, flute and violin.

• Ambidextrous, but the working hand is the left one.

• Fluent in Sumeru, Liyue, Snezjnaya and Mondstadt dialects to eavesdrop the foreign diplomats’ dialogues (paranoid behaviour). Her speaking skills are quite rusty though.

• Obsessed with good manners, a bit old-fashioned in that way. Always trying to show people her most poised and refined facade.

• Use ballet as a workout. Had a little dancing room in her suite in the Palais Mermonia to workout whenever she feels like it.

• More strong and agile than she looks.

• Knees hurt when the weather is too hot/cold or humid because she’s a dancer.

• Black is her favourite colour to dress in.

• Precise with time, annoyed by people who are tend to be late.

• Prefer her tea or coffee bitter to accentuate desserts’ sweetness.

• While being an archon, used to collect all sorts of things like plushies, cufflinks, stamps, wrist watches, hats, even insects or flowers in big leather albums. Left all these trinkets behind after moving out of the Palais Mermonia, except for a couple of her favourite toys and some jewelry.

• Can mimic other people’s voices and animals/birds sounds.

• Has an opinion about like everything in the world but often too polite to voice it straightforwardly.

• Very knowledgeable about a lot of topics, from art and literature to politics and from history to hydrology and a little bit of mechanics.

• Some of her literature works from archonhood time are published under a pseudonym.

• Sprinkles her plushies with sweet perfume so they smell good.

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

I don't care when people don't include me in stuff, I'm used to it but-----

my own family going on a trip w/o even asking me kinda felt

shit 🫠

[beevean]

Your tags when reblogging Hectaly always kill me dead

What do you mean? I am perfectly normal about the silver haired pretty edgelord and his impossibly cute, totally not doomed by the story gf :')

sorry, it's just that when OP asked on Twitter for suggestions, I proposed either Hectaly or Belschine kissing, and then kind of forgot about it until I saw the post, and then I exploded on the spot because the fanart was even more lovely than I would have imagined <3

anyway the beloveds deserve the whole world ;A;

[milksnake-tea]

━━ fear not the road untaken .

Sunday hadn't spent long with the Stellaron Hunters before boarding the Express, but the memories he'd made with them were priceless. One quiet day in the Express's cabin, while reflecting on his experiences with the Hunters, you appear to visit him.

astral express!sunday x gn!stellaronhunter!reader

contains: sunday used to be a stellaron hunter, teasing, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF THIS IS THE CUTEST THING IVE WRITTEN SO FAR, SUNDAY IS DOWN BADDDD AS HE DESERVES TO BE BITES FIST I MISSED THIS SO BADDDDD, not established relationship sunday just has a massive crush on you

word count: 2.06k

a/n: happy drip marketing yall. you all get a sunday fluff piece. as a treat. also yes i am completely and totally sane. (THIS IS THE MOST SELF INDULGENT FIC IVE EVER WRITTEN I AM SO SORRY GUYS)

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo

“Sunday, we’re going out to Belobog for a bit. Wanna come with?”

Heeled boots still in the midst of a step. Feather-like hair shifts and tousles as he turns his head. At the invitation, gold melts, sapphires glitter, and a gentle smile warms his lips.

March is a blessing, he thinks. She is bubbly, kind, and always manages to light up whatever room she steps into - in that regard, she is not too unlike his beloved sister. Although her ability to plan ahead leaves much room for improvement, he cannot deny that it was her presence that made his transition into a Nameless much easier than it would’ve been.

Although, truthfully, he’d expected more resistance from her - out of everyone, she seemed to be the most traumatized by the Charmony Festival Disaster, and she also had more of a distaste for Stellaron Hunters than the others. But surprisingly, she’d come around to him, and welcomed him into the Express with open arms - and a lot of food. He swears, every time she’s come back from a trip, it’s another sweet or drink shoved into his arms - not that he’s complaining, though.

“Thank you for the invitation,” he begins, then rests a hand over his chest as a reflex. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse. The last expedition has left me rather exhausted - and as you know, I don’t fare well in cold weather.”

Dan Heng nods in understanding. He’s never been a man of many words, and for that Sunday appreciates him. He rather likes straight-forward people, who aren’t afraid to say their mind - perhaps that’s why he’s grown to adore both the Express and the Hunters so much.

“Is there anything you want us to bring back?” pipes up the Trailblazer, dog-like eyes shining as they lean over March. “Like, sweets or whatever?”

Sunday bites back a chuckle. Somehow, word had gotten around that Sunday had quite the sweet tooth. He doesn’t know who started it or how they found out (he has his suspicions on March), but ever since the trio has been dragging him around to various planets and encouraging him to try the local desserts.

He wonders if he’s gotten cavities yet. He hopes not.

Maybe he should check again, at a later time.

“That Rye Bread Iceberg you brought last time was rather enjoyable. I’d like to try it again.”

March and the Trailblazer brighten at his words. “Okay, on it!”

Dan Heng only hums his acknowledgement before turning to leave the parlor car. “Let’s go,” he advises the others. “You know Seele doesn’t like to wait.”

Sunday has never personally met this Seele (the Trailblazer describes her as a crass but kind-hearted warrior), but her fury is enough to whip both March and the Trailblazer into shape. It isn’t long before the trio is waving him goodbye as they descend into the frozen planet, and he also bids them farewell.

And then it is just him, and the conductor.

A small sigh leaves him as he sits down on one of the many couches. He wasn’t lying when he said he was exhausted. Fighting - or any physical activity, for that matter - isn’t exactly his strong suit. Even during his time with the Hunters, he’d stayed behind the front lines, acting as a pseudo Kafka with his carefully crafted words and tuning abilities.

That’s one of the few things about the Hunters that he prefers over the Express - they didn’t force him to hike through deserts and jungles and mountains and Xipe knows what else. All they did was throw him off a skyscraper in the name of the script (he’s pretty sure Elio just wanted to see if he’d actually fly or not).

Sunday blinks, realizing just what had just passed through his mind. Then he sighs with a smile, leaning back into the red plush of the couches.

Only a few months since his fall, and he’s already beginning to think as weirdly as the rest of them.

“Sunday, are you alright?”

Sunday glances down to see the conductor waddling by his feet.

Pom Pom is… strange, no doubt - for whatever reason, Dan Heng fears them and has advised Sunday to not anger them at all costs. Their past is shrouded in mystery, but Sunday finds himself drawn to the conductor. Perhaps living most of his life in a fever dream like Penacony has warped his perception of what is normal and what is not.

“I’m fine, thank you.” He shifts on the couch to make room, but the conductor shakes their head.

“Are you sure? Pom Pom saw you laughing to yourself,” they fret, tapping their nubby hands together anxiously. “Have you been sleeping enough?”

Sunday crosses one leg over the other, and rests his hands over his knee. “If you’re concerned about my transition from Penacony to reality, be at ease. The Hunters have practically beat a proper sleep schedule into me.”

Pom Pom yelps in shock. “B-Beat?! They beat you?”

“Not literally,” Sunday hastes, instinctively reaching out a hand to calm the conductor. “It was more akin to… ominously threatening checkups. Although, there was this one time-”

He sees the look on Pom Pom’s face, and decides to stop it there. He fears they might break out sobbing if he continues.

“Nevertheless, rest assured that I am sleeping at an appropriate time,” he finishes reassuringly. His practiced smile pays off as the conductor gradually calms down, albeit worry about the Hunters’ methods still lingers.

“Alright, if you say so, Sunday.” They look around uneasily. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Sunday waves his hands hastily. “No, I am alright, thank you-”

“He’ll have some tea.”

Pom Pom jumps with a shriek and Sunday’s wings puff up. A familiar laugh ghosts his ear, and immediately Sunday’s face brightens.

“What- What are you doing here?!” Pom Pom quickly hides behind one of Sunday’s slender legs, hugging it like a lifeline. Sunday places a hand on their head to calm them as he turns to the hologram with a warm smile.

“At ease, conductor, they’re a friend.”

Your holographic form glitches in and out of reality. There’s a thin blue filter over your appearance, but other than that, everything is the same as he remembers.

“Hey, angel,” you coo, leaning your elbow on his shoulder as you sit besides him. Its weight is not the same as it would be in reality, but the presence is enough - a small, barely noticeable tingle that has his heart fluttering and his wings following in suit. “How’s life as Nameless? Do you miss us yet?”

Sunday laughs gently. “It has only been two weeks since I left the Hunters. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to miss you all.”

You pout playfully, sticking out your tongue.Even though parts of you chip away and reappear, and your form isn’t stable, Sunday can’t help but be as captivated by you as he was when he was still among the Hunters’ ranks. Where the projection fails, his tinted memory fills in.

“Silver Wolf misses you, although I doubt she’d actually say it,” you say, taking a lock of his hair and twirling it around your finger. “Has she visited you yet?”

Sunday stutters a bit before weakly batting your finger away with his wing. “No, I’m afraid she hasn’t.”

“Hm.” You smile at his attempt to brush you off. Letting go of his hair, you instead opt to tug lightly at his cheek, earning a squeak from the Halovian. “That’s weird. Maybe she was too shy to speak up.”

“I-” Sunday rubs his cheek when you finally let go. Embarrassingly, his wings jump to shield his face, an unfortunate reflex he’d yet to curb. “I suppose she was…”

He hears you hum, and he lifts a wing to peek at you. His cheeks feel hot - no, that’s an understatement, the entirety of his body feels as if he’s in a fireplace.

“Give her my regards,” he finally breathes out, thanking the Aeons for his training in keeping his composure. Sure, it ultimately fails whenever he looks at you, but at least he’s able to fix himself quickly enough… or at least, he hopes that’s what it looks like.

“You didn’t answer my question though.” Propping your elbow on his shoulder again, you rest your cheek in your palm. “How’s the Nameless life treating you?”

“It’s chaotic,” Sunday admits with a fond sigh. He relaxes into the couch once more, feeling himself sink into the plush. Briefly, he’s tempted to lean his head on your shoulder, but given that you’re a holograph, he holds himself back. “But it’s fun. The Nameless have been kind, and the planets I’ve visited… It’s nice, to see the universe as someone other than a wanted criminal.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

Sunday would apologize, but considering that it’s you he’s talking to, he doesn’t feel the need to. After all, you’ve said worse to him, and him to you.

“You know what I mean,” he chuckles. “To be honest, though, the Express and the Hunters aren’t so different.”

He hears Pom Pom squawk indignantly, and again he ruffles their fur to calm them. Turning ever so slightly to your hologram, he gazes at you with adoration and fondness swelling his heart.

“To the both of you, I am forever grateful. If it weren’t for your kindness, I’d be rotting away in an alley somewhere. I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

All distaste for the Hunters fades from Pom Pom as they giggle bashfully. “Aw, Sunday… You don’t have to thank us. We were just doing what the Nameless do.”

You nod in agreement, reaching through his wing and poking his cheek again. “Conductor’s right. No need for thanks, birdie.”

“Still-” Sunday makes a sound like a startled bird as you poke his cheek harder, squishing it against the rest of his face. Underneath his coat, his primary wings strain with the urge to flutter and twitch, while his secondary wings are held back by sheer willpower. The only sign that they want to flap so badly is with the tiniest of tremors.

“None of that,” you chide him gently, tapping him lightly on the plush of his lips. “We’re just glad you’re happy - right, bunny?”

“Who’re you calling bunny?!” Pom Pom protests, steam puffing out of their head while steam threatens to escape Sunday’s face for completely different reasons.

Before you can reply, however, your form begins to glitch out, flickering in and out of reality at a higher frequency. With an annoyed click of your tongue, you stand up.

“Looks like Silver Wolf isn’t happy,” you comment, brushing off imaginary dust from your clothes. Taking one step so that you’re fully in front of Sunday, you lean in so that your projected nose barely brushes against his. “I have to get going now. You have my number, so text me if you need anything, okay? Or if you want to catch me up with your travels, you can always call me.”

Sunday’s voice feels lodged in his throat. With a subtle gulp, his Adam’s Apple bobbing ever so slightly, he manages to speak with an even voice.

“Okay,” he whispers, his voice almost a whimper. He wants to explode.

You smile fondly, and duck in to peck at the corner of his lips. The buzzing of your holograph morphs into electrifying lightning, surging into his veins, puffing up his feathers and making all of his hairs stand up and sending his already tapping heart into a frenzy. His body freezes into a statue, and all coherent thoughts melt away into a haze that is both ecstatic and shocked.

By the time you pull away, his wings are flapping erratically and his entire body is dyed in a rosey red. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, but all words die on his tongue and he is left blabbering like a fool.

You laugh again, eyes crinkling so beautifully he swears he’s ascended.

“If that’s how you react, I wonder how cute you’ll be when it’s the real deal.”

And then you’re gone, vanishing like a sweet dream in a flurry of pixels, leaving Sunday there to dazedly touch his lips, and then where you’d kissed him.

And then he smiles, giddily, and his halo practically glows as soft, love-stricken giggles begin to leave him.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[euthymiya]

i do (the practice round) — ft. gojo satoru

satoru doesn’t drink often—but when he does, it’s always because there’s something heavy on his mind. you figure out just what it is as you shove a wasted satoru into your car in the middle of the night

before you read: fem reader ; non curse au, suguru never defects ; established relationship ; drunk gojo, mentions of alcohol ; mentions of marriage and proposals ; banter

notes: i am binging jjk season 2 and i think satoru’s bum ass would definitely ruin his own proposal and never even be aware of it

Sometimes, you appreciate Suguru’s company. He makes it tolerable to deal with the handful that is Satoru. With a boyfriend as…eccentric as Satoru is, having someone as a voice of reason keeps you feeling sane sometimes. But sometimes, you also hate Suguru.

Right now, it’s the latter. You wouldn’t consider yourself on the list of his top fans now that he’s left you with a drunk, stumbling, and absolutely difficult Satoru to wrangle into your car and take home.

“Stupid Suguru,” you grumble, “I told him not to let you drink too much.”

Curse Suguru for leaving you for some random woman at the bar, and curse him for letting your lightweight boyfriend drink as much as he has. Satoru doesn’t even drink often—and certainly not this much.

You can’t help but wonder what got him here in the first place.

“Hey,” Satoru snaps, swatting your hand away as you shove his six-plus-foot-figure into the passenger seat, “don’t touch me. My wife will be mad.”

You pause, blinking before looking at him amused.

“You don’t have a wife, Satoru,” you snort. A small part of you thinks he’s an idiot, of course, but another part of you feels a thumping making itself abundantly clear in your ribcage, somewhere deep in your heart.

Wife. You like the sound of that, you think. You walk around the car, entering the driver’s side as Satoru sits and simmers in his despair.

“Don’t rub it in,” he whines, slumping against the dashboard of your car as he groans. “I don’t have a wife yet. Been trying for ages.”

“Trying what—”

“Every time I think v’got the perfect chance, s’ruined by somethin’ or another.”

“What are you talking about—”

He pulls something shiny out, dangerously at risk of dropping it with how wobbly his hands are from the alcohol in his system. You pause. Blink. Stiffen. Sit there in absolute silence as he stares at the ring in his hands woefully.

“Had it for weeks,” he says pitifully. And then, because he’s just as wasted as you suspected, he holds it out to you. You can’t find it in you to move, just staring blankly at it. “Think she’ll like it?”

“Who?” You croak, playing along.

“My girlfriend,” he grumbles. “You’re not very bright.”

“And you’re not very polite,” you snap back half heartedly, ears still ringing from his words just moments ago. Think she’ll like it?

He means you, of course. He doesn’t realize he’s speaking to the very person he’s supposed to present the ring with, but you suppose now you understand just why he’s taken to drinking so much this evening. He must be quite on edge as of late.

“Polite my ass,” he huffs under his breath, pulling you from out of your thoughts.

“You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?” You challenge.

He does. He kisses his girlfriend (you) senseless quite often, in fact. Maybe more than he should…perhaps even at places he should not.

“I do,” he says haughtily. “My girlfriend loves me. She’s obsessed with me, actually. She couldn’t live without me. She kisses me on the mouth all the time. Among other places too.”

You want to slap his shoulder at that last comment—it just about takes you everything not to. “Your girlfriend is crazy for kissing that mouth of yours,” you tease.

Satoru doesn’t appreciate you talking poorly of his girlfriend (you) like that. It’s offensive. You can tell as much from the purely insulted look on his face as he gasps, “don’t speak about my baby like that! This is why you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I do, actually,” you grin. He doesn’t believe you—the disbelieving snort he lets out instantly would offend you if it was anyone else, maybe. But Satoru pulls a fond, easy smile across your lips.

It feels like muscle memory.

“You have a boyfriend?” He asks incredulously.

“I do,” you grin.

“You love him?”

“I do,” you confirm. He looks unconvinced, but shrugs anyway.

“Is he a loser or something? Dating you?”

“He is,” you grin wider, “a total loser.”

“Makes sense,” he snickers. And then his attention is back to the ring in his hand, his long, nimble fingers fiddling with it before he murmurs, “I hope she likes it.”

“I’m sure she will,” you say softly, biting your lip as your eyes feel just a bit misty.

You mean it, too. He’ll never know that, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“You really think so?” He asks quietly. Shy. Satoru has never been shy—he’s so many things. Loud. Outspoken. Stubborn. Maybe a little shameless. But shy doesn’t usually describe him.

He seems to unlock a few hidden sides of himself around you. You think you want to unlock a few more.

“I do,” you say for the third time that night.

It’s practice, you think, for the real thing.

Imagine revealing on your tenth anniversary “btw i actually knew you were promising weeks before you did it. You showed me the ring and everything.” He’d claw his eyes out lolll

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[chappellcastiel]

The envy Arthur and Lancelot would have had for each other must have been insane.

Because Merlin is secretive with Lancelot. He tells him things he would never tell Arthur, he opens up to him and Arthur knows he can never have that trust. Never have that closeness not while he’s king and Merlin a servant.

But to Lancelot he’s been secretive about protecting Arthur. It all resolves around Arthur, opening up about protecting Arthur, giggling over using magic to please Arthur. Lancelot knows it will never be him on the other side of the devotion not like this.

just like he will never be Gwen’s because she loved him once yes but at the end of the day it’s Arthur she chooses.

and in Arthur’s eyes Lancelot is Gwen’s first love will always be known as such and will always be looked at as such even if she loves him she loved Lancelot first and Arthur can’t help but think if she could have him she would.

Anyway I’m so sane about them and at the end of the day how they still understand why it’s like this because they would choose the other as well.

[etherealstar-writes]

I WANNA BE YOURS | WOSO X READER | PT 16

pairings: woso x reader

summary: in which you're accidentally added to a random group chat, not knowing they're all actually famous footballers, and obliviously end up having many of them competing for your love and attention.

part: sixteen

part one here

✦ ——— ✦ ——— ✦

THE NATIONAL DIVING TEAM

the imposter aka y/n ❤️

felt lotte 😔

neev you went to a wsl match and to an arse-nal one of all ?! i thought you were a chelsea supporter y/n 😔 how could you do this to me bae

kyra who the hell would be sane enough to support chelshit?

elton PLS

willybum CHELSHIT HAHAHA

neev are we seeing this rn sam @ samtheskippa the disrespect

sam the skippa kyra lillee cooney-cross

kyra erm mum, save me @ stephy

stephy i ain't getting involved in this

kyra 😔

meado oh my lord

tom holland's twin i have a concussion y/n ✌️ twinning

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ want me to come over and we can watch movies i'll bring ice-cream

tom holland's twin pls do 🙏

stairway why is lotte getting special treatment? i sprained my ankle the other day

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ sucks to be you

elton are you seriously still mad at us for accidentally giving you a concussion

the imposter aka y/n ❤️

neev i'll make it up to you with nandos i'll pay 🙏

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ okay

willybum that's all it took for you to forgive her? nandos?

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ hey, nandos is fire 🔥 only ppl with taste can understand

mccard real

kyra real

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ and i can never stay mad at you guys for long

the REAL karate kid yayyy

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ but tillies are still my number one

willybum NOOO

kyra YESSS as you should 💪

the REAL karate kid okay but you support arsenal yeah? 🥺🙏

neev NAHH chelsea 🤍💙🥺🙏

brightness chelsea 🤍💙

flaming hot chelsea 🤍💙

sam the skippa aye up the blues 🤍💙

elton NAHH yanited 🔛🔝

earpsy yesss ❤️🖤

zelem ❤️🖤

turner ❤️🖤

hempo it's actually mancity thank you very much

lani ayeee

esme yess

chloe that's right

kyra nah y'all are absolutely delulu it's fairly obvious y/n should support ausenal we're superior 💪

wilybum you mean arsenal 🤨 ❤️🤍

kyra yeah that of course 😁 ❤️🤍

the REAL karate kid ❤️🤍

meado ❤️🤍

tom holland's twin ❤️🤍

mccard ❤️🤍

ford ❤️🤍

stephy ❤️🤍

stairway NAH WHAT THE FLIIP WE HAVE MOST OF THE ARSENAL TEAM HERE THIS IS UNFAIR

neev YEAH UNFAIR FR

cha cha i was gonna suggest spurs ....

willybum OH HELL NAH

the REAL karate kid NO

elton ABSOLUTY NOT

cha cha okay okay geez

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ i think i should remain unspoken about this topic before things get more out of hand ....

neev NAH this is an important life decision y/n

rusty metal wait y/n barca will welcome you with open arms

willybum THEY AREN'T A WSL TEAM LUCY

rusty metal i thought it was just clubs in general 😔

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ barca is lookin very convicing ngl and i most def support ausenal (and lotte) 🇦🇺✊

mccard technically i'm an honorary aussie so do i count in ausenal 👀

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ of course

neev i thought we had a connection y/n 😔

willybum why not lionessenal 😔

meado that is a terrible name

the REAL karate kid fr

willybum sue me for tryin why don't you think of something better then

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ nahh doesn't hit the same as ausenal

willybum i liked it better when you didnt know who we were and supported me 😔

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ that isn't very cash money of you willybum

ona you should come to barcelona y/n!

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ anything for you ona 🙏

stairway nahhh come support bayern in germany 💪

kie barca is superior actually

rusty metal that's right!

willybum they're overrated

kie you did not

ona added la reina

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ MOTHER ALEXIA EKBHFlkuweqBFQLUEB NO WAY OMG IVE PASSED AWAY

neev HELP the alexia putellas being added to this gc was NOT on my bingo card this year 😭

ona alexia, leah williamson just said barca is overrated

willybum deleted a chat

willybum i don't know what she's talking about alexia you're amazing

la reina thank you? your nickname is ... creative

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ alexia will you adopt me?

la reina what?

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ what? erm you are insanely peng oml

ona i thought i was peng 😔

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ YOU ARE

ona then you need another compliment for her

kyra alexia is very mother actually

cha cha she is fr

neev seconded

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ but steph is mother for me 🙏 alexia is literally la reina, my queen 😩

stephy what in the world are you guys talking about 😭

rusty metal wait what am i then?

neev grandma duh

rusty metal i shouldn't have asked 😭

ona grandma lucy hahaha

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ ona i'm packing my bags rn coming to barca right away for you

ona i shall be waiting

willybum i can't believe we're being forgotten about 😔

kyra no one cares lord farquaad

willybum you pest 😒

willybum changed kyra's name to pest

pest wow

willybum suits you very well

pest that's not gonna stop me from pestering you, willybum you do realise that

willybum steph control your child

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ but i never did anything 😔

willybum NOT YOU ALSO SINCE WHEN HUH? 😭

stephy do you have a problem with my children, williamson?

willybum erm no

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ mother, kyra is hogging your favourite son from your favourite daughter

stephy kyra give calvin back to y/n

pest wow i'm the neglected middle child i guess 😒

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ L

✦ ——— ✦ ——— ✦

not me finally posting another crappy chapter 🤭

next part here

[gremlingottoosilly]

Incel könig wanting to kidnap girlfailure reader even though she's completely willing made me giggle tbh. Is his view of relationships so fucked up he can't even imagine her just living with him normally?

You're literally saying you won't be against living with him as long as he is fine with you kinda rotting in his bed every day and night, and he still thinks you're plotting a betrayal plot against him so you could run away and report him to the police...there is no reasoning with this guy - he doesn't believe that you truly want to be with him because honestly, who wouldn't want to be with him?? That's right, no one! He believes in this, at least, and internalizes this fact as much as possible despite your attempts to get him to listen... You're still getting kidnapped because, obviously, no sane girl would ever want to be with him!! Even insane ones wouldn't want him, so why bother and try to court you if your version of flirting is to just kinda stand beside the bed awkwardly and talk about anime? Honestly, he doesn't understand how you are so chill about being here, with him - you should have already thought about running away like three hundred times, and yet, you're here, barely even bothering to move from the side of the bed as you just lay here, a bit awkwardly. Honestly, Konig is in pure bliss. He needs you here, he wants you here, and now he doesn't want to worry about you escaping or just leaving him because you're chained to the bed!! He would undo the chains once you asked him one time because he doesn't want to make you irritated with everything, but he would still ask you to at least try and stay here...he can force you to, of course, but you enjoy playing into the fantasy too much. He can be a caring boyfriend when he isn't a fucking loser, after all.

[kquil]

POLY MARAUDERS | HEROES IN TATTOOS ⏤FIRST PIERCING

REQUEST. : Can I request a chapter where the boys convince the reader to get her ears pierced and she cries bc she's anxious when it happens and one of the boys has her sit on their lap when it's happening and help her calm down. You don't have to but i think it would be super cute —@samanddeansannoyingsis

G. : fluff ; modern au ; muggle au ; tattoo artist james ; tattoo artist sirius ; piercer remus ; comfort ; sitting in sirius's lap ; slight panic attack - not explicit

LENGTH : 1.9k

“Did you mean it?” You ask in a soft voice as Remus swivels in his tech chair to pay you his full attention, one brow raising up at the sight of your fingers gently pinching your ear lobes.

“Did I mean what, dove?” He asks in his usual warm tone, tilting his head back to stare up at you from his seat.

“That I would look cute with ear piercings…” 

Remus laughs because how cute can you get? Especially with that curious look in your doe eyes. Reaching out his big hands, he pulls you onto his thigh and holds you close, staring down with his loving brown eyes to reassure you of any insecurities he suspects might arise. 

Somehow, Remus always knew what path your thoughts could potentially take. You felt like an open book to him, cradled in his large hands, stable and loving; ready to explore your pages with the simple intent to understand you further, as he’s already done with the few pages you’ve allowed him to read in your past. To you, Remus is safety, comfort and boundless warmth, not from the sun but from a thick blanket, reassuring and all encompassing, devoted to only keeping you warm — safe, happy and secure. 

“Yes, I meant it,” Remus whispers as he fixes the collar of your shirt, ever the habitual perfectionist, “why?” His gaze lifts and you’re lost in his honey-chocolate pools once more, “are you thinking of getting your ears pierced?” you don’t know if the lilt in his tone is to tease or a growing excitement for your potential inclination — he may have the honour of giving you your first piercing.

“Maybe…” he can tell from the slight hesitancy in your diction that you weren’t 100% sold on the idea, which brings about his own worries.

“You don’t need a piercing to be cute you know,” Remus mutters the sentiment into your temple before pressing a kiss into your skin, “you’re plenty cute as is…” 

“It’s not that,” the shaky breath you exhale is all too familiar to the brunette and he instantly knows your exact reasoning, he still lets you speak the words yourself, however, somewhat enjoying the show you unintentionally play out before him. It’s another cute display, one that rivals whenever he sees you eating something delicious, and can’t control your expression or when you get excited over something and hop in place while doing tiny claps, “I’m still kinda scared of needles…” 

The shame that crosses your face tugs at Remus’s heart and he puts a stop to it immediately. Holding your chin between his pointer finger and thumb he directs your stare to meet his own, “don’t feel ashamed of that, sweetheart. Being afraid is normal and, in some instances, keeps people alive and safe. It’s unfortunate but fear led you to the boys and me,” he hates to remind you of that fateful night but— “and now I don’t think we can live without you,” the two of you share a laugh at that.

The boys were truly grateful to you for many things. You may not know it but whenever angry, sad or stressed all they had to do was look at you, see your smiling face, hear your twinkling laugh and bask in the brightness you exude just to feel right again. You bring about an equilibrium that they are so often tipped off of, never totally right or sane when you are gone too long. 

“I—…I still don’t know,” 

“Try this,” Remus leans back to pose his hypothetical, “forget the needle and the pain, would you still like to wear earrings?” your enthusiastic nod is answer enough, “then…—“ from the corner of his eye, Sirius walks past the doorway and Remus calls for him. 

“How may I help you and our princess, Moony?” Sirius asks with a practised smiling voice as he shoots you a wink.

“Do you mind fetching the earring jewellery samples?” Sirius raises a brow but asks no questions and nods before disappearing again. While he’s gone, you stare up at Remus, who doesn’t say a word but smiles and lovingly tucks a stray hair behind your ear. Not long after, Sirius returns with a small set of samples in a rectangular wooden box, lined with red velvet and showcasing a small but beautiful variety of jewellery. 

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

“They’re very beautiful, Rem,” you reply, awing at their delicate designs and sparkling appearance. 

“Pick a favourite pair,” he prompts and without hesitation, you pick the two that immediately caught your eye. 

“Great choice, doll,” Sirius praises as Remus hands back the sample set and gives him a look, communicating his next steps. There was no debate and Sirius accepted everything without any questions, “we’ll reserve them for you,” Sirius smiles softly and quickly leaves to do just that before you can utter any word of protest. 

“Tell us when you’re ready, and we’ll make it happen so that you’re as comfortable as can be throughout,”

Every time you visit the boys at their tattoo studio, they let you have the reserved piercings to look over and contemplate your decision with. They were perfectly happy to wait however long you needed and never pushed you towards a decision, they even expressed that it was perfectly okay for you to change your mind and withdraw from the idea altogether. 

“You know,” James pipes up with a mouthful of food that Remus quickly reprimands him for, “you don’t need to get a piercing to wear earrings,” 

“That’s right, there are other alternatives out there, dollface,” Sirius adds, licking his lips with a content smile, always a lover for your cooking, “you can wear clip on earrings instead,”

You appreciate their concern and thoughtfulness but you still want to get a piercing. It felt like a right of passage for all girls and you wanted to be a part of it, clip-ons didn't feel the same and you wanted to be able to pair your earrings with an outfit like some of your friends do. Shaking your head with a polite smile, you turn to Remus, “You’ll be doing my piercing, right, Rem?” 

“That’s right, dove,”

Timidly, you meet his kind eyes, “will you be able to hold me when you do it?” Your shy statement was all they needed to realise what was holding you back. They felt so stupid for not realising it sooner but, thankfully, they knew how to help you now. 

“I’m afraid not, sweetheart,” Remus coos softly at your disappointed expression but James and Sirius don’t let you wear it for long. 

“But Prongs and I can hold you for as long as you need, doll!” Sirius smiles as James grins toothily beside him. 

“Just take your pick on whose lap you think will be more comfortable!” James laughs with Sirius as he throws his arm over his friend’s shoulders. 

“In that case,” you turn towards Remus with a smile once more, “when is the next available time I can set up an appointment?”

It was in the afternoon when you found yourself seated on Sirius’s lap as Remus prepared to pierce your ears. James, to his dismay, had an appointment for a tattoo so Sirius won lap rights by default, which he was all too proud to have won. 

In preparation for the piercings, Sirius helped tie your hair up so that your ears were free of their awning, he did this while Remus prepared his tools, put on his gloves and got started on a small aftercare kit for you to take home — as was customary of their studio to provide for all their customers. With Sirius’s arms comfortingly wrapped around your waist, he pressed you close so that you could feel the heat from his chest against your back and allowed him access to your neck, where he placed a soft kiss.

After a while, Remus walks over with a soft look on his face and a sanitising wipe in a gloved hand, “you two look cosy,” he comments while gently cleansing your lobes with the wipe and throwing it away in a nearby bin. 

“Our princess deserves it,” Sirius comments, his hot breath tickling your neck and making you giggle as Remus agrees.

“That she does,” leaning back, the tall brunette sits in his tech chair and pulls up a small handheld mirror and pen, “now, dove, I need you to tell me where you want your piercing. Do you want it a little higher? Right in the middle or a little lower, here?” In the mirror he holds in front of you, you see him point out where the potential piercing can go with the tip of his pen, “I want to do it perfectly for you,” he smiles warmly behind the mirror, which carries in his voice — soft and sweet.

“And if you want more piercings in the future, you can make room for them now,” Sirius adds from behind you. 

“I want it right in the middle please, Rem,” 

“Of course,” he nods and places the markings softly onto your lobe before holding up the mirror again for your final approval.

“W-won’t the pen make the sanitising pointless,” you comment, shy of your scrutiny; Remus was the expert, afterall. 

“Don’t worry, dove,” he kisses your forehead before holding up the capped pen, “this is a surgical skin marker and it’s used in surgeries to mark out incision lines,” your apprehended by his gentle tone and warm voice, calming your heart that had slowly begun to race with anticipation, “the ink is made of gentian violet, which has antifungal properties so it won’t affect the sterility of the marked area,”

When you nod in understanding, Remus kisses your forehead once more and goes to store away the pen before finally getting started on your piercing.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” Sirius whispers into your hair when he hears the unsteady shake in your breaths — Remus had just sat down across from you in his tech chair with a needle in hand and a small stopper in the other. 

“Look away, darling… close your eyes,” Remus prompts when he sees your breathing pick up at the sight of the needle in his hand. He is completely ignored and nods at the tattooist behind you, “Sirius, can you help our angel?”

You feel Sirius kiss your temple as his arms give you a small squeeze. His weight, warmth and smell surrounds your senses and the boys helpfully guide your breathing until you are finally able to relax. The tension leaves your body and you finally close your eyes, apologising for your small episode. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, dove,” Remus whispers softly in front of you, “but I’m gonna have to ask you to take a deep breath for me,” you do as he says, breathing deep and slow, “good girl…”

There’s a small pinch in your right lobe that quickly dulls into numbness before Remus secures something behind it and a lingering weight is left. You feel Sirius kiss the slope of your shoulder, muttering soft praises as he does so. There’s some shuffling before you feel Remus take his place before you again. 

“One more time, dove, take a deep breath…” he gently commands as you easily follow. There’s another small pinch but in your left lobe this time. Again, Remus secures something behind it and as the numbness lingers so does an added weight. 

Your eyes flutter open just as Remus presses a kiss onto your forehead, “you were such a good girl for me,” he praises, smiling and then holds up a mirror for you to admire the delicate earrings decorating your ears with a bright smile, “it suits you, darling,”

“You just keep getting prettier,” Sirius chuckles and squeezes you in his arms once more, ”well done, princess,”  

A/N : i went a little overboard with the writing, i didn't know it would stretch on for so long but i hope you enjoy the read! i'm sorry it took me a while to fulfil this request, life kinda got in the way but here it is! please tell me what you think!

NAVI. | HEROES IN TATTOOS SERIES

TAGLIST : @melinajenkins @astonishment @until-i-found-you @corp0real @sageskisses444 @celestcies @lovelydoveval @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @calums-betch @futurecorps3 @hihihi1112 @simpingforthe80s @yrluvjane @neeezza101 @chaosofmanyfandoms @susyelectra @fangirlninja67 @pagesfalling @thepunisherfrankcastle @axeofwars @imarimon @justkiyomi @in-love-with-4-marauders @chicken-taco-burrito @valencia-sou @feast0nmeee @lestat-whore @hvmxjjk @twilightlover2007 @diaryofabiwoman @woohoney @celestialfantasiess @willbedecided @lovelyygirl8 @iiirhiane-g @ghostgardn @mess-is-my-aesthetic

[athousandbyeol]

i can't stop thinking about this scene.

it was so light-hearted. sheng wang was all-smiley after finishing (perhaps multiple rounds) of revising and studying. but the lively atmosphere simmers down into this thick and stifling tension once jiang tian opens his closet.

honestly, if i were sheng wang, i would have so many questions too. why is he packing? is he going somewhere? but where? so, whatever sheng wang is thinking or feeling at the moment is valid (to me, at least, it is.)

i think it has so much to do with sheng wang's expression here (liu dong qin, the actor you are) that breaks my heart into tiny, million pieces.

it's in the way his eyes follows every movement of jiang tian, but particularly directed at the opened luggage, that has me thinking of sheng wang's fear of separation. the trauma he experienced when he was just a little boy.

i can't imagine how he felt when he saw his beloved mother collapsing to the ground—at the age so little to grasp the situation—to comprehend the meaning of sadness and grief and death.

he was broken. he was devastated. but those feelings as a child were just feelings. but the adult sheng wang now understood that those feelings come with bitter memories and realisations that death is inevitable, and death is permanent. his mother won't come back to him no matter how frequently she visits him in his dreams (and wake).

his heavy breathing. his fixated stare. that feeling of abandonment is washing over him again. they're coming in slow, steady and destructive.

so when jiang tian approaches him with the said book that has more extensive questions, he still can't look away. not until jiang tian realises that sheng wang's attention is now elsewhere.

and he finally asks,

i personally adore how benjamin acted this scene out. jiang tian immediately glances over at the luggage, somehow already knowing the context/direction of this conversation. (it's in the subtlety of benjamin's acting here that has me going nuts.)

when sheng wang asks this question, it reminds me of this scene in episode 1,

jiang tian was looming in front of sheng wang's house, wondering if he should stay or leave. possibly his only destination would be uncle ding's house. maybe he has nowhere to go, to be honest.

sheng wang immediately called him, voicing out his thoughts. and the context is similar—are you leaving?

although jiang tian answers sheng wang's question, not leaving him hanging the way he did in episode 1, it's still not enough. the reason being, as of right now, we're knowledgable of sheng wang's past. but what about jiang tian? we know nothing about him. we just know this boy is closed off and distant and cold and grumpy. but why?

these questions are the answers. but sheng wang doesn't know. not yet.

they could have just dropped the conversation here. but this is one of (the many) things i notice about sheng wang: he's always curious. always seeking answers. even in his studies, he would ask crab (i love you, friend) for the solution. and we saw some instances where jiang tian would share the method he used, etc, only to help him. and i think it's being presented at a different light here. sheng wang is waiting. he's waiting for jiang tian to give him answers.

as jiang tian says it's a habit, it might not be the answer sheng wang wanted, but it was needed, at least, only for the night.

it's so overwhelming to me how jiang tian has always been providing sheng wang with safety, happiness, anger, irritation, fun, answers and questions. how susceptible sheng wang is with everything jiang tian is. they are like mirrors reflecting one another. because for me, jiang tian is like a closed book, but i could understand him once i start reading. but sheng wang, he's more layered. he's open but also secretive. he expresses emotions, but not everyone reciprocates and understands him. not until jiang tian.

and i'm no longer sane in the head because of this.

[moirindeclermont]

Another Colin analysis

aka this is all I'm talking about now, sorry not sorry. I was talking with my fandom spouse (💕), and we were saying that there is something about Colin that exudes Gentle!Dom vibe.

I already touched on this, because I absolutely love Gentle!Dom Colin, but the piece I want to add is this: if you think Colin cannot possibly be a dom, is because you have a very different idea on what being a dom is.

Thing is, I get that Colin is not a dom in the traditional sense. He has moments of authority but he is not authoritative by nature, he doesn't command, he would never tell Pen "you have to do this because I say so". In that sense, he is not a dom. If your definition of being a dom is this particular thing, I get that Colin doesn't belong in this realm.

Instead, what Colin has is a more subtle version. I always use this metaphor but it's the one more apt for me: Colin is a perfect dancing partner, because he does lead, but doesn't command. When you dance in a couple, most of the time you find either leads who don't lead at all or leads who think leading means making you do whatever they want. The balance is a lead who proposes a step and you accept it - they are so rare to be found and they make the perfect dance partners.

Colin is right into that special league. And for him, it does translate from the dance floor to the bed and more generally into every aspect of his life with Pen. Now, in this season we see this aspect especially in the intimacy scenes, because that is where it shines brighter, but the more Colin settles into married life the more it will come out also in other aspects.

Moreover, Colin is a provider by nature. He enjoys taking care of the people he loves. This also translates into the Dom side. Two doms could do the same thing to their sub, and yet they can be vastly different in the undertones and the energy that they bring to the scene. There is no right or wrong as long as it is sane, consensual and safe, of course, but I'd like to bring a new perspective into the idea of what being a Dom is, ultimately.

Personally, like in dancing, I vastly prefer someone who leads and leaves me with my agency, in contrast with someone who orders me around. Unless insecure or angry, and even in that case, it's a rare occurrence, Colin does not seek to order Pen around. He wants to provide for her, take care of her, lift her burdens, give her all the pleasure in the world, and be there for her, but it's never a command, it's a request. And that makes all the difference in the world.

When a dynamic like that is established, it allows the partners to grow into their power and capabilities, and they become better partners because of it. Over time, this will allow Pen to outgrow her insecurities and truly blossom (we already saw part of this, but think of how much more we can get of that in a later season).. and it allows for a switch in roles.

Over time Pen can become a Dom too. She has everything she needs, but of course, it takes time and confidence to take on that role as well. Colin, with his soft guidance, is giving Pen exactly that. Five, or ten years in the future, they can take the role of Dom according to the other needs in no time, but that can happen only when the relationship is based on partnership.

And it's a beautiful thing to see a dynamic like that portrayed with such grace by Nic and Luke. Not because it's the first time - it's not - that tv shows such dynamics, but because it allows people to understand that assertiveness is vastly different from authoritativeness, and that is a thing way too many people still need to know.

Do you understand why I'll never give up on Polin, I fall in love with them in a new way every day

[emmafreakecreations]

Rhysand is not morally grey- He's just an asshole

Rhys stans will say, "He did all those things UTM to protect Feyre and for the greater good!" and then proceed on a lengthy explanation of his reasons.

No no no no. I understand WHY he did it, I just don't agree with his methods. And there is NEVER a good reason to SA someone.

And yes he did SA Feyre. He drugged her- couldn't get verbal consent from her- and then proceeded to touch her everywhere/ make her dance on his lap, while MAKING her wear revealing clothes. But- but he didn't touch her privates! It doesn't matter he still touched her waist and for most people I know that is in the no no square. It's still touching someone without consent, taking away people's choice about their own body is abuse. And that includes him not telling her about her pregnancy. He didn't want to stress her out! That doesn't matter, she has every right to know about what is going on with her body, knowing her options so she can make an informed decision of what she wants to do. In our world that's literally a violation of HIPAA. And if anything it's more stressful not knowing what is going on with your body. You're bringing real world standards into a fantasy world! SJM already did that by bringing her white 21st century feminism into this world and you guys are often treating Lucien and Nesta based on real world standards so I can do that too.

But Feyre forgave him, so you should too. That's her prerogative but if I was in her shoes I wouldn't. Because his long ass monologue that's TEN PAGES never once said the words "I'm sorry for doing that to you." It's only giving his reasons which to me sound like excuses, because there was definitely another way he could protect her without causing her bodily harm. He could have just left her in her cell and sent her mental images of happy things to keep her sane. He could have just communicated with her through her mind. He needed to keep a rouse up because Amarantha was suspicious! No where in the text does it mention that Amarantha wanted Feyre at those parties. For all she cared Feyre could just go die in her cell from infection and she would win. By Rhys bringing her to those parties he put more of a target on her and raised Amarantha's suspicions. And after rereading the monologue some things in Rhys's plan UTM is inconsistent.

"I decided, then and there, that I was going to fight. And I would fight dirty, and kill and torture and manipulate, but I was going to fight. If there was a shot of freeing us from Amarantha, you were it. I thought … I thought the Cauldron had been sending me these dreams to tell me that you would be the one to save us. Save my people." (pg 448 Ch 54- I have a pdf and idk if that lines up with physical prints)

cool fine. but then he proceeds to say two paragraphs later that he was mad that Tamlin didn't get Feyre out when he had the chance. This does not make sense because if Feyre leaves how tf is she supposed to save everyone. She already has a deal with Amarantha to save people and sure she might die but leaving is not going to save everyone.

"I made you dress like that so Amarantha wouldn’t suspect, and made you drink the wine so you would not remember the nightly horrors in that mountain. And that last night, when I found you two in the hall … I was jealous. I was jealous of him, and pissed off that he’d used that one shot of being unnoticed not to get you out, but to be with you.." (Ch 54 pg 448)

After rereading this I'm convinced this man didn't have much a plan and if anything initially was doing these things out of cruelty and just because he could. His plan makes no sense if you really think about it. Once he got the hots for Feyre, he back tracked. His plan to piss Tamlin off so that he killed Amarantha makes no sense, because Tamlin has already delt with this woman not respecting him saying no, disfigured his best friend, cursed him, and is now trying to kill his lover. I don't think he needs more motivation.

But he is morally grey! no he isn't. Most morally grey characters who have a love interest, at least I have encountered never bodily harm her. They have a line they will not cross- they have morals. Rhysand seems to not have a line-no morals- to me he's more amoral. Carden Greenbriar bullied his love interest and did some heinous shit, but he had a line he wouldn't cross-murder. He does not like murder. When the bullying got to a point where Jude could die, he stepped in and he saved her. Jun-pyo from boys over flowers also bullied his love interest basically because of how he was raised he has no understanding how to show love (similar to Cardan). He got the whole school bullying her just because she stood up to him. But when some students tried to sexually assault her he got pissed at them and told them he never said to do anything like that. He also has a line he won't cross, sexual assault.

to quote my good in real life friend @that-sarcastic-writer , who has endured my rants about this series. Who reads dark romance and who I have summerized this series to:

"You don't have him hurt her and SA her and then later you try to backtrack by having him cry about his love for her without truly apologizing. And that's my biggest issue with most dark romance mmcs. They actively hurt/SA the fmc but then oh she liked it and he loves her deep down. Cause it's one thing to "hurt" the fmc emotionally, like a third act breakup, and that's fine, that's human, people make mistakes and fight, but you can't convince me physically hurting or assaulting the fmc is something that can be forgiven with claims of love."

Anyways Rhysand is red flags everywhere and is not a person you should strive to date. Date more men like Lucien. If you like Rhys and are just like, "I like him, I know he's toxic." You do you but don't try to convince me he is a hero, he is only a villain to me.

[outsideratheart]

Happiness (Alexia Putellas x reader)

A/N: This is the third and final part of History and Hope. I hope you enjoy!

It was hard being friends with Alexia but that is the situation you found yourself in. After her injury you forget all about the past because what she was going through was much more important. It resulted in multiple trains to Spain and in the end you were able to mend your friendship. 

But here’s the thing: could two people who once cared about each other unconditionally ever be just friends?

You were beginning to find out the answer to that the hard way. You loved Caroline and deep down you knew you loved alexia, it was a feeling that would never change. The question was which one were you in love with. 

The public hadn’t seen you and Alexia together since before her injury so when the footage of you two arriving together at camp was posted the entire Sefutbol fanbase lost their minds. It didn’t help that every comment was about how it reminded them of the past and how they suspected something was going on between the two of you even though you were still with Caroline. 

Caroline trusted you and she told you this but whenever you called her during camp she questioned the how deep your relationship with Alexia went. She knew of your past and you were honest with her when you spoke of the love you had for your former best friend and co captain. 

You reassured her that you and Alexia were friends and nothing more but you could tell that she didn’t believe you. For the past few of months you could use the fact Alexia had a girlfriend to back up your statement but now they had broken up. You were the person Alexia came to when it happened and Caroline hated that your bond had returned to its unbreakable state.  

You and Alexia were told you’d be roommates for the pre World Cup camp and for the tournament. It was something the two of you were both happy about because you knew the pressure you would be facing in the upcoming weeks and it would be each other that would  keep you sane. 

After a tense phone with Caroline you didn’t know how to feel. Photos had been released from training of you and Alexia and to the rest of the world the two of you looked very close but it was simply the way Spaniards acted around each other. 

“Is everything ok?” Alexia asked as she exited bathroom pretending to not have heard every word you said.  

“I think so” truth is you didn’t know “it’s hard trying to explain, well us”

“It is. That’s why my relationship ended” Alexia knew your struggles well. 

This isn’t something you knew. You wasn’t sure why they broke up, you never asked, but you didn’t for a second think it had something to do with you. 

“I’m sorry” 

“It wasn’t your fault. She knew that I still loved you” 

“Alexia”

“I know you’re with Caroline and I don’t want to jeopardise that but it is true. I do love you, part of me always will and she couldn’t understand that” 

This is why it was hard. Friends don’t say stuff like that to other friends. 

“I’m with Caroline, Alexia. We can’t have this conversation”

“But you admit there is something here, something that we can talk about”

“There’s nothing to talk about. We are in a good place and we need to keep it that way. There’s too much at stake” 

The pressure on the two of you was enormous. The entire world was watching and waiting in anticipation and you weren’t go to let your relationship current or what could have been ruin that. 

“I understand” 

And that was true. Alexia did understand because before you fell in love with each other, you fell in love with football and winning the World Cup was something you dreamed of doing when you made your debuts together. 

The team had a couple of days off between camp and travelling to New Zealand. You took the opportunity to go away with Caroline and it was just what the two of you needed. You could back up your words of reassurance with actions. By the time you boarded the plane to go to World Cup things couldn’t have been in a better place. 

Throughout the group stages you played some of the best football you had in a long while. Every one of your team mates said it was because you and Alexia were in the best place you had been in years. This was true and you knew it was a huge reason why the two of you had been performing like you had. 

Up until now you never had a thought of straying from your relationship or thinking about being with anyone but Caroline. This all changed after the quarter finals. You had scored the second goal and the only person you wanted to celebrate with was Alexia. 

“What just happened!” you shouted as you jumped into her arms. Alexia truly did plan on wrapping her arms around your back but the speed in which you jumped almost caused you to fall if not for Alexia’s hands on the bottom of your thighs. 

“You’ve just sent us to semi final” Alexia kisses your neck. 

The feeling of her lips against your bare skin had the power the teleport you to the night you shared your first kiss in Paris. Your surroundings became blurred for matter of seconds but that is enough to let your mind stray. In that moment you wanted to kiss Alexia, you wanted to cheat on your girlfriend. You hated yourself for it but it was feeling you could no longer deny.

A similar thing happens in the semi final only Alexia isn’t on the pitch for your game winning goal. This doesn’t stop you from celebrating though as you ignore all of you screaming team mates and run straight to where she is cheering on the bench. 

“That one was for you Ale” the nickname made a return, you didn’t dislike it and it wasn’t an accident.

Once again you are in her arms and you can feel her firm grasp on your waist. 

“Mi estrella” 

This time you kiss her cheek even though you know it’s wrong. You tell yourself it is innocent as it isn’t on the lips.

The final whistle blows and you fall to your knees. You were in shock knowing that Spain were through to the World Cup final. The whole team celebrates the achievement and as the team gathers in a circle you spot Alexia opposite you. This is what you have been working towards for years and now you only have one game left to play and one team left to beat. 

Just as you were about to go to Alexia you get pulled away by Olga and Athenea.

“Come with us MVP. We have a surprise for you” your Real Madrid team mates pull you through the tunnel.

With these two anything was possible so you keep an open mind. As you reach the end of the corridor you see the surprise they were referring to and she did not look happy although to anyone else her smile was believable.

“Caroline” you truly are happy to see your girlfriend and having her in front of you makes you forget all about Alexia. 

“Congratulations Y/N” she pulls you in her arms but her hold isn’t as strong as it normally is and you know that something is wrong.

“Thank you Carino” you lean forward to kiss her and are met with a battle for dominance, something with doesn’t normally happen.

“My girlfriend is through to the final” you are too focused on the kiss that just happened that you don’t pick up on the possessive tone that Caroline uses when she says the word mine.

“Let’s get out of here” you are still dressed in your kit although you had swapped shirts with Asllani.

“What about your team mates?” Caroline asks even though she wants nothing more than to have you to herself.

“I can celebrate with them later. I have missed you”

“Looks like it” She whispers under her breath but it is loud enough that you hear it.

Once in the locker room Alexia’s eyes search for you and she even goes back out to the pitch to see if you had stayed out there knowing that this is something you do. Even as she returns to the rowdy Spanish locker rooms she is almost certain that you would be in there by now, only you’re not.

Jenni asks her what’s wrong but she shakes it off.

“I was looking for Y/N but she must be doing media” Alexia says as it is the only explanation she can come up with.

“Y/N wasn’t needed for media. Salma did it instead” their media manager confirms.

Alexia was beginning to worry as to your whereabouts but Olga is quick to put her out of her misery even though what she says makes Alexia a lot more than miserable.

“Caroline came to surprise her“ Olga says.

“And we saw them leaving the stadium just as we came back here” Athenea adds.

The Catalonian was at a loss for words. Had she been reading the signals wrong?

“She did?” Esthers says excitedly “That’s nice. They really are inseparable in Madrid and I think I speak for everyone when I say we can tell Y/N has been missing Caroline”

The players that were listening to the conversation agree with the forward and every agreement made Alexia’s blood boil. It was enough to stop celebrating and leave the room in search of some alone time.

The pitch was the place Alexia thought would be the quietest and she was right. It’s funny how much bigger it felt when it was empty and silent. She took the time to go over the past couple of days and it made her come to the conclusion that she didn’t just love you, she was in love with you. So much that it scared her because you had the power to hurt her although part of her believed she deserved it.

“Here” 

The voice makes Alexia jump. She turns and finds Misa standing next to her with a beer in her hand.

“I don’t drink during tournaments, you know this”

“You’re going to need it for the conversation we are about to have and before you say you don’t want to talk about it you should know that you need to talk about it Alexia”

Whatever was going on between you and Alexia was enough to gain the attention of the goalkeeper. This alone filled Alexia with a little bit of hope.

“I’m in love with her Misa and I don’t know what to do. We have these moments and it gives me a sense of deja vu. I am transported back to 2019 where I wanted nothing more than to kiss her and ask to be mine. I want that, I want her” 

Misa isn’t the person Alexia thought she would be having this conversation with but the two of them had grew close over the past couple of weeks and it helped that she knew you very well. She would be able to give an insight as to how you may be feeling.

“That isn’t going to happen” Misa says before taking a huge mouthful of the ice cold beer in her hands.

“I know but I can’t lose hope. Without hope I have nothing. I won’t have her and I won’t be able to have the thought of us been together”

“I wasn’t finished. It isn’t go to happen right now. She is in a committed relationship and no way will she do to Caroline what you did to her. Her heart is too pure”

Deep down Alexia knew Misa was right. You never wanted to cause pain for anyone and you definitely wouldn’t do it to the woman you love.

“I know. I don’t know what to do” Alexia hangs her head in defeat but not before taking a sip of the drink she swore not to only minutes ago.

“Do you want my opinion?” Misa asks and Alexia nods but doesn’t make eye contact “I think you need to tell her how you feel and don’t hold back”

Alexia wasn’t sure if that is something she is capable off. If she tells you then she risks losing you all together and she couldn’t have that happen. The two of you were in a good place and she’ll be damned if she is the cause for that to change. She needed to the think or more appropriately not think and her team mates that were none the wiser to her feelings would be the perfect distraction or at least that is what she is hoping.

“Alexia” Misa shouts causing the midfielder to look back at her “For what it’s worth I think part of her feels the same way. Ever since arriving in New Zealand I have seen a side of Y/N that I haven’t seen before and I think you’re the reason for that”

When the team arrive back at the hotel they do so just in time to see Caroline leaving. Given the amount of Real Madrid players on the team, most of them stop to say hi but Alexia notices that you are nowhere in sight. Now is her chance. 

She gives up on waiting at the elevator and runs up the stairs two at a time. She is breathless when knocking on your door at a rapid pace. After thirty seconds she takes a short break before trying again. This morning she didn’t plan on having this conversation with you but now she wanted nothing more. She is determined not to admit defeat but her red knuckles beg her to do just that. Maybe you weren’t in the room. 

The team is gathered in the common room when Alexia enters but still you are not there. Her gut was telling her something was wrong and she never ignored her gut.

“Have any of you seen Y/N?” She asks the entire room hoping at least one person would know where you were.

“She is in her room” Jorge states and it makes Alexia take a step back in disbelief because it means you were ignoring her reluctant knocking “She told me that she isn’t feeling well so she won’t be down for team meal tonight”

“Ok, I will take a plate up to her if I can get a key” Alexia knew that if anyone had the power to get a key for your room it would be the coach.

“No Alexia. Y/N asked me to be left alone tonight and given that she has been our saving grace the past couple of games I am going to do as she asked and I’m going to make sure everyone else does too”

Alexia was confused. You were fine an our ago, what could have changed in such a small amount of time and why where you hell bent on being left alone. Being respectful to your wishes Alexia left you alone that night and instead would talk to you in the morning only she doesn’t get the chance because the next day you avoid her at all costs. 

You didn’t intend on hurting Alexia with your behaviour but it is what you needed to do to get through the next couple of days. There was a World Cup final to prepare for and you needed to have a clear head if you had any chance of winning. 

By the time the 20th August comes around you can count on one hand the amount of times you have spoken to Alexia and you would have fingers spare. You heart was all over the place but head was locked in on the task at hand and that is all that mattered or at least it was for the next 90 minutes which would then turn into 120 minutes because the score remained 0-0 after extra time. Like many other games, this one would be decided with penalties. 

“Y/N” Alexia grabbed your hand before the team walked to the half way line.

“Not now Alexia. I need to focus” you pull out of her grasp.

It all came down the 5th penalty. Both team have scored all penalties so far and given that Spain went second the pressure was fully on your shoulders as you were the fifth penalty taker. Misa hands you the ball but doesn’t say a word. Besides she knew that you wouldn’t hear a word she said anyways.

When you hit the ball you know you didn’t get it quite right. You always went for the side netting and you had a 100% success rate. You did until this moment because instead of hitting the netting the ball hits the post and rolls away form the goal. You had just missed and cost your team and country the title of World Cup champions.

You didn’t fall to the floor, nor did you walk back to your team mates. You stood in the same spot as if rooted to the ground. If you had to describe the way you were feeling you would use the word shock. How could you miss, this one out of them all. 

Misa the first person to enter you line of vision as she crouches down to reassure you that it was ok and that it wasn’t your fault but it was. You knew it and the rest of the world did too. The next thing you do it turn your emotions off, knowing that it was better to feel nothing at all. This did mean that you shut off the world around you. The sounds in the stadium became muffled as if you were under water and the presence of your team mates didn’t register.

“We are a team. Win or lose, we do so together” Alexia wraps her arms around your shoulder and tries to pull you close to her but it’s as if the contact burns and you recoil from her touch.

“I am the captain today, not you. I missed the penalty, not you. This is on me Alexia so don’t try and make this about you” 

“Y/N, that’s not what I’m doing” Alexia tries to reach out for you. She knows once you give up the urge to fight that you will need comfort.

“Why don’t you go to Jenni! It’s what you did after the last World Cup” your words were like venom and you spat them straight at her.

Alexia remained in her place even when watching you walk away, seeking comfort in your co captain at Real Madrid Ivana Andres. It was her side that you stood as you watched the other team lift the trophy. As soon as you were allowed to and when it respectful enough to do so, you left not only the pitch but the stadium.

The energy is the locker room was awful, it was as if somebody had died. To the outside world that might seem dramatic but losing a final had an effect that was hard to explain to those who had never experienced it. Some players were still crying, some had cried all the tears they had and others sat in silence still processing what just happened.

Ivana picked up on Alexia’s wandering eyes and it didn’t take a genius to realise what or who she was looking for.

“She’s left Alexia” This not only caught the attention of Alexia but the entire locker room “She said she needed to be alone and I couldn’t argue with her. The pressure she faced during this tournament is enough to crush some people and it seemed Caroline breaking up with her was the last straw”

“What did you just say?” Alexia wasn’t sure if she heard the defender correctly.

“The pressure was too much”

“No about Caroline”

“She broke up with Y/N. She didn’t tell me but I think it was the night of the semi final”

Selfishly Alexia wasn’t focused on the fact that you had been dumped. You were now single and now was the time for her to tell you how she really feels. Still, she is torn on what to do. She is a captain of this team and with you gone they need their other captain.

“Go” Misa tells her.

Alexia waits for someone, anyone, to disagree with the goalkeeper but nobody does and that’s enough for Alexia. She thinks fast. You wouldn’t go back to the hotel because that’s where the rest of the team will be very shortly. Australia isn’t a country you knew well so it did narrow it down a little bit. Alexia’s mind is blank until she remembers you posting almost identical photos to your instagram stories of a beach. You always loved the beach so it made sense that is where you would go.

She was right. As Alexia walks down the small hill that leads to the ocean she sees you sitting close to water with your knees pulled up to your chest. Even from a distance she can tell your crying by the way you body is moving.

“It’s all my fault Alexia” you don’t need to face the figure next to you to know who it is. She is the only one that would go against your wishes and truth is you had been hoping she would because in this moment she is the only person you want to see.

“No it’s—“ Alexia wanted to reassure you but the look she received from you told her that it was best not to finish that sentence. 

“It’s not only your fault” she corrects herself but didn’t quite have the affect she desired. 

“Alexia!” 

You fall back onto the sand and turn your focus onto the stars above you. With the ocean at your feet and the universe above you, you couldn’t help but feel small. 

“Spain is going to hate, the team will hate me and you will hate me. Please don’t hate me Alexia, anybody but you” it’s almost a plea. 

“Y/N I could never hate you. I love you” 

This confession had you sitting up right in a matter of seconds. 

“Alexia in a different life maybe we could be happy together but we are not meant to be in this one” 

“Why? I love you Y/N and I know part of you loves me too. I felt it in the quarter final and again in the semi final. Give me one good reason why?”

“We just aren’t. First I loved you and you didn’t love me, then you loved me and I loved Caroline and now you love me and I don’t love myself. Love should be this hard Alexia” 

Alexia had enough. She couldn’t understand why you were so adamant on standing in the way of what could be. 

“Love is hard Y/N but it is also the most rewarding thing in the world. We spend our whole lifetimes trying to find our soulmates. I found mine when I was 15 and it was you, that wasn’t hard” 

“Alexia I don’t know what you want from me. You’ve said this before and look what happened. I gave you my whole heart and you broke it like it was nothing. I don’t think I can do that again” 

“I want to tell you I am in love with you Y/N and I know I’ve hurt you before but that will never happen again. You deserve the world and I want to be the one to give you that” 

You didn’t know what to say but you knew what you wanted to do. You lean forward, cup Alexia’s cheek and kiss her softly. Never had a kiss felt so right, so good. You pull away knowing that maybe you shouldn’t have done what you just did. Alexia on the other hand didn’t share the same belief because that kiss was nowhere near enough for her. 

She leans forward but with enough force to knock you back. She now hovers above you waiting for your permission because in this moment you held all the cards. You reach up and kiss her only for Alexia to take over. You had never experienced a kiss filled with so much love and passion. You didn’t need to listen to what your head was telling you because your body make it crystal clear that you wanted Alexia.  

Her hands began to roam your body and found their way under your shirt. It was getting heated and knew where it was going. You also knew that this couldn’t happen on a beach in Australia. 

You push her off you but when you she the look of sheer panic in Alexia’s eyes you quickly peck her lips to reassure her this is not something you want to stop. 

“I love you Alexia and if I give you a chance, if I give you my heart again, then I need you to promise me that you’ll look after it” 

Alexia stands to her feet and holds her hands out to help to you up. Once at eye level she takes both of your hands in her own. 

“I promise Y/N. I will take care of you. I will protect your heart as if it was my own. I will love you with every fibre of my being. If you give me a chance, I promise I will never hurt you the way I did”

“Ok” your tone is quiet but the smile on your face is wide. 

“Ok?” Alexia asks as if needing a double confirmation. 

“Yes Alexia. I love you and I will give you another chance” 

Alexia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She really did think that the outcome of this conversation would be different but right now in the moment, even after losing the final, she has never been happier. You had given her the chance to rewrite a wrong from four years ago and she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

[fsfghgee]

Bi-Han Breakdown: because I think he deserves it. And unfortunately, he's receiving a lot of hate for no sane reason

Bi-Han is not a saint, but clearly complex and misunderstood. I hope this post can help you to understand his character and alignment in MK1 better.

1° HE LET HIS FATHER DIE, HE IS EVIL!

Bi-Han letting his father die is the main reason that make people think he is evil, but let's think about it...

Bi-Han let his father die, he didn't kill his father in cold blood and Liu Kang knew about it! Why he kept Bi-Han close, had high hopes for him (his words) and still wants him back if he is so evil?

Liu kang: Come in from the cold, Bi-Han. ("Come in from the cold" Definition & Meaning: to become part of a group or of normal society again after one has been outside it.)

Bi-Han: And again kneel before you?

Liu kang to Scorpion (about Bi-Han): I had such high hopes for your brother.

Scorpion to Geras: I want to see the moment my father died. (so yeah, Liu Kang knows how Bi- han/Tomas/Kuai Liang's father died. And he doesn't blame Bi-Han for his death)

Besides, who said his father couldn't have done the same thing with Bi-han's mother, since she was also a warrior who followed Liu Kang and letting someone die is not a big deal for Lord Liu Kang...

Tomas: Did you intend for me to be orphaned?

Liu Kang: Some threads must be cut to weave time's fabric. (Translation: YES, I DID. WHAT YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT?)

Why doesn't he resent his mother for following Liu Kang like he does with his father? Why does he genuinely believes that she would be pround of his actions?

Tomas: If mother were alive...

Bi-Han: She would applaud my actions.

C'mon, look at his eyes! You can see the pain in them:

Bi-Han to Kitana: Your mother's death is regrettable.

He never shows remorse for anything, but he's truly sorry for Sindel's death, because he wasn't there to help them defeats Shang Tsung's god counterpart and maybe prevent her death. He truly admired Sindel. Also, Sindel was a mother. And he loves his mother.

Bi-Han to Sindel: You wield the power that I aspire to.

Bi-Han to Sindel: I don't want your throne. Just part of Earthrealm.

He only despise his father and Liu Kang's authority...

Bi-Han to Liu Kang: My father was a fool to follow you.

Kenshi to Bi-Han: Why do you so resent Liu Kang's authority?

He keep saying to everyone:

Father was a fool, lacked vision, never saw the Lin Kuei's potential etc. Then, you can say BUT HE NEVER SAID HIS FATHER WAS EVIL...

True. But who knows? He doesn't see himself as evil for not trying to save his father (nor Liu Kang, a GOD.) when he had the chance, but a lot of people thinks he is evil for it. And his father was a man of many secrets...

That demon who thinks it's cool kill "evil creatures" whithin her parameters to get what she wants "a pure form/soul": There are many in the Netherrealm (hell) just like you.

Bi-Han: You conflate ambition with evil, Ashrah.

Bi-Han to himself: Our father was a man of many secrets.

2°

HE IS MEAN TO TOMAS AND TRIED TO KILL HIM, HE IS EVIL!

I truly love Tomas, but Bi-Han not accepting him as a brother in front of him, doesn't make him evil. Tomas's family was murdered by Lin Kuei's warriors in front of him and the grandmaster (Bi-Han's father) took him in to make of that broken child a powerful warrior who could also kill! In Bi-Han's eyes, Tomas was always a potential threat to the clan and he state it in his face:

Bi-Han to Tomas: Your treachery does not surprise me.

But despite everything, he also, multiple times, recognize Tomas as a worthy fellow Lin Kuei and even as his brother:

Look at how proud Tomas seems to be 🥺

How could Bi-Han think about harm Tomas when everything happened so fast?! He couldn't even see where Tomas was, he rushed to check where he was and not even looked at the ground to purposely kick a rock on him:

Liu Kang: Your brothers regret losing your fellowship.

Bi-Han: Then they shouldn't have disobeyed my commands.

He clearly recognize Tomas as his youngest brother, just not in front of him. You ask me why he doesn't do the same in front of Tomas? Firstly, he always had a foot out the door in his relationship with Tomas because of his background (TOMAS'S BIOLOGICAL FAMILY WAS MURDERED BY HIS CLAN); Secondly, Tomas was supporting all that Kuai Liang's mourning for their father's death and Bi-Han was clearly fed up and lost it. You can even see how surprised Tomas was:

He clearly wasn't expecting to hear him talk like that.

And we can't forget that Bi-Han was Tomas's idol before his betrayal. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't idolize and really miss someone who is constantly mean to me, so yes, I don't believe that Bi-Han was constantly an asshole to Tomas, just cold how his own statement:

Tomas: You've always been cold to me.

Bi-Han: Because your blood is not Lin Kuei.

And after defeating Nitara and Ermac the first thing that comes to his mind is the physical integrity of his brothers. He checked BOTH of them:

3°

HE TRIED TO KILL KUAI LIANG, HE IS EVIL!

We must have been watching different things, because there's no way that the GRANDMASTER of an ancient warrior clan, who can easily kill and is trained for it since childhood, would miss this chance if killing his brother was his true intention:

They trained since childhood, Tomas not even tried to separate them...

You ask why? Because he is used to it! They trained since childhood, they fight against each other since childhood too.

He only shows up to check Kuai Liang when he worries that Bi-Han could have blinded him, that is, gone too far.

And he quickly goes back behind the scene when he sees it was just a scratch:

End this, brother! Embrace the future!

He wasn't trying to kill him (look how he deliberately made this blow go soft here), he was trying to PUNISH him for disobey. And then, I ask you, with whom do you think he learned to do that?

And after this blow, he was holding back so much that he lost to him

4°

HE BETRAYED HIS BROTHERS! HE IS EVIL!

They feel betrayed by him, Bi-Han also feel betrayed by them, but Bi-Han actually betrayed earthrealm and more than once offered them the chance to join him, which they refused because they just want to defend earthrealm not govern it. Which hurts Bi-Han so much, since the entire clan and his best friends (Cyrax and Sektor) believe in his vision, make the clan great again (lol, I mean, achieve greatness, bring glory and respect to his clan etc), but his brothers don't:

Kuai Liang to Tomas: You forget Cyrax and Sektor. Their loyalty to Bi-Han is absolute.

Tomas to Kuai Liang: That the Lin Kuei won't aid us is unforgivable. Bi-Han has corrupted them totally.

His only wrongdoing was trust in Shang Tsung and Shao. They fooled him with false promises. And he already regrets having believed in them:

Bi-Han: I was wrong to trust you.

Shao: Yes, Earthrealmer. You were.

Shang Tsung: You have been cold to my entreaties.

Bi-Han: Because you proved you can't be trusted.

Havik: We were both played for fools.

Bi-Han: Shang Tsung and Quan Chi will pay.

But, unfortunately he has been hunted for helping Shao break out of prison and they are calling him a traitor for it, nothing more:

Sindel: With one act you betrayed two realms.

Bi-Han: Neither deserved my loyalty.

Bi-Han: I helped you, but I've earned no respect.

Shao: Because there's nothing lower than a traitor.

Bi-Han: You would still be in prison, were it not for me!

Raiden: I never thought you would betray Earthrealm.

Bi-Han: My only loyalty is to the Lin Kuei.

[murdrdocs]

YOUR HAZE. void stiles

about. bodies upon bodies surrounding a tree trunk, the nogistune sitting in the center of the stump, and she suddenly finds solace in those familiar amber eyes

includes. DARK CONTENT 18+ fem!vampire!reader, told in 3rd person, heavy manipulation, oral (fem receiving), 'sweet' void tehe, void is a munch

wc: 2.0k

→ kinktober masterlist

She smells his scent before anything else. 

A soft musk mixed with a gourmand, unique to Stiles and Stiles only. She can’t smell his emotions, not in the way that Scott or Malia can. Her sense of smell has yet to reach that point, and none of them are even aware if it could reach that point. But she knows by the almost sickly-sweet scent of sweat that densely covers his pleasant aroma that he’s nervous, maybe anxious about something. 

The thought increases her speed as she attempts to get closer to him, pushing through the thick trees.  

Then comes the rot mixed with rainwater. A scent unique to Void. It makes her nose wrinkle, the mix entirely too strong, abusing her senses as her eyes begin to water the closer she gets, a slowness to her approach now. 

She’s on guard at this point, understanding that if he’s so out in the open like this, it’s because he wanted her to find him. She doesn’t bother stepping around the branches, perhaps trying to convince herself that she’s not fearful of the spirit that has possessed her boyfriend. 

Yet she’s cautious, even before she smells the blood. 

It hits her nose a little too late, right when she turns to enter the clearing and she sees the bodies laying around the tree stump. Dozens of them, scattered around the base of the stump, most of them dead but her attentive ears, definitely her better sense, pick up on a few slow heartbeats. 

He sits in the center, legs crossed like her and Stiles would sit as kids, before she was like this and before he was like this. He looks pleased with himself, a slight smile on his lips as he watches her wandering eyes. 

When they land on him, narrowed and angry, Void pretends to be unhappy. She knows he’s enjoying this. 

His head tilts, he pouts. “Why so upset? This is all for you.” His arms spread out wide and he grins, like he’s presenting a desired present to her. 

And maybe it is, deep down inside she feels her insides churn with excitement. She’s never had a feast presented in front of her like this before, instead spending her years desperately trying to tether herself to control and strict moderation for the sake of everyone around her. 

With Stiles, it was easier to do that. He was her anchor, keeping her sane and from digging her sharpened pearly whites into his freckled neck, even when he bit his nails until she got a whiff of how tantalizing his blood was. 

But Stiles was gone, and he had been for weeks now. Each day, she felt herself slipping more and more, slowly giving more and more into temptation until she ended up here: Considering the offering laid before her. 

She wants to fight it, she tries to fight, insults and self brags about how much stronger she is than him, how she absolutely refuses to give into temptation and that is what true strength is. 

Her nails, newly filed as she picked up nail care as another distraction from the way she craved something she couldn’t have, dig into her palm as she speaks. Her breathing increases with each word, chest rising and falling rapidly, usually slow heart rate picking up just enough to remind her of when she was human. 

She thinks she has it under control. She does have it under control. 

But she still finds herself at her knees before what looks like Stiles, but she has to consistently remind herself that this isn’t Stiles. 

Stiles wouldn’t look so proud as she digs her fangs into the first neck, veins bursting from the puncturing of her teeth, sweet and almost tangy blood meeting her lips. It’s her first drink from the source since her turning, and it’s fucking delicious. It makes her head spin. It makes her want more. 

Her moan is muffled, but still loud enough for both of them to hear it. It’s oddly sensual, a sexual tone to it, heavily present mostly in the way the sound lifts up at the end. 

Her eyebrows push together as she cringes at herself for a second, then she inhales, pulling more blood into her mouth, and nothing else matters except the red liquid that slides down her through. 

“There you go,” Stiles coos from above her, the stiff sound of clothing against wood as he stands. 

But this isn’t Stiles. 

She has to remind herself of that when Void comes to join her. Because Stiles wouldn’t get on his knees beside her, push her hair to the side, and gently kiss her own neck as she drains another body. 

His nose brushes against her skin as he speaks. “You feel how warm it is? Better than those cold blood bags they give you, isn’t it? This is what I can give you.” The words are growled into her trapezius, his teeth scraping the thin layer of skin through each syllable. 

Her eyes close, she melts into the combined warmth of Stiles and the blood entering her mouth. But this isn’t Stiles. She tries to shake herself awake, she tries to pull from him, repeating the words in her head even as she gulps down pints of life force. 

He senses her hesitation, his hand cupping the side of her neck as his lips brush her earlobe. “He won’t know about this,” he tells her. She takes a breath, considers. 

Stiles wouldn’t do this.  

But Stiles would wrap his arm around her in the way that Void does. Stiles would bring her lips to his with a soft touch of her cheek, and he would kiss her like he’s devouring her. 

She blames it on the new amount of energy coursing through her body. She blames her willingness to give into Void’s kisses and touches on the different blood mixing in her system, a second body in her grasp before she even realizes it, the addition giving her a rush she’s never felt in her life. 

If it weren’t for the bodies she’d already consumed, and the ones she has left, she wouldn’t have let Void lay her back on the stump and spread her legs. 

It’s what she tells herself, trying to comfort the guilt and agony on her own. But she can’t comfort it on her own, she needs Stiles. Or Scott. Or Lydia. But they’re not here. They’re away in their homes, trying to come up with another solution to bring their best friend back, while she lets the shell of him pull her pants off and push her shirt up. 

They’re contriving yet another plan that might be the one to finally end it all while she takes the wrist in front of her face, sucking at the two holes already created, jagged from a puncture that isn’t her own teeth. The uneven circular shape makes it harder for her to get a steady pull from the veins. She has to concentrate to even get the first amount out, but concentrating is difficult whenever Void starts to suck on her clit. 

She doesn’t remember her pants coming off, nor her panties. She tries looking for them, hoping to find the dark denim in the night, but her vision is blurred. It’s like she’s drunk, a sensation she hasn’t felt since before her turning. 

Void inserting two fingers into her cunt doesn’t help her vision. The intrusion is welcomed, her walls used to the feeling of the long digits. Her gummy walls swallow in the familiarity, and instead of rejecting the unaccustomed aspects of the action, she takes it. 

The foreign way his fingers curl reminds her of the stark contrasts between the two entities, previously viewed in a light that made her nauseous as an intense sweep of emotions almost knocked her off of her feet. 

Void adds a third finger. It’s unexpected, a little disjointed, but it’s a pleasant shock. A wanted surprise. It feels good, and she hates to admit it. 

She turns back to the arm in front of her. 

Her teeth are sunken in, her lips pressed to the warm skin, and as Void digs his fingers deeper inside of her, a deep groan comes from within her. Her stained canines tear through the skin, creating two long slits that allow blood to freely gush out of them. 

It’s messy, both the way Void brings her to her peak and the way the blood flows out around her mouth. 

His lips, now added into the already complicated equation, slip and slide along her most sensitive parts, a precision that makes her wonder if he’d picked this action up from Stiles, but a lack of accuracy that makes her feel as if he’s doing this for his own pleasure. She can’t help but briefly think about how much joy Stiles gets from this action, how he always loses himself when his head is between her legs. It’s something they have in common, something that puts Void a little closer to Stiles. And although it shouldn’t, it comforts her. It tells her that her boyfriend is somewhere in there, and she briefly deludes herself into thinking that this is him. 

She starts to let herself go. 

Void licks and sucks like a man starved, like she’s the best tasting thing he’d ever had in all of his many years. His hands dig into the plush of her hips and thighs, holding her open to his torture. His tongue flicks her clit, a speed to it that’s clearly inhuman. Her back arches, moans increasing in volume and pitch, and Void takes it in stride. He adjusts her legs over his shoulders and then slides his mouth down, Stiles’ perky nose bumping into her clit as Void inserts the heated muscle into her. The combination with his fingers makes her drop the limp wrist, blood spilling onto her clothing. 

The heat from Void’s mouth is easily comparable to the heat of the blood that slides from her own lips, flowing down her chin and neck, staining the previously pristine white tee she wears. It’s one Stiles had gifted her, incredibly simple in nature but the quality is why she desired it. A tiny white tank top, with a small silk bow in the center, and lace lining the straps that fall off her shoulders. 

As she looks down at Void, taking in how dark his eyes are, she notices just how ruined the top is, completely beyond repair and she’ll have to throw it out. Just the simple thought clears her head, a sob wracking through her, her body convulsing and curling with her chest up to the sky. It’s just then that Void knocks her over the edge, orgasm pushing through her frame intensely. Her hands find the hair she loves so much and her legs close around his head. 

He lets her do what she wants, and this singular act of kindness dulls her brain. She gets dizzy, letting the last bit of resistance slip from her mind and body, her muscles relaxing as she comes down. She blinks lazily at him, eyebrows furrowing as his veins tinge black for a second, but the color is gone just as quick. 

He kisses her inner thigh, his smile sweet before it twists into something much more sinister and dark. 

“You belong to me,” he tells her, the words sounding pretty coming from his slickened pink lips. She’s out of it, too much blood in her system, orgasm dumbing her down, so she nods, allowing another wrist to be positioned in front of her, this one still live, pulse still thumping. 

She distantly hears cries for help, pleas to let them go, but she doesn’t focus on that. Instead looking into the amber eyes that she trusts more than her own as she bares her teeth once more, and lets them sink into the skin.