#vaguely poetic writing

[patroiocus]

him, nonchalant and giggly, doing their makeup, all "close your eyes," and "are you ready?" "it looks good, i promise, why dont you trust me?"

and "of course i trust you," they'll reply, "i trust you with my life! but" and its a very light, airy 'but', relaxed, "thats a very different thing to trusting you with my eyeliner" and they'll try to open their eyes again, just to peek at his face, a teasing little grin having crawled its way up their face.

he'll give them a light tap on the cheek, maybe snap in their ear until they keep their eyes closed. he'll lean in, then, and they'll feel the soft puffs of his breath on their nose, warm and familiar, followed by the wet drag of his liquid eyeliner across both lids, the movement swift and sure, drawn with a steady hand.

"okay, look at me," and when they open their eyes he is still just as close, their breaths intermingling in the slim space between their lips. he'll be so focused on the glittering clean lines on their eyelids that their grasp around his neck will shock him when they pull him down.

"keep your eyes closed," they'll whisper, and then they'll steal his lips with a kiss.

[kenobers]

Jason Todd Headcanons

just a few thoughts that help inform the way i write this doof. it's linked below as well, but check out jason's spotify wrapped if you have a minute! ;-)

Samsung User

Jason says he likes his coffee dark, but secretly orders flavored lattes (see that one Hozier photo)

Puts cinnamon in his coffee grounds

He may have good taste in books, but he's got shit taste in movies

Loves a few basic safe picks - Fight Club, Pulp Fiction, things you might expect from someone like him

But his "Watch Again" list is all cheesy action movies and wacky comedies. Mark Wahlberg appears a little too often.

Doesn’t watch a lot of television, but sometimes likes to fall asleep to Family Guy or South Park

Has one ear piercing he got on a dare, done by either one of his brothers or one of the Outlaws

Good gift giver, but only wraps things in newspaper

Really terrible about remembering to take his medication

To the point that Dick and Tim got him one of those every day of the week pill boxes as a joke - but it's actually been incredibly helpful

Is a regular at his neighborhood corner store

To the point where the guys at the counter don’t even card him anymore

He's the type of man to sleep till noon, 1:30 on Sundays

If he's sharing a bed, he will snuggle up to you in his sleep

Snores

Unfortunately uses 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash

Has an high tolerance for weed, which annoys the hell out of him because he enjoys a joint but does not fuck with edibles

Every time he tries an edible, he stares at himself in the mirror for three hours and Does Not like it

Drunk Yapper

Beer Drinker

Doesn't always know his own strength

Not in the accidentally-break-someone's-arm type of way, but definitely in the sometimes-closes-the-door-too-hard-and-goes-"whoopsie daises!" type of way

Thankfully, he's become a pretty great handy man

Despite being a certified Car Guy, he did die at 15 and as a consequence is lowkey still how to drive a none military grade car (in other words, he's a shit driver) (but it's okay, he sticks to the motorcycle and public transportation)

He's not a hugger, but he is a leaner

Thrifts all of his clothes

Prefers to get his books from local indie/second-hand/new & used bookstores

But still has a Barnes & Nobles membership card

His bookshelf is not organized what-so-ever; it's started to operate as more of a gun rack while his books get stacked underneath his bed (he tells himself that this will make him get through his To Be Read list faster)

His top played song of last year was “Kiss Me Through The Phone” by Soulja Boy

His music taste can be divided into three primary playlists; East Coast Rap, Metal, Ear Worms

Is the family expert on the Gotham underground music scene

He isn’t big on social media at all, but he has a Twitter with like 15 followers he uses to keep an eye on whoever

(and also to keep up with music and book updates)

He’s occasionally very funny on it. But just occasionally.

Just Online enough to know who Trisha Paytas is, not Online enough to know who ClubChalamet is

He got his GED once he joined the family again

and yes, they threw him a little party to celebrate

Has the BatChat on silent, but still checks it regularly

Terrible texter; you’ll either hear back from him immediately or in three weeks time

“srry didn’t see this”

(he did see this, he just got anxiety about it)

Has a lot of anxiety about smalls things like that

Especially when it comes to the Bat Family

He’s not always sure where he stands with everyone - if they like him, trust him, want him there

Paranoid that they’re nosy because they secretly think he’s going to go rogue again

Has to constantly remind himself that they’re just nosy the same way that he’s nosy - because this is literally a family of detectives

[setmeatopthepyre]

Bulwark

Push. Pull. Breathe.

One.

The ache would fade, he knew, told himself. It always did. Eventually. Even if it didn't go down without a fight. Especially then. Tommy had survived every heartbreak. Every loss. Every injury. Every siege. Until now. This one felt different, now, but it wouldn't be.

The ache would fade. It always did.

Push. Pull. Breathe.

Two.

He knew the steps. Breathe through it. Pull the air into his lungs. Deeper. Deeper. Pray for enough oxygen to sweep across his shores, erode the sharp edges of his feeling. Reach the brackish water inland and flood the sunken place inside of him. Push it back out, hope the floodwater spilling back out to sea took the rubble inside of him with it. Breathe. Deeper. Deeper. Never deep enough. Remind himself that he wasn't built to be washed clean, to gather sentiment like sediment. To feel. He was built to be a bulwark, a fortress. A wall against the tide. Strength carefully constructed to serve as protection. To withstand storms. Built for waves to crash against before they circled back to sea.

Push. Pull. Breathe.

Three.

He didn't need to do anything but breathe. Breathe through the shaking of his muscles, breathe, breathe, count breaths like reps. Out, in.

Push. Pull. Breathe.

Four.

Push. Pull. Feel.

Five.

Fuck.

The clang of iron on iron. Another stone in the fortification of his body. Another stone in the pit of his stomach. He just needed to breathe. He didn't need to feel. That's not what he was built for. That's not what they built him for. That's not - it's not what he built himself for. It might have been. It should have been. It isn't.

Chest heaving.

Breathe.

He was built to be up on the ramparts. Eyes in the sky. The lone watcher on the wall. Scanning for danger, always, always scanning for fucking danger. Don't feel, just breathe. Feelings cloud your judgment. It's not your job to feel.

From above, his job was to assess threats. From below, to be the last line of defense. Hold the line.

Always keep your head on a swivel. Eyes open.

He had. He did.

Breathe. Deeper.

Not too deep.

Hold the line. No matter what.

Hold the line.

Don't feel. Don't listen.

Don't listen to the snide voice in the back of his head, asking,

Alright, you perfect fucking soldier. What is there left to defend now?

--

bul·wark (bo͝ol′wərk, -wôrk′, bŭl′-) n.

1. A wall or embankment raised as a defensive fortification; a rampart. 2. Something serving as a defense or safeguard. 3. A breakwater.

[thespianwordnerd]

I think you came here with a plan, but you didn't expect to fall in love. But that's what happens.

[honeyhobies]

happy punkflower wipwed i'm making them sweet

[insane-control-room]

секрет

Здесь много секретов.

Rated: G Warnings: Death/Corpse Mention AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57956587 Length: 100 (very short) Language: Russian

ink demonth - secret

Note: this is my first time writing in Russian- I'm aware that this is a bit janky and not very good. hopefully I will be able to get more practice and do better. Feedback appreciated! thank you to alex for helping me with spelling and grammar!

Есть что-то очень страшное в этом месте. Если кто-то умирает, никто не знает, куда труп уходит.

Есть шёпот в темноте, в темноте густой, как старые черные чернила, что трупы растворяются. 

Но это не работает, учитывая закон о сохранении массы- у тела имеет кости и органы, не может такого быть.

В этом месте сильный мор для мозга и для души, эта болезнь течёт через глаза и уши, и все поедает. 

Этот секрет один из многих, многих секретов в этих деревянных стенах-

но если человек спросит:

«что они делают с трупами?»

ответа не будет- ничего нет, ни человека, ни тела- все умерли.

[courtney-deserved-better]

just rediscovered this 3 y/o wip of mine with courtney and heather as the main characters and im obsesseddddddd with it

[confused-stars]

writing a self-indulgent Archon War au only so that i can give Guizhong and Zhongli the energy of "hey, my wife and i saw you from across the bar and we really dig your vibe"

[floortile34]

i feel lost. scared. lonely

step out into the sun. into the endless pain. alone in an opaque void, or maybe i just can't see through it enough to notice i'm not alone. it burns. is rotting in the darkness worse? drowning in the sewer?

infinite mazes of light, nobody aroung. this isn't real. the real light burns, this doesn't. i see so clearly yet there still remains no-one. fields of empty space, knee height. marble floors with no temperature

mirages of others. of company

endless seconds ticking by. however many millions. running around searching for a way out, tiring myself endlessly, never collapsing

my flesh bleeds – oozes, almost – with sickly purples

(legs numb now. alternating between writing tags and main post segment whatever this is called)

dragging my forearms across the subtle rough texture of the tiling. they bleed. they fall apart so easily. so weak. so brittle. so rotten through

i need ..... . .......i don't know what i need

please, i need whatever that thing is

someone tell me what i need

someone tell me what to do. where to go. i'm so lost in here. i'm running out of battery. it's always ticking down, never reaches 0, i feel like it's a lie. shepherd's tone

my sanity's slowly falling deeper and deeper into the infinitesimal abyss, or maybe not and it just feels like that. i don't know anymore. i don't remember anymore. i don't remember what i am. my family's fading from me. i'll be alone soon. without them

my ideas are running out yet i must keep writing. this is my purpose in life for... however long it's taken now. 10 minutes? i didn't check when i started.

...... ..............

■■■■ ■■■■■■ shall claim me soon

[iamumbra195]

it feels like you stand upon the belly of a ferocious beast. the rumbles knock you to your knees, but the tremors don't cease for a second. the loud hissing and whining from the rocks only seem to grow. the sounds clawing their way into your heart. white hot light. the scalding, red erupts into a towering mountain reaching up into space. it falls. the impact topples trees and twists the terrain into something unimaginable. the air is boiling and the air is heavy with chemicals no one should ever have to encounter. the temperature climbs, and suffocating blankets of ash end any poor creature who was walking at that moment. but you are resilient. you are still here. and as spitfire rains from the darkening sky like stars falling from the heavens, you are sure. you'll make it much longer than anyone thought you ever could.

The terrain is unrecognizable. You hike through a land once filled with man-made skyscapers that towered over the skies themselves, torn down for daring to challenge the mother of creation herself. Where there were once paved streets and the overwhelming stench of humanity, there is warm rock and volcanic ash that hung heavy in the air. You wondered why the molten lava that had cremated everything as you knew it seemed incapable of eating through your mortal flesh but you had never been one to ask questions. It was simpler to adapt, to morph yourself into a creature suitable for your environment. It was the only way to survive. And who was there to ask? The skies? The earth? To gain their attention was to incite their anger; they had never been fond of humanity after all. Your father had alway cautioned against asking unnecessary questions, a lesson he instilled in you through the circular glossy scars that littered your collarbone when the stench of alcohol poisoned the air of your decrepit old apartment. Who's to say the earth would not open itself and swallow you, burning you in its core as it had all the others? You've never been particularly fond of pain.

[sp1resong]

pleasepleaseplease talk about your ocs i am so curious

OKAY SO

i have... four? ish? main oc stories/universe atm, not counting random fandom ocs i make on the side that aren't linked to any big overarching story

those four are Dr. Paradise's Theory of the Self, Tales of Godborn (<- title i am planning to change but do not yet have anything to change to), The Poison Beneath, and Onelight's Dawn. the latter two are warrior cats, and the former two are generic cat furries (...and both started as wc. Me when i got the warrior cats autism instead of the good at math or science autism)

im just going to go off about dptots because.Good lord. i am so infodumping. my hands would shrivel up and fall off if i wrote any more of this i hope you understand

DPTotS is a story about identity, personhood, and necromancy, i guess. at its bare basics.

um. The titular Dr. Willow "Will" Paradise (she/her) is a reclusive scientist and self-proclaimed alchemist. In her younger days, she found some manner of fame as "Miracle Worker Will", a so-called genius who claimed to be seeking immortality itself.

she very suddenly fell out of the public eye in what can only be described as "the identity crisis of a century" following which she threw herself into the sea to test a theory of hers. and promptly drowned to death. (she got better)

now with a bond to the Abyss (yeah the ocean is a whole entire eldritch horror in this universe), along with several new and unknown neuroses and complexes, Will shuts herself away in her lighthouse (for the most part! she still occasionally attends social events--but it's odd, her demeanor has changed entirely almost overnight...)

eventually she drops her titular Theory of the Self, which proclaims that identity is invariably a facade, and that true selfhood is guided by motivation; by which parts of your mind drive your choices.

she splits the Self [or; the abstract entity who is capable of making choices] into three distinct guiding factors:

the Heart [representing emotion]

the Mind [representing logic]

the Will [representing desire]

(...before you ask, i promise i am not lying when i say i wrote that part long before i even knew who chonny jash was)

though it is not a part of her in-universe theory, on a more meta level there is a fourth factor, the Mask, which represents the charade of a cohesive identity, or the urge to adhere to social norms and etiquette even when every other part of you is screaming against it.

anyways! wow there are. Actually three more main characters. good lord. i am the fucking infodumper

um! the other main characters are Doe (it/its), Alice Grey (she/her), and Dorian Winters (he/him).

Doe is... the sole inhabitant of the corpse of John Doe. John died of a stab wound in a back alley and Will stumbled upon his corpse some time later. She wasn't about to look a gift corpse in the mouth, bringing his body back and attempting to recreate the conditions of her own resurrection in the controlled environment of her lab. If this worked--why, she would have earned her title of Miracle Worker! she would have found the key to eternity, to conquer death itself--

and work it did, or so it seemed, at first.

truth is, Doe does not remember being John. perhaps it lost its memory as some consequence of the trauma of dying and being resurrected, or perhaps John's mind could not be saved at all, and another was constructed in its stead.

whether a broken John or a new soul entirely, it doesn't matter, really! because we have Doe now. Doe, identity issues connoisseur (in other news i fuckign hate spelling connoisseur why does french have so many god damn fucking letters in it. Spellcheck save me), who lives life as a failed copy, a dead man's shadow, a mere shard of what it should be. does it imagine the disappointment in will's gaze when it lingers on its eyes (bright blue; her same color. john's were amber)? is the face in the mirror truly its own? when it looks down, are those its hands by right?

it knows the answer, of course. or... 'know' is not the right word. it does not know anything. it feels. that is all it can do.

alice, meanwhile, is a Completely Normal Cat with an Ordinary Life--which is to say, her issues at the beginning of the story are fairly mundane in comparison to whatever the fuck is going on with the other two (this fact will change).

her in-laws dragged her to some fancy party, once. she did not have a good time at all, and just kind of stood uncomfortably in the corner the whole time until she was approached by an Odd Stranger dot dot dot... just kidding it's will fucking paradise. Will decides to spare alice from the woes of Standing There Awkwardly and strikes up a conversation. alice is nervous at first, but will is like. scarily good at figuring people out (and figuring out how to get other people to trust her as a result), and alice quickly becomes comfortable around her.

they become fast friends! alice learns more about will, while will hears of alice's assorted wiles and woes.

she wants a lot of things, but she's too nervous to get them. she doesn't like her family, she doesn't like the city, she doesn't like the life she is living, she feels like everything goes by too fast and she will never be able to do all she wants to with her time on this earth.

will is sympathetic, of course. she hears her out and offers a shoulder to cry on, and offers carefully-picked bits and pieces of her own history and struggles that alice might be able to relate to. until...

um. long story short will pushes alice off a cliff into the ocean, thereby granting her will's brand of quasi-immortality (she does not age, and she is very difficult to kill; so long as abyss doesn't decide to pull the plug, so to speak. which it can do at any time).

now, alice, who literally fucking died and had her soul pledged to an eldritch horror without her consent at the hands of someone she thought was her friend, is rightfully fucking pissed about this. and one thing about alice is that once she's gotten over her initial fear of rocking the boat she is stubborn.

alice swears revenge. she misses will, she hates will, she never wantts to see will again, she wants will to apologize, she doesn't know what to feel or think. this all hardens into one thought: will has to die. she has to. she has to.

um.Admittedly this part of the story is Way less planned out due to being fairly close to the ending, but whateverr

oh yeah also doe has a character arc where it learns to accept that it isn't John, and that it doesn't have to be John, and just being Doe is enough. also it befriends John's widowed husband. long story.

anyways! some shtuff happens (i'm not... sure what yet), the three of them are brought to the seafloor by abyss in a dream. btw theyre all associated with some small element of abyss's imagery because fuck you that's why (alice has tridents, will has ink, and doe has.I haven't decided yet).

now, in this dream-state these bits of imagery become more real--will's palms are ink-stained, doe... ...i'll figure it out, and, most importantly, alice gets an actual trident because.First of all haha chonny jash hyperfixation and second of all. she deserves a large stabbing weapon okay

alice proceeds to threaten will's life! and yet will... doesn't react at all. alice holds her trident to her throat and will looks back, unmoved, looking, if anything, slightly bored as she stares at her death. and alice all but begs will for a reaction, anything to bring some catharsis into this bloodshed, anything to make this all worth it. by the end of it, she's sobbing on the floor and will is looking down at her.

and will apologizes, and alice doesn't forgive her. and she cant bring herself to do it anymore. and nothing will ever be the same again

and then some more stuff happens idk i dont even know how the story ends it just exists as a Cluster of Scenes That I Want To Animate featuring the Guys (gender neutral)

...oh yeah. and dorian. i forgot about dorian. fuckin uhh. dorian is will's college friend and a former singer slash musician, who had the misfortune of becoming rather famous for his music. and now he's a public figure no matter what he does and he fucking hates it. but he'd never go up front and say he fucking hates it, of course. he is passive aggressive forever and ever and

will crashes on his couch sometimes, as the most Normal of her friend group, and by Most Normal i mean literally just the only one not involved with the horrors (very low bar)

anyways.

the story also functions as something of a... parable, i suppose, about will's titular theory! will represents the mind, doe represents the heart, alice represents the will (...yeah, the character named will isn't the will. lmao. look, this was a later addition. and, to be fair, if she were writing the story, im fairly certain she would do this on purpose), and dorian represents the mask.

...and the abyss represents The ocean is really really fucked up /silly

nah, abyss's position in the metaphor is Up To Interpretation tm. as i see it, theyre a vague representation of mental illness, but eh. the author is dead here.

tl;dr: if there were three guys at the bottom of the ocean and two of them tried to kill each other would that be fucked up or what

[yesandpeeps]

Me, seeing others talk about how writing is hard: oh I’m sure!! But you’ve inspired me, so I will now write again! Thank you for persevering through creation, friend!

Me, who hasn’t written for the public in years, on my second paragraph in an hour: god.., god fucking Damn,,.,

[alphalesbian]

Like honestly I write poetry nearly foremost to embrace and elaborate with the surreal 

[s-soulwriter]

Things Real People Do in Dialogue (For Your Next Story)

Okay, let’s be real—dialogue can make or break a scene. You want your characters to sound natural, like actual humans talking, not robots reading a script. So, how do you write dialogue that feels real without it turning into a mess of awkward pauses and “ums”? Here’s a little cheat sheet of what real people actually do when they talk (and you can totally steal these for your next story):

1. People Interrupt Each Other All the Time In real conversations, nobody waits for the perfect moment to speak. We interrupt, cut each other off, and finish each other's sentences. Throw in some overlaps or interruptions in your dialogue to make it feel more dynamic and less like a rehearsed play.

2. They Don’t Always Say What They Mean Real people are masters of dodging. They’ll say one thing but mean something totally different (hello, passive-aggressive banter). Or they’ll just avoid the question entirely. Let your characters be vague, sarcastic, or just plain evasive sometimes—it makes their conversations feel more layered.

3. People Trail Off... We don’t always finish our sentences. Sometimes we just... stop talking because we assume the other person gets what we’re trying to say. Use that in your dialogue! Let a sentence trail off into nothing. It adds realism and shows the comfort (or awkwardness) between characters.

4. Repeating Words Is Normal In real life, people repeat words when they’re excited, nervous, or trying to make a point. It’s not a sign of bad writing—it’s how we talk. Let your characters get a little repetitive now and then. It adds a rhythm to their speech that feels more genuine.

5. Fillers Are Your Friends People say "um," "uh," "like," "you know," all the time. Not every character needs to sound polished or poetic. Sprinkle in some filler words where it makes sense, especially if the character is nervous or thinking on their feet.

6. Not Everyone Speaks in Complete Sentences Sometimes, people just throw out fragments instead of complete sentences, especially when emotions are high. Short, choppy dialogue can convey tension or excitement. Instead of saying “I really think we need to talk about this,” try “We need to talk. Now.”

7. Body Language Is Part of the Conversation Real people don’t just communicate with words; they use facial expressions, gestures, and body language. When your characters are talking, think about what they’re doing—are they fidgeting? Smiling? Crossing their arms? Those little actions can add a lot of subtext to the dialogue without needing extra words.

8. Awkward Silences Are Golden People don’t talk non-stop. Sometimes, they stop mid-conversation to think, or because things just got weird. Don’t be afraid to add a beat of awkward silence, a long pause, or a meaningful look between characters. It can say more than words.

9. People Talk Over Themselves When They're Nervous When we’re anxious, we tend to talk too fast, go back to rephrase what we just said, or add unnecessary details. If your character’s nervous, let them ramble a bit or correct themselves. It’s a great way to show their internal state through dialogue.

10. Inside Jokes and Shared History Real people have history. Sometimes they reference something that happened off-page, or they share an inside joke only they get. This makes your dialogue feel lived-in and shows that your characters have a life beyond the scene. Throw in a callback to something earlier, or a joke only two characters understand.

11. No One Explains Everything People leave stuff out. We assume the person we’re talking to knows what we’re talking about, so we skip over background details. Instead of having your character explain everything for the reader’s benefit, let some things go unsaid. It’ll feel more natural—and trust your reader to keep up!

12. Characters Have Different Voices Real people don’t all talk the same way. Your characters shouldn’t either! Pay attention to their unique quirks—does one character use slang? Does another speak more formally? Maybe someone’s always cutting people off while another is super polite. Give them different voices and patterns of speech so their dialogue feels authentic to them.

13. People Change the Subject In real life, conversations don’t always stay on track. People get sidetracked, jump to random topics, or avoid certain subjects altogether. If your characters are uncomfortable or trying to dodge a question, let them awkwardly change the subject or ramble to fill the space.

14. Reactions Aren’t Always Immediate People don’t always respond right away. They pause, they think, they hesitate. Sometimes they don’t know what to say, and that delay can speak volumes. Give your characters a moment to process before they respond—it’ll make the conversation feel more natural.

Important note: Please don’t use all of these tips in one dialogue at once.

[esote-rika]

Red is Your Color | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!bau!reader

Category: smut 18+ MDNI

Summary: You just committed perhaps the most atrocious wrongly sent message ever. By some trick of nature, your coworker is more than willing to play along. (This is from @imagining-in-the-margins Wrong Recipient prompt list. Character receives scandalous selfies from a coworker; check out her prompts, they're really fun!)

Content: softdom!spencer, fingering, multiple orgasms (female receiving), p in v, creampie, reader is on the pill, Spencer calls reader a naughty girl and pretty girl, tenderness and lots of checking in, vaguely Christmas themed. 

Word count:  3.1k

A/N: I read something really poetic and profound yesterday and it inspired me to write, but my mind was in the gutter, so this happened. lmfao happy holidays. UNEDITED, I wrote this at 2 in the morning T.T

Do you think Santa would bend me over and punish me?

Spencer Reid was almost too scared to even open the following messages—he’d already made the mistake of opening this one. And there was a barrage of them, sent a few minutes after the very first one, in quick succession, one right after the other. His phone buzzed and buzzed, matching the distracting hum in his brain at the moment. He should probably read the next messages, because surely, surely those contain the explanation to this one.

Unfortunately, his eyes were glued on this first one—it seemed like it was the only one that contained a picture, after all, and what was that they said about a picture saying a thousand words?

What could it mean then, this picture his coworker had sent to him? What did it mean that he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from it? (What did it imply if he didn’t want to? That he liked the picture? That it made his pants uncomfortably tighter?)

He stared at the picture, his eyes greedily taking every inch of smooth skin exposed by the short, strapless sexy Santa dress his coworker was wearing. It wasn’t explicit—she was fully dressed, after all, but the caption, paired with the way she had been posed… Sitting on what he presumed was her bathroom counter, her legs artfully crossed, the fabric of the dress hiked up to reveal long, luscious thighs. With her pursed lips painted crimson, it was obvious what the message was meant to imply and Spencer felt his mouth grow dry. He shifted on his seat, both hands gripping his phone because he didn’t trust them not to wander down, to give himself relief.

No, he should not be jerking off to his coworker. He shouldn’t even be fucking looking at this photo. He should delete it, call Penelope and ask her to rewire his cloud or memory or data or whatever it was called. Just to get rid of it from his phone. That would be the decent thing to do, and Spencer had always prided himself on being a gentleman. 

He knew that would be futile; knew his mind would be treacherous and have the image of her with those supple thighs, and red mouth in his dreams, his nightmares, in every fantasy—

His phone was ringing.

He stared at it, wondering how she was sending so many messages so quickly, before he realized that she wasn’t texting anymore.

She was calling.

His thumb found the answer button without his consent. The next thing he knew, her voice was pouring from his phone’s speaker. Soft. Contrite. Embarrassed. He frowned. What on earth was she embarrassed about, he wondered. She, who looked stunning, who looked good enough to be worshipped—

“—Please say something, Spence.” she was saying, pleading, and something in his gut clenched. That nickname, coming from her lips. That nickname, coming from her lips, while she was wearing that dress.

“Spence—”

“It’s all right,” his voice was strangled. He cleared his throat, “It’s all right. I’ve deleted it.” Lie, what a liar, she deserved better than hastily told lies.

“Okay,” she sighed, relief palpable even without seeing her face to face, “I just didn’t want to get in trouble with HR, on top of everything.”

HR. He almost laughed. They wouldn’t care (unless someone blabbed, like what happened with Derek and Penelope, but he would never do that to her, not in a million years.)

“You wouldn’t, I promise… it wasn’t even that explicit, if I’m being honest.” he heard himself say. He rubbed his eyes in frustration—why did he have to add that?

Her laughter floats from the phone, nervous and low. “I guess not. I wasn’t about to send a complete nude to my friends.”

He straightened up, confused. “Your friends?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice still wavering nervously, “Like I said in my texts, it was wrongly sent to you, I was talking to my friends.”

In other words, it wasn’t for him. He would have known that, had he opened her texts, had he not been too busy ogling the picture she had mistakenly sent, the picture that wasn’t even for him. Something unpleasant burned in his chest, but he ignored it in favor of the curiosity that lingered.

“You send explicit pictures to your friends?”

“I thought you said it wasn’t that explicit,” she chuckled, “But, uh, yeah I do… I dunno, maybe that’s weird, but we were joking around.”

That was something new he learned today. That friends could casually send sexually charged photos to each other. The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. “So you don’t actually want to be bent over and punished?”

Dear heavens, sometimes he understood why his teammates gave him weird looks. If he had a mirror, he would give himself a weird look. Still, he held his breath for her answer, surprised by the wave of disappointment at the thought of her saying no, it was just a silly text.

The pause grew between them, and Spencer was almost about to apologize, when she spoke again.

“I mean, if someone were willing to do it…”

He swallowed. His pants felt tight once again, and he had to force himself to take deep breaths. This was not an invitation, he thought, she had not asked him, she was not saying if you wanted to do it (which, he does, desperately so.)

“Right.” he managed to croak. Another pause, as if she was contemplating. 

“Spencer,” she was whispering now, “Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“How fast can you get here?”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

You’re not sure what possessed you into inviting your coworker over, but you did. And now, you’re sitting in your living room, in that blasted sexy Santa dress, panic texting your friends about it. He had said fifteen minutes. Eight minutes had gone by, and you knew he would fulfill his promise. He would be here in seven minutes.

Perhaps you weren’t expecting him to agree. Your perception of Spencer Reid has always been of a sweet genius, wholly brilliant and too preoccupied with academics to even give a second thought to sex and romance. He was a germaphobe, for crying out loud, you had thought it would make him have some sort of aversion to the inevitable sticky, sweaty mess of two bodies coming together. 

But you’d heard it in his voice. Strained, low, and riddled with desire. 

So you had mustered enough courage to ask. And now—

Your doorbell cut through your thoughts. Taking a deep breath, you shoved your phone into a drawer, not wanting to see the offensive piece of technology for the rest of the night. You looked out through the peephole, and there he was, still in his office clothes. Tall, and slender, and dishevelled and yours for the night.

You pulled the door open, ignoring the heavy thump in your chest. 

He smiled. “Hi.”

“You’re early.” You teased, standing aside to let him in. His eyes were glued to you, pupils dilating as he took you in.

“You’re still wearing the dress.”

Right. Once you had realized you sent the text to Spencer instead of your friends, you had spent the next several minutes in agonizing anxiety, sending text after text to Spencer in an effort to explain. In your utter mortification, you had forgotten to change out of it.

He seemed to like that. It gave you enough confidence to surge forward, blindly, recklessly.

“I am.” You said, red lips tugging into a smile you reserved for handsome strangers at a bar. You lowered your voice, just enough for the next words to come out breathless, “Honestly, it’s a little itchy.” 

“Is it?” He stepped forward, crowding you into the door. It creaks as it moves with your weight, the knob clicking in place. He reached forward, and you held your breath, anticipating his hands on you, gently running over your skin, but instead they closed over the doorknob, locking it. He didn’t miss your reaction, though, his eyes a glittering night sky of sweet, utter want. “Maybe I can help you with it.”

You nodded, mouth parted in silence, whatever words you wanted to say have died in your throat.

He brought his hand up, caressing your jaw, and you marvelled at how large his hands are, long fingers reaching the nape of your neck. “Red is your color.” he murmured, before leaning in to capture your lips.

His lips were cold and chapped, and you returned his kiss eagerly in an attempt to warm them. Your mouth opens at one swipe of his tongue, moaning as he leans his whole body into you, pushing you harder against the door. Tonight, you learned that Spencer Reid, the sweet, unassuming genius, kisses like he wants to crawl into you. It’s a sloppy mess of tongue and teeth, and a whimper escaped your mouth as he bit your lower lip.

“Too much?” he asked, pulling away for a moment. 

As an answer, you wrapped your hands around his neck, and returned the fervor of his kisses. You heard him chuckle, felt it on your own tongue as it happened and it made your knees buckle from sheer want. 

His arms wrapped around your waist, hoisting you up into his embrace. You felt him move, stumbling across your apartment before setting you down again. The blunt edge of a drawer hit your lower back, just as he pulled away. 

A whine left your lips. You didn’t know if it was from the pain, or the loss of his kiss.

“Turn around, darling.” he murmured, but your brain was so damn distracted you just stared at him blankly. He grinned, hands at your hips gently maneuvering you to face away from him. “You said you wanted to be bent over.” 

Chills went down your spine as he pushed you forward, elbows landing on the smooth, wooden desk. 

“Y-yeah, I did say that.” you managed to reply. This time, the breathless quality in your voice was not an affectation. You felt his nose on your neck, pushing away the stray locks of hair, before his mouth landed over the skin, open and wet, traversing the expanse of your flesh with reckless ardor. You moaned, craning your head back in a wordless plea for more.

You felt teeth, the sting of it clamping over your flesh. You didn’t even realize you’d yelped until he stopped.

“Sorry,” he whispered, soothing the bite with his kisses.

“It’s okay,” You replied, one hand reaching up, running through his hair. “Do it again.”

The rumble of his laughter made your stomach warm. He sunk his teeth into your neck again, sucked at the spot he bit, and you would have face planted into the desk had it not been for his hands holding you up. 

“You’re a naughty girl,” he purred against your skin, “Aren’t you? Sending that picture to me, I bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

“It was,” you protested, but then he grinds his crotch into your ass and any indignation was stifled by the feeling of how damn hard he was. “It was - I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to make me this hard?” he asked, rolling his hips against you, “I think you knew exactly what you were doing, naughty girl.” Before you could answer, you felt something digging into your ass. He was tugging at your panties. To the side, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to strip it off of you. 

It was hot as all hell.

“My god, you’re absolutely soaked for me.” he groaned into your ear, and you gasped as the rough pads of his fingers ran through your cunt. Somehow, his fingers have remained cold, and the sensation sent a shudder down your spine.

“S-Spencer,” you whined, knuckles finding leverage at the edge of the desk you’ve been sprawled over.

“Mhm? What is it, darling?”

“M-more.”

His laughter filled the room once again, “And I thought I was being needy.” he said, but he obliged your request easily, slipping two fingers into your pussy. His breath fanned over the overheated skin of your neck as he buried his face against your shoulder, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you moved your hips against his hand, chasing the rhythm of his fingers. You’d never enjoyed this by yourself; your own fingers were thin, too short to cause any sort of pleasure when you touched yourself. But Spencer’s hands were large, his fingers long and elegant and perfect. They curled inside you, hitting a spot you’ve never been able to with your own hands, and you cried “Oh, fuck yes!”

It was everything. Quite literally. His arm was holding you against him, his body a solid, lean mass behind you, pressing into the slopes of your own, digging in wherever your softness yields to his hard angles. You moaned and moaned again, as his fingers quickened, as his thumb found your clit and rubbed fast circles until your arms gave out and your entire upper half was splayed on the desk. 

He didn’t stop, cooing soft words into your ear, his tongue and lips and teeth a whole other dangerous territory of its own. You knew you would have hickeys tomorrow. You knew the team would ask questions. You didn’t particularly care.

“Can you take more?” he asked, and you nodded, eager to take whatever he was going to give. A third finger slid into your dripping cunt, stretching you in ways you haven’t felt in a long time and you groaned, head buried in your arms. He paused, his other hand rubbing circles on your hip, “Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes.” you sobbed, and you knew he wouldn’t believe you because you sounded sad, and everything that Spencer has done up until this point proved that, despite it all, he cared. 

“You can tell me if it’s too much, you know.” he murmured. His lips laved featherlight kisses along your shoulder.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, bucking your hips. The idea of being slightly incoherent from the pleasure he’s been giving you was a little too enticing, and you were in no mood to stop, “Please.”

“Okay,” he resumed his ministrations, slower this time, dragging his fingers in and out of you with a precise rhythm, now that he’s figured out your weak spots. “You are so pretty like this, darling. Dress hiked up, your lipstick smudged.”

A mewl came out of your throat, and you would have been embarrassed if you still had the presence of mind to feel an ounce of shame. He coaxed a second orgasm from you, and you marveled at the fact that he could elicit responses like these with just his fingers. It seemed unfair, but a large part of you reveled in it.

“That’s it,” he whispered, slowly pulling his fingers out, “That’s my pretty girl.”

You lifted your head from your arms. The sight that welcomes you is a blurry one, impeded by the clumpy eyelashes and messy tears that had gathered in your eyes. You knew you looked a mess, far from the pretty girl he kept repeating, but you ate up the praise all the same.

As if by their own accord, your hips move back, grinding into his erection. You wanted more. You wanted him to be in the same daze you were in right now, wanted to be one. “Spencer,” you whined, and he laughed, and you wondered if it was possible to get drunk off of a sound.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?” he replied, playfully chastising, but the sound of his belt buckle reached your ears and you grinned.

“Just wanna make sure you get something too.” you mumbled.

“Is this a bad time to tell you that I had forgotten a condom?”

Now it was your turn to laugh, bracing yourself on your elbows again, and looking over his shoulder.

“Wow, isn’t your whole thing the complete opposite of forgetting?”

“I was a little distracted.” he said, his smile sheepish.

“I don’t mind,” you replied, “I’m on the pill.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Mhm-hmm.” You nodded, one arm moving and blindly grasping for the zipper of your Santa dress. His hand gently encircled your wrist, placing it back on the desk.

“It stays on,” he said, as the blunt tip of his cock pushed past your pussy, “I told you, red is your color.”

Your mouth dropped open as he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, and wordless expression of pleasure. He had spent a large chunk of time fucking you with his fingers, and the necessity of it dawned upon you now.

He was big.

The stretch made you groan, eyes squeezing shut as your pussy fluttered around him. He pressed his body over yours, pushing you into the desk as he began to rock, in and out of you. Involuntarily, you clenched around him, earning a sharp hiss.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, holding you tightly around the waist with one arm. The other went to the desk, steadying himself as he found a rhythm that made you writhe beneath him, “Oh god, yes.”

You couldn’t even respond, your body moving on autopilot, meeting his every thrust with your hips. The sounds your bodies made were obscene, wet, sloppy noises of flesh meeting flesh. It filled your head, made you dizzy with pleasure. 

“Spencer,” at this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve repeated his name. The world has anchored all meaning to that one sound, and you said it, over and over again, “Spencer.”

“Mhm,” he responded by snapping his hips, pushing his cock so deep into your toes curl, “That’s it, darling, say my name.”

“Spencer,” you said in your broken voice, every repetition turning higher and higher in pitch, and it seemed like the higher your voice went, the harder he fucked you. Your desk banged against the wall from his rough thrusts, joining the cacophony of sounds from your coupling. 

His pace grew rougher, faster, his grip on you reaching the point of painful and bruising, but it made your head spin in the most delicious way possible. You clenched around him, squeezing his cock in an attempt to find your peak, and instead initiating his.

“Fuck—” he groaned, as his load exploded inside you, somehow filling you even more, and you dropped your head to the desk again as your own body shuddered with release. 

Panting, and exhausted, you both stayed there, bent over the desk half upright, like a tower about to topple. He kissed the back of your neck as you fought to catch your breath. Looking over your shoulder, the sight of him fills your vision, hair tousled and sticking to his forehead, his lips smudged with your lipstick, and you couldn’t help but think that red is his color too.

[moonazurewolves]

Balance

In the beginning, there were two entities: everything and nothing, Infinity and Void. They were sentient beings, but with no body, no physical form. They made up the universe, Infinity granting it its unending territories and non-existent borders, and Void filling it up with the nothingness that was everything at the same time. 

They didn’t need anything else. They were the world, the Yin and Yang, the Light and the Dark (although that would only come later). But they soon came to realise that the world was too empty, too filled with nothingness, too limitless. They longed to fill it with something.

So Infinity and Void came together. They brought out a bit of themselves, their own personalities and their own elements. They created the Light and the Dark. And from there, the universe as it is known started to take shape. 

Light was a perfect being. It was half-Infinity and half-Void, a perfectly balanced deity. It was favoured by Infinity and Void, and soon was able to masterfully harness its powers of light. It created the secondary deities, Time, Space, and Nature. They then further created powerful gods and mythical creatures, some forgotten, some still remembered to this day. The Christian God, the Norse gods and the Greek gods are just some of the unexhaustible list. 

Light, ever the perfect being, sought to create a masterpiece: a life form that could thrive on its own, adapt on its own, hone itself to become the perfect being, like Light itself was. It threw itself into the creation of this being, which was neither the largest nor the strongest; neither the fastest nor the smartest. It was, however, the most versatile and resilient. It as a species, would learn fast and change fast. It would change the world. 

Light brought in the powers of Void and Infinity, threw in some unique elements of the very gods it had created, and brought to life humans. They were Infinity itself, having an unending list of personalities, of feelings, of variables that made each and every one of the species unique. They were, together, an entity; but they were also each a separate consciousness. They were Light’s masterpiece.

Dark, on the other hand, was the very opposite of Light. It was imperfect, unbalanced, skewed towards Void but also carrying a hint of Infinity. Flawed. Unlike Light, it did not seek to create sentient beings like the gods, and instead spent its days churning out idea after idea after idea. Some were similar, some were as different as Infinity and Void themselves. All lived in the same world. 

Some died out. Some lived on, and some grew and changed, slowly but surely, into a better, more suitable version of themselves. Some were erased off the face of the earth, never to be known by their successors, but more often than not they left behind some form of trace that screamed at the universe, I was here. I lived once, and I will continue to do so in the memories of my people. 

Some had fur, and some had scales; some had feathers, some had leaves. Vastly different, yet fundamentally equal. Together they created a cycle, faltering at times but never stopping. 

Where Light was organised and careful, Dark was chaotic and impulsive. Anything that came to mind, it threw out. In a way it was its own form of bemoaning the universe, projecting itself onto its creations; for they were never perfect, always missing something or another, unlike the ones Light made. 

Where Light worked smart, Dark worked hard. Where Light caused flowers to bloom and young to romper, Dark swept in like a hurricane and drowned them out. Where Light sought to cast its beam on every surface it could, Dark was content with whatever was left. And where Light fought for the common right and justice, Dark stood up for the unprivileged, the imperfect, the flawed.  

The two fought in a never-ending tug of war. One might seem to be losing out, but it always made a comeback. Neither would give, unwilling in their own perception of the world to let the other corrupt it with a foreign one. 

Unbeknownst to them, they formed another delicate balance, the perfect and imperfect, the good and the bad, the truth where knowledge presented itself and the lies where it hid. The Yin and the Yang. The Light and the Dark.