#velvet's ideas and rambles

[1-winged]

started working on a kazuscara fic!! haven't posted anything on my ao3 since july but if i'm lucky i'll finish this by the end of the week and post it <3

no promises though.

[lickthehilt]

SCRAPPED Blade x Reader Drabble

a/n: okay so i had this idea in the back burner of my mind but no matter how much i tried to nail the opening paragraphs, i just couldn't. instead of letting this idea die with my creativity for this prompt, i decided to just post it so theres no thing on my part where im stressed about getting it perfect. i might rework it but ngl im at a stalemate with this. im starting to get wordy but its because im tired hee hee.

summary: your business in traditional portrait painting amongst the planet's digital developments is situated in a quaint alleyway. you get all sorts of customers, mostly old and all claiming an eye for art, but one day you get a customer-- more like a pest-- that lingers by your storefront.

none of the drafts are finished ^^

FIRST DRAFT:

There’s a ghost haunting your windows. Well, haunting the outside of your windows. You started to notice a few decades ago, thinking nothing of the lingering shadow. Maybe it was a cat. It probably was a cat, right? There’s plenty of cats in this area in particular, especially in your little alleyway where your shop is tucked away.

This little planet has a thing with cats. Small and big, fat and thin, long or short-haired. It’s unlike your home planet— ship— as your home town had more of a thing for dogs. You think.

The shadow is nothing but another part of your routine. An imaginary friend that remains invisible, a loose hair dangling from your hairline, a hangnail. It's just there.

So one day you're gazing into the direction of the haunted window and expect to see the feline orbs of amber, yellow or green. You pause when you don't.

His gaze is like a stamp branded into your skull; red, like the colour of peppers and ketchup. Rubies and you think you’ve seen a flower in that exact shade. Your heart staccatos under his shadowed gaze to the beat of a skipped stone before it sinks. Your stomach sinks.

When you blink, his visage is gone.

The door bell tinkles as the door swings open. She looks like one of your paintings: hair the colour of finely aged wine and dehydrated pink roses. You like the sound of her heels as she clack, clack, clacks into your store, thumbing at picture frames and—

“May I?” Her finger teases the sheet that you had pulled over your work-in-progress side project. From where you sit by your main easel, by your canvas, you can see the unfinished carvings made into the stone slab that made the torso. A pattern you could, would, never get right from memory.

“It’s not finished.” Your jaw clenches at the way her finger inches the cloth a bit higher.

“I don’t mind.”

A wave of heat blushes your ears, mouth twitching. “I think… I do mind, though.”

“Do you?” When she looks at you, you cower away. She chuckles, crossing her arms. “Kafka,” sticking out a coy hand, she inches towards you. You shy your hand towards her, briefly pausing to wipe your palms against your apron. “I’m here to collect.”

“Collect?”

“A commission.”

“Oh.” The holographic computer flickers to life as you sit back on your wheeled chair to scoot towards your desk and away from your painting. “It’s under Kafka?” Sliding your fingers to scroll through your orders, you pause. “Oh yeah, yeah. One minute.”

When you head into the back room, your heart sighs. It’s quieter back here. Not like it was much loud in the main room, but the quality of air, the atmosphere, is just different.

Your paintings are tucked away, pre-wrapped with clear film and half packaged. On the tables scattered around the room are figurines, sculptures of things, people, animals.

People don’t really commission old-style portraits anymore; too much time and material. Why wait days and weeks for a single picture when you can easily capture one through digital lens?

Adventuring further into the room, behind a dressing panel, is your most prized possession: a diorama. It’s a distant memory. You made this long ago, centuries amongst the stars, and after living for so long you can hardly remember the finer details. Are the bumps that made up their little noses replicating the real life subject accurately? Or is it a placeholder for something that you couldn’t replicate? What exactly was this scene and is it meant to be happy or sad?

There’s a blurry vagueness to it, lost intentions through the simplification of art. The whole thing is meant to move, too. But the key was lost to time, or just lost. When you pried the buildings away from the base, a system of gears are the canvas to dust builds the foundation.

You find Kafka's painting in one of the slots in the back corner of the room, already packaged neatly in a zipped folder.

"Everything alright back there?" Her voice rings closer as she peaks into the back room. "My, my. Is that the painting?" Her pleasant smile is still plastered onto her face as she motions forward.

"Stop!" Instantly you bite your lip, clearing your throat. "Uh, I mean. It's okay. I'm coming out."

She hums.

"Oh, is this room restricted from the public?"

Normally no, but, "Yes... something like that." She echoes you. Her gaze wonders, flickering from the dingy light hanging from above, to where your body blocks the entrance cradled by your dressing panel.

SECOND DRAFT:

There’s a ghost haunting your frosted windows. It lingers and spooks your customers, who glance back as they patter into your studio. They never complain though, well outwardly to you, only taking glances to the figure as you converse with them.

It never harms or interacts with you and whenever you tried to go outside to confront it, it disappears. Leaving trinkets for it does nothing as it never touches them, and food sometimes (on the very, very rare occasion) gets eaten. So you leave it be. The shadow is nothing but another part of your routine. An imaginary friend that remains invisible, a loose hair dangling from your hairline, a hangnail. It's just there.

Well, one day you're gazing into the direction of the faceless thing and pause.

His gaze is like a stamp branded into your skull; red, like the colour of peppers and ketchup. Rubies and you think you’ve seen a flower in that exact shade. Your heart staccatos under his shadowed gaze to the beat of a skipped stone before it sinks. Your stomach sinks.

When you blink, his visage is gone.

The door bell tinkles as the door swings open. She looks like one of your paintings: hair the colour of finely aged wine and dehydrated pink roses. You like the sound of her heels as she clack into your store, thumbing at picture frames and—

“May I?” Her finger teases the sheet that you had pulled over your work-in-progress side project. From where you sit by your main easel, by your canvas, you can see the unfinished carvings made into the stone slab that made the torso. A pattern you could, would, never get right from memory.

“It’s not finished.” Your jaw clenches at the way her finger inches the cloth a bit higher.

“I don’t mind.”

A wave of heat blushes your ears, mouth twitching. “… I do mind, though.”

“Do you?” When she looks at you, you cower away. She chuckles, crossing her arms. “Kafka,” sticking out a coy hand, she inches towards you. You shy your hand towards her, briefly pausing to wipe your palms against your apron. “I’m here to collect.”

“Collect?”

“A commission.”

“Oh.” The holographic computer flickers to life as you sit back on your wheeled chair to scoot towards your desk and away from your painting. “It’s under Kafka?” Sliding your fingers to scroll through your orders, you pause. “Oh yeah, yeah. One minute.”

When you head into the back room, your heart sighs. It’s quieter back here. Not like it was much loud in the main room, but the quality of air, the atmosphere, is just different. Your paintings are tucked away, pre-wrapped with clear film and half packaged. On the tables scattered around the room are figurines, sculptures of things, people, animals.

It's only a brief break before you're hauling the medium-sized painting back to her.

FINAL DRAFT START:

The ghost came to you in a dream. You could hear the distinct ticking of the clock, the beats as it swung side-to-side from your living room.  An itch bloomed from your scalp, in which you patted with flexed out fingers; the beating against your head almost jogged the memory of your dream back to the forefront of your mind as it faded into the crevices of your thought. Your sheets pooled by your hips, a shiver tickling your spine as you wiggled to get out of bed.

Padding downstairs, you pushed through your filed sketchbooks before pulling one out and sitting by your desk.

[velvetrambles]

Absolutely nothing is beating the cry of pure anguish I let out when my brother told me to check Ada's gun in og RE2 It wasn't loaded. IT WASN'T LOADED. CAPCOM I'M GOING TO GET YOU.

[pinkseas]

Yoooooo! Okay so in one of your posts you mentioned that you thought that the eggpire members had differing levels of ‘freedom’ in terms of how far they could stray from the Egg (ex: Hannah and Skeppy needing to be very close by). What are your thoughts on that for each eggpire member?

okay SO!!!!!!!!

skeppy, i think, needed to stay the closest. by far. being even too far from it while still within the egg room would lead to irritation and frustration, would have him burning and freezing and shivering, feverish with the need to be back by its side. he’s safe within a few feet of it, and best when left completely alone and by its side. any sort of interruption to the time he spends with it has the same effects, leading to his bad moods when bbh tries to speak to him or lead him away. physically and mentally there’s a need to stay as close to it as possible, to do nothing but stay by its side.

hannah is probably the second most effected. her connection to the roses especially makes her vulnerable, as the egg honestly functions very similarly to the way a flower would- with the egg itself as the bulb, and the bloodvines themselves being, well, vines. that combined with how close she was forced to it (the same way skeppy forced Himself to be that close, for the others sake) leaves her ill when she strays too far or goes without seeing it for too long. whereas skeppy is irritated and feverish, hannah becomes very foggy, unable to think straight or clear her head. there’s a nausea and a tug in her chest and a fuzziness in her brain that rapidly gets worse, the weakness she feels turning to strength and her mind clearing the closer she gets. 

and then bad !! bad is honestly probably right in the middle. he’s given more freedom, as he needs it in order to spread the egg’s word and influence across the land, but still closely tethered. i think that doing something the egg dislikes or trying to stray for too long would lead to sharp stabs and aches of otherwise unexplained physical pain, headaches and muscle cramps and aching bones. and i think bad, honestly, could and would suffer through that if not for skeppy. skeppy is what keeps him close above all else, and the physical pain isn’t nearly to the degree it was before skeppy’s sacrifice freed bad from the egg’s control. the egg never fully got that control back, bad chooses to stay for skeppy’s sake. but by not belonging fully to the egg, the actual effects of being away from it are lessened, as much as it tries to keep him closer.

ponk doesn’t feel much, but then, he also doesn’t have much desire to stray. i think the vines making up his arm would start to grow loose and unravel if he were to go too far, a reminder that he’s bound, but because he’s fairly happy under the egg’s control and doesn’t necessarily care for freeing himself, the egg has less reason to try and keep him close. he does that on his own.

and punz !!! punz has the most freedom, easily, because no matter how far he goes, bloodshed follows. and the egg loves that. it grants him both strength and freedom and he uses that, knowingly or not, to make it stronger. should he have tried to leave things would’ve been different, but he liked the strength and power that the egg granted, actively wanted to keep it. since his possession it played a part in every bit of blood he shed, and therefore gained power from every bit, too. should punz ever think himself beyond needing it, well. rather than simply take away the power it granted, it could take away much of his own power, too, leave him far weaker than ever before and tell him he was free. leave him to come crawling back just to feel any bit like himself again, just to avoid that awful helplessness.

i am, honestly, not certain about antfrost. i think his near blind loyalty to the egg would’ve kept him close enough that the egg never worried about him straying, or there’s always the possibility that, if he thought the egg could bring velvet back (i can’t remember if that was canon or not LMAO), he himself never risked going far anyways. ant has always felt somewhat like the most steady member of the eggpire to me, so i think he’d be the only one to truly experience no consequence, or more accurately to never do anything requiring consequence in the egg’s eyes.

[xiomeebo]

Feeling the Tales of brainworms returning but the project sekai ones aren’t leaving yet so i’m stuck here with my brain making endless amounts of aus

[pathologicalreid]

for the fear of falling apart | part two

returning to Everett Lynch's case, you try to redefine normalcy with Spencer and JJ, but Grace Lynch has other plans for you

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst, hurt/comfort content warnings: gun violence, spoilers/references to: 9x6 "in the blood", 9x14 "200", 9x23 "angels", 9x24 "demons", 13x22 "believer", 14x1 "300", 14x15 "truth or dare". rewrite of 15x1 "under the skin", 15x2 "awakenings". a lot of dialogue is pulled directly from the show. hospitals/medical information. diana's alzheimers. marriage talk. roslyn's suicide. the parentification of jennifer jareau. mommy AND daddy issues. fear of drowning. word count: 7.48k a/n: it's two days late, but it's three times longer than part one. welcome to the abyss of my brain. it's scary in here.

Your name was being called. First, it felt far away, slowly coming closer and closer, lifting you to the surface as if you were being pulled. The sound was muffled until you broke through the barrier, a female voice clearly called your name, prompting your eyes to fly open, and there you were, sitting up on Penelope’s velvet couch, cocooned in a crocheted blanket with what was sure to be a remarkable bedhead.

Lifting your hand and placing it over your racing heart, you looked up at Penelope, the blue streak that you had redone for her last night prominent against her blonde hair. “Hey,” you said, widening your eyes and letting the blanket fall from your shoulders.

She crooked a brow at you suspiciously. For someone who wasn’t a profiler, she did have a knack for reading people, but you supposed it came with the territory. “My darling girl, you are always more than welcome to sleep on my couch, it’s a wonderful couch, I have spent my fair share of nights sleeping on it,” she rambled, sitting down next to you and taking your hands in hers. “You’re hiding,” she told you softly, “What are you hiding from?”

Penelope reached out to you, sweeping a messy strand of hair behind your ear as her big, brown eyes looked at you sympathetically. The gesture and the way she was speaking to you nearly approached being sisterly. At the idea of developing a supplemental sororal relationship with the technical analyst, you pulled away from her. You shook your head, “I’m not hiding,” you told her simply, leaving her with a half-truth as you stood up and began folding the blanket that had kept you warm overnight.

Nodding incredulously, she looked up at you, “If your Luddite boyfriend is blowing up my phone, then something has to be going on.” Her tone was urgent, but she stayed seated, giving you an advantage.

“Nothing’s wrong, Pen,” you reassured her, shaking your head and shrugging simultaneously.

Her face filled with doubt, glancing over at your cellphone as it buzzed on the coffee table, Spencer’s contact flashing on the touchscreen as you ignored the call. “Why didn’t you tell him you were staying with me last night?”

Pressing your lips in a thin white line, you briefly considered coming clean. You envisioned the truth coming out of you in puddles, everything you had been holding close to your chest for the last month pouring out like alphabet soup, but Penelope didn’t deserve that burden. “I just forgot,” you told her, watching the screen go dark.

Spencer was a worrier by the influence of his environment. Adamantly against getting a new phone, he couldn’t see your location at any given moment. His first course of action was usually calling your sister before resorting to Penelope, who not only has your location on her phone but also has access to your location in the bureau database. It wasn’t a fault of his, members of the BAU did have a tendency to disappear in the dead of the night.

She urged you to call him back as her phone started going off, her shoulders slumping forward, a tell-tale sign that the BAU was being pulled in on a case. If you were lucky, you would be able to slip through the cracks, claiming to put all of your focus into the case so that you didn’t need to have an in-depth conversation with your boyfriend. Or your sister, for that matter.

“Where are we headed?” You asked, rolling up your sleeves and crossing your arms in front of your stomach.

Penelope frowned at the tiny screen in front of her, ��Baltimore,” she said hesitantly, “Uh, we gotta go. I’ll drive? You can call Spencer on the way,” she suggested before bolting into the bathroom.

You ended up avoiding the call to Spencer yet again, claiming you’d see him at the office anyway, and instead opening yourself up to a barrage of questions.

Was there cheating? Are you pregnant? Were you pregnant? Did he propose? Did you say no? Did you say yes?

The two of you parted as she went to prepare files and you waltzed into the bullpen, clocking the vase of flowers on your desk immediately. They, of course, weren’t just flowers, but a carefully calculated decision made to try and get into your good graces. This was the fifth vase that had been delivered in the last month.

First, there were honeysuckles, a symbol of devoted affection. Red carnations told you that his heart ached for you. A bouquet of daisies because he truly loved you. Last week, white lilies were left on your desk, a symbol of pure love.

Now, a bunch of apple blossoms sat on your desk, telling you that he preferred you before anyone else. How poignant.

Your eyes burned as you looked around the bullpen, hoping he was around so you could return the flowers to him, but the only people you saw were Emily and Rossi, sequestered in her office in the middle of what seemed to be a tense discussion. Choosing to ignore the flowers, you walked over to your desk, tucking your go-bag underneath and starting to power up your computer.

“Hey, Y/N?” Emily called from her office, “Can you head to the file room and pull everything from the Lynch case?” She didn’t even wait for an answer before closing the door again.

Concerned, you turned around and started making your way to the file room. If Everett Lynch was back, that would explain the worried look on Penelope’s face when the case came in. Even more, that would explain why Emily and Rossi were hidden in her office. Every member of the team wanted to see Lynch locked up for what he’s done, but for Dave it was personal.

Opening the file room, you pulled open the drawer of active cases from the past three months, starting to strip the drawer of anything even remotely related to Everett Lynch. The revelation that Grace was his daughter took everyone by surprise, but Spencer still felt responsible for Luke getting knifed. You should talk to him about it, you thought to yourself, if he didn’t talk about it, he’d just continue to internalize it.

“I need to talk to you,” a voice said suddenly from behind you, jolting you away from your train of thought. Spinning on your heel, you looked at Spencer.

Alarmed, you huffed, “You scared me,” you informed him, clutching the files close to your chest as you studied his stature. He looked fine, his hair was a bit of a mess, but he was wearing the red cardigan that you had gotten him for Christmas last year. You didn’t even want to begin to consider the implications of his outfit choice.

He furrowed his brows at you, “I scared you? You disappeared last night without a word, and I scared you?” There wasn’t even a hint of anger in his voice, instead, his words dripped in sweet melancholy, and you couldn’t look away from him.

You thought about your sister, snatched from the nation’s capital in the middle of the night as vengeance for her work with the CIA. Spencer and Penelope, both taken from what should have been a secure FBI building by a cult that bore a decade-long grudge against the BAU. You had frightened him, probably tripping his overactive mind into believing you were destined to meet a similar fate – dying in a warehouse somewhere. Blinking absently, you shook your head at him, “I’m sorry,” you told him, and you meant it.

“You’re punishing me,” he accused, crossing his arms in front of his chest before quickly dropping them, being hypervigilant about his body language.

Skimming your tongue over the backs of your teeth nervously, you hesitantly met his gaze. He seemed to be convinced that you were punishing him for the events that had taken place last month, but you were inclined to believe that you were punishing yourself, he was caught in your crossfire. “It’s not a punishment, Spence,” you whispered, watching how his brown eyes shone under the fluorescent lights.

His shoulders dropped, disappointment plain on his face, “I missed you at the baby shower,” he confessed.

“Sprinkle,” you corrected.

“Semantics,” he retorted, and it almost brought a smile to your face.

You looked down at the files in your arms, not even realizing that you had been white-knuckling the classified information, “I was there,” you disputed. “I saw you. I brought the gift and put both of our names on it. What more could I have done?”

Rolling his eyes, he gave you a tilted look, “Standing together in the group photo would’ve been nice.”

In response, you straightened up your back, “Ah, you were too busy standing with my sister,” you quipped, bringing the conversation back to the root of the conflict.

“Will you come home tonight? Stay with me?” Your heart clenched at his question.

Hesitantly, you nodded, “I’ll be there,” you assured him, securing the last of the files before sneaking around him, skillfully avoiding the remainder of your team as you made your way to the roundtable room.

“I’m worried about Dave,” you whispered, looking at the other end of the couch at your boyfriend, the two of you dressed in pajamas, your old Georgetown sweatshirt frayed at the cuffs, but it remained your favorite.

The orange print of his Caltech t-shirt was peeling up on the edges, sometimes, at night, you’d pick at the emblem – it drove Spencer crazy, especially when he woke up in a pile of picked vinyl. His mug was carefully resting in his hands as the two of you had a nighttime cup of tea, something you used to do when you had just started dating, and that you decided to try to bring back – chamomile for you, lavender for him. “I talked to him tonight,” he told you, turning to face you, “He’s.. he’ll be fine. He has Krystall.”

And I have you, you thought to yourself, lifting your mug to your lips and taking a sip. Sometimes you felt special for getting this side of Spencer, the ratty college t-shirt and flannel pajama pants that he wore while lounging on the worn leather couch.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” He asked when you didn’t respond, leaning forward and setting his mug on the coffee table.

Shaking your head, you followed suit, setting your mug on a coaster next to his before crawling closer to him on the couch, taking him by surprise. “Not yet,” you whispered, sitting down next to him, relieved when he responded by putting an arm around you. “I’m not mad at you,” you told him, “I just needed time.”

His arm was warm and familiar over your shoulders, having the same effect as a weighted blanket, calming you down with a simple touch. “To think,” he said, “you keep saying that. Are you… do you need more time?”

You closed your eyes, leaning into him, “I don’t think so, but I’m,” you faltered, frowning, “I’m having a hard time talking to my sister.” It wasn’t a secret that there had been some sort of falling out between the Jareau sisters, but the reasoning behind the rift remained a mystery to most people.

“I am too,” he admitted, skimming his fingertips up and down your arm. “I keep recalling everything that happened, and I don’t fully understand how everything got so messed up.

Raising your eyebrows, you remained in the crook of his arm, “People say a lot of things with a gun to their head.”

What you hadn’t considered was that following her admission, your sister would avoid Spencer. When you decided to avoid both of them, you had no idea what you were taking from him. “What would your truth have been?”

“I’m afraid that everything surrounding me is destined to fall apart,” you admitted. “I was brought into my family in an attempt to rescue my parents’ marriage, but it didn’t work.” Your sister slit her wrists open when you were only four years old, but somehow your father had put her death on your shoulders. JJ left home as soon as she could, leaving you at twelve years old with your grief-stricken mother, who had spent the last several decades waiting for the day her daughters would all be reunited.

Spencer was quiet for a while before responding to you, “We should go to bed.”

He was probably right, the team was expected to be in early tomorrow morning. After leaving well past dark, the last thing you wanted to think about was going back in before the sun had a chance to rise. “Wait,” you said, “What’s your truth?”

Briefly, his eyes flickered, looking down the length of your body, “My truth is that I’m tired, we should go to sleep,” he told you, herding you toward your shared bedroom.

“Same time tomorrow?” You asked, walking through the bedroom and into the ensuite, grabbing your toothbrush off the counter.

Nodding, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, “I’ll be there.”

Maybe you should’ve taken it as a sign that you were unphased by the revelation of a crazy doctor with a fetish for skinning people. The world had strange ways of telling you that you needed to take a step back, for every sign you had been given, you took a step forward. That was how you ended up in the backseat of an SUV with your sister at the wheel and Spencer in the passenger seat.

Everett Lynch had invaded the BAU’s territory, coming in like an infestation in the district, and he was trying to break his daughter Grace out of jail. You heard through the phone that they were scrambling tactics, using the walkie-talkies in the U.S. Attorney building to prevent their own capture.

The car came to a screeching halt, and the three of you piled out, “There’s no time,” your sister said, looking around, “We’ll cover this one,” she informed Spencer, looking back at you as you adjusted the strap of your Kevlar.

“I’ll take the garage on Piedmont and 10th,” Spencer responded dutifully, nodding at the both of you before turning around and running to the parking garage two blocks over.

You and your sister started to make your way into the larger of the two parking garages, both of you pulling your firearms and pointing them down, keeping yourselves aware of your surroundings. There was movement in front of you, two bodies moving toward a white van with federal plates – the Lynch’s. “Everett Lynch,” you called out, “Drop your weapon and put your hands up, now!”

The man in front of you – the so-called Chameleon – scoffed in disbelief, “Take it easy. There’s no reason to gun down a daddy in front of his little girl, right?” You kept your Glock aimed at him, watching intently as he carefully set his gun on the ground. Sirens started going off in your head, a premonition of things to come.

“Alright,” JJ shouted, “Kick it over. Grace, you too. Drop your backpack and let me see your hands. Come on, now!”

Putting her hands up, Grace let her backpack fall to the ground in a heap of fabric, you kept your gun trained on them as JJ lunged to the side, reaching over to pick up Everett’s gun from the ground. “Grace!” You shouted, watching the girl bring her hands down as she reached for something, “Put your hands back up!”

It was a split-second decision, but you watched as Grace lifted that gun in her hands, and you jumped. You knocked your sister over as three shots rang through the air, the first one grazed her arm. The next two lodged themselves in your side as the two of you fell to the ground, your body rolling along the ground as the father-daughter duo loaded themselves in the van before driving off.

JJ grabbed her weapon and shot after them, hoping to blow out one of their tires or at the very least slow them down, but with only one good arm, her aim was off. She scrambled to her feet, “Come on, Y/N,” she huffed, not checking behind her before running out of the parking garage.

You wanted nothing more than to follow her. Being angry wasn’t worth it anymore, you couldn’t freeze out your older sister anymore. You tried to breathe, you tried to call after her, but when you opened your mouth, the only thing that came out was blood.

For your entire life, you had followed her. When asked what you wanted to be when you grew up, you’d tell them you wanted to be like your big sister. You wanted to follow her, but you couldn’t move.

You followed her from East Allegheny to Washington D.C. You had followed her into this very parking garage. Now, all you could think about was following Roslyn, bleeding out on the cold hard floor, alone.

“Y/N, what’s your location?” Spencer’s voice rang through your radio.

You had never been shot before. You had always thought it would be cold to be shot, but instead, your whole body felt like it had been set on fire.

“Y/N, do you copy?”

The wetness of the blood should have made it cold.

“Y/N?”

Your fire was slowly fading, the blaze that had gone up so quickly began to ebb as you stopped feeling anything at all. The tapping of shoes echoed through the parking garage as you lay on the cement.

“No,” that all too familiar voice said, “Y/N is down, she’s been hit. We need an ambulance now,” Spencer called into the radio, he was out of breath as he looked down at you.

He studied your appearance, clocking the entry wounds on your side and moving his fingers in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. An odd, choked noise escaped your throat as the pressure on your side stoked the fire.

Spencer’s fingers trembled even as he maintained pressure on your side, “I know, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.” He took a deep breath, “here, turn- turn your head,” he instructed gently, using his free hand to coax your face to the side. You choked and came to the horrifying realization that he was trying to stop you from aspirating on your own blood. “Get it all out, baby,” he cajoled as blood spurted from your mouth, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

That would have to be enough. It wasn’t enough for you to hope anymore. You had spent so long with the Anger and Resentment from your Pandora’s Box that you completely failed to notice how Hope had slipped through the cracks, lost in a sea of emotions.

“Do you hear that? That’s the ambulance,” he told you, an unspoken plea in his voice.

But you couldn’t hear the sirens, pretty soon, you couldn’t hear anything at all.

The EMTs had all kinds of things to say, none of them were even remotely comforting. The bullets had entered through the thin opening of your Kevlar, a sort of Achilles heel where you couldn’t be protected. He should have double-checked, he should have paused to adjust the straps before running to the other parking garage.

He watched the doctors shock you in the emergency room, looking on in horror as your heart stopped beating. “Are you her husband?” One of the nurses had asked.

Spencer’s mouth had gone completely dry, “I’m- almost,” he answered, earning a sympathetic look from the nurse as she proceeded to ask him questions about next of kin and extraordinary measures. One of the bullets had pierced your lungs, causing catastrophic bleeding.

The nurse guided him to a surgical waiting room, but no one came out to him with updates, leaving him to sit. Someone brought his go-bag by, letting him change into clothes that weren’t blood-soaked.

He sat in a pile of limbs on the hospital’s couch, picking at the crusted blood that he hadn’t quite managed to wash off, and he wondered if he could ask one of the nurses for a surgical scrub brush, wondering if that would get the last flecks of blood from the ridges of his fingernails.

“Spencer,” JJ called out, rushing through the hallway, Will trailing close behind her.

Her arm was wrapped with gauze, probably stitched up before someone told her what had happened to her little sister. “Hey,” Spencer said, standing up as they approached, wiping his clammy hands on his slacks.

JJ held her hands out, “What have you heard? Anything?”

“It’s gonna be a while,” he said, repeating the only words that he had been told. They had taken you to the OR an hour ago, and all they had to do was wait it out.

The clinical white walls of the hospital were enough to make Spencer stir crazy, when Will offered to get him a cup of coffee, he was almost aggressive in his rejection. The sunlight reflected off the drywall as your surgery continued to test his patience.

Eventually, your mother called JJ back, and your sister walked away in order to explain the situation under the guise of privacy, leaving Spencer alone. “Dr. Reid?” Someone said, maintaining the reverent tones of the hospital that were beginning to make him want to pull his hair out.

“Yes,” he said, standing up in front of the nurse.

The nurse gave him a gentle smile, and he braced himself for the worst. “Ms. Jareau is out of surgery,” she informed him.

You had been in there for nearly six hours. “She…” he faltered, “Can I see her?” He asked, looking past the nurse as if he could see all the way into your recovery room from where he stood.

Nodding, the nurse continued to smile at him, “I can take you to her now if you’d like. She’s still under sedation,” she advised, gesturing for Spencer to follow her through the winding hallways of the hospital.

“Is she going to be okay?” He asked, checking to make sure he had his phone in his pocket so he could text JJ if he needed to.

The nurse’s smile tightened, “We won’t be able to know if she’s sustained any neurological damage until she wakes up.”

He frowned slightly, bracing himself for an answer that he wouldn’t like, “Could she hear me if I talk to her?” He asked, stopping in his tracks as the nurse stopped outside of a room – your room.

“It’s unlikely,” the nurse answered.

That made sense to him, there weren’t any studies that could prove that people could hear external stimuli while comatose. At least, there wasn’t enough for the medical community to reach a consensus. “Thank you,” Spencer said, nodding at the nurse as she turned away, letting him know that the doctor would be by to talk to him soon.

Your skin was pallid, a sickly sheen covering your skin as tubes and wires worked together to monitor you and keep your body going. Spencer set your patient bag in the corner of the room before dragging a chair over to your bedside, cringing at the sound the chair made against the linoleum before taking a seat next to you.

The steady beeping of your heart monitor quickly became the only thing preventing him from falling apart entirely. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, keeping his voice down so that no one else would hear him. “I keep going over it in my head and I don’t know how I didn’t realize you were missing sooner,” he spoke to your silent body, chest rising and falling with even breaths. “I’m so sorry,” he echoed, “You should’ve… you should’ve been my priority. Before Grace. Before Lynch. Before any of it.”

He inhaled shakily, glancing over at your vital monitor, taking comfort in the consistency of the numbers, “I should’ve put you first and now I- I can’t take it back,” he said, eyes burning with emotion. “I know things between the two of us have been kind of weird lately… ever since the pawn shop, I mean. I just,” he paused for a moment, giving himself grace, “I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know if she meant it and if she did, what does that mean? When you didn’t bring it up after the wedding I didn’t either because I just didn’t know how to talk to you about it.”

Somewhere along the way, the two of you had gotten lost. In the midst of not talking about the pawn shop, you had stopped talking altogether. “Now, all of a sudden, none of it even matters. All that matters is that I need you to wake up because I need to have more time with you,” he sniffled, the first hot tears rolling down his cheeks. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it,” he whispered.

“Please don’t leave me,” he begged, thinking of all of those nights the two of you had stayed up talking about the future. Your dream wedding. Your children’s names. He needed it. More of it. More of you.

Mindful of you, he laid his arms on the armrest of your hospital bed, lowering his head and watching the consistent rise and fall of your chest, listening to the whistling of your nostrils as he waited for the doctor to come.

The doctor seemed confident that you would wake up, it was just a question of when. He sent JJ, who had gone home to change into fresh clothing, an update once the doctor left.

Every once in a while, your nose would twitch or your finger would tap on the hospital bedding, and he would allow himself to get his hopes up. It never lasted long, once the fluke ended, he went back to thinking about the situation realistically. You were still having blood transfused, there was a tube in your chest depositing fluids into a bag at your bedside, and even if you did wake up, there was a long road to recovery with an injury like this.

He was terrified that you’d wake up alone and in excruciating pain, so he refused to move, having any paperwork brought directly to him in your room. Nearly every fifteen minutes, he smoothed out the blanket that rested on top of you, careful when putting his hands near your body, even though you couldn’t tell whether or not your blanket was wrinkled. Spencer thought of it as tucking you in, keeping you safe, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was too little too late.

You didn’t make it to the beach as often as you’d like. Spencer hated the beach, and you weren’t interested in swimming in the ocean so much as you wanted to go and people-watch. Families on vacation. Marriage proposals.

The first time you had ever gone to the ocean, you were three years old. JJ and Roslyn hadn’t been in years, but it was all new to you. JJ wanted to bring you to the water, and Roslyn hadn’t even wanted to go on the trip. The water hadn’t scared you then, the endless abyss of blue had seemed more inviting than anything you had ever seen before.

Now, you lay on the sand, all of it cold beneath your skin, the rest of the beach seemingly abandoned. Try as you might, you couldn’t move anything. You wanted to lift your arm to brush hair out of your face. You wanted to sit up. You wanted to go home.

You couldn’t even see the water from where you lay, you opened your mouth, hoping to call for help, but were surprised when the only thing that came out of your mouth was a dark, black sludge. It spurted from your mouth as it ran down your cheeks, staining the white sand of the beach beneath you. You were drowning on dry land, and there was nothing you could do.

Nothing but open your eyes.

The ominous white sky of the beach turned into white walls, as you fluttered your eyes open, the ocean made way for you, parting so that you could return to yourself. Laid in a hospital bed, trying to remember how to breathe, and meeting Spencer’s stare.

“Hi love,” he whispered, gently placing one hand on top of yours, drawing circles on the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb, careful not to knock your pulse oximeter off.

Your brows pinched together as you looked over at him, he looked tired, waiting for you to say something. Your chest felt tight as you looked at him, hundreds of thoughts bubbling to the surface, but only one bubble popped, “I had a nightmare.”

Spencer nodded slowly, messy curls falling over his forehead, “It’s okay, angel. You’re awake now. It can’t hurt you.”

It can’t hurt you. It can’t hurt you. It can’t hurt you.

You watched as Spencer reached over and pushed the call button on your bed. Each moment you spent awake became increasingly painful, signified by the slow rise of your heart rate, the pain only exacerbated when your breathing quickened. Alarm grew, “Shh, hey,” Spencer consoled you, reaching his hand out and smoothing your hair back, looking to the door and hoping someone would come in and help you.

They did, pushing pain medications through your IV and watching your heart rate stabilize before giving you something to help you calm down. Spencer probably knew what they all were, making mental notes to keep track of everything as he kept his hand in yours. Your pain level dwindled from a nine to a six, leveling out in the middle ground.

You settled back into the pillows, cringing as a nurse moved your bed so that you were sitting up slightly, nodding softly at the things that she told you about rest. She checked your vitals, before leaving the two of you alone, silence swirling around the two of you as you constructed a bubble to keep yourselves warm.

“I should’ve found you sooner,” he whispered, looking over at you, a distressed look in his eyes.

Moving at a turtle’s pace, you shook your head, “You saved my life.”

It’s okay. I’ve got you, he had told you in the parking garage, and he did. He still had you, even now. If they had let him, Spencer might’ve waited for you outside the operating room, just to be in the vicinity of you.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you murmured, eyes opening and closing slowly. Your eyelids felt sticky like there was still tape residue on them from your operation, but you didn’t dare move. You didn’t dare agitate any wound on your body. “Is JJ okay?” You asked, your voice tight. Checking in on your sister took all of your strength.

Spencer kept his hand in yours, moving his free hand to wipe at tears that had spilled over your lower lashline. “She’s fine, just a graze,” he reassured you, “I’ll call her when you go back to sleep.”

You swallowed thickly, wondering if you were allowed to have any water, “I missed you,” you breathed, fighting to keep your eyes open. “I wanna talk to you,” you sniffled.

“You should sleep, my sweet girl,” he answered, not wanting you to get into a hefty conversation in your condition. “We have all the time in the world to talk when you wake up.”

Except you didn’t. You had thought there was time for you to be angry, but then you had been shot. As much as you hated the idea of being someone who had a near-death experience and suddenly let bygones be bygones, alienating those close to you seemed exhausting. You took a deep breath, thankful for the nasal cannula on your face, “I’ve been so distant,” you admitted.

Spencer hesitated, not sure if you needed to get into this while so vulnerable, “I don’t know if she meant it,” he breathed.

“I don’t need to know,” you told him, surprising yourself as much as him with your admission. “JJ is… She’s one of the most important people in my life, but so are you. Maybe even more so.”

He frowned, “You can’t possibly mean that.”

You closed your eyes for a few seconds before opening them again, “JJ’s my sister, we share the same family, but I chose you, Spence. I will continue to do so,” you told him, deciding against adding until the day that I die. Watching him as he looked at you with tear-filled eyes, “Oh,” you sighed, “please don’t cry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Waving off your concern, he wiped at his eyes before taking one of your hands in both of his, “I love you so much, but I don’t want you to forget your anger.”

“Huh?” You hummed groggily.

“You’ve been mad for months,” he whispered, the strokes of his thumb on the back of your hand putting you to sleep. “It doesn’t need to fade away in the blink of an eye.”

You let your eyes slip shut once again, “I’ll still give you a hard time.”

He laughed slightly at that, “Good.”

“Spence?” You breathed.

“Yeah, baby?”

Humming, you settled back into the bed, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make our tea date tonight.”

When you woke up again, a familiar blonde was sitting at the foot of your bed, hunched in a plastic hospital chair while Spencer remained at your bedside, hands still intertwined, but sweaty now. “Jennifer,” he said, getting the attention of your sister.

She jumped up from the chair and sat on the edge of your bed, in your periphery, you saw Spencer retreat, ambling into the hallway to talk to Emily. Letting him go, you turned your attention to your sister, “Hey, Jayg,” you greeted, words coming easier now than they did before, the swelling of your throat had gone down.

Her finely chiseled eyebrows pinched together on her face, “I thought you were right behind me,” she admitted miserably, looking at your torso.

“It’s alright now, though,” you tried to reassure her. You had lost half of your blood volume, much of it on the parking garage floor, but you were here now, that had to mean something.

She shook her head in abject self-disappointment, “I should have protected you,” she insisted, scrunching up her nose as she fought back tears.

You were too tired to fight emotions, water falling from your tear ducts as the two of you tried to mend what had previously been torn apart. “You don’t need to protect me,” you insisted. The decision to take the hit had been entirely your own, driven by a need to protect her.

“I always have though,” she reminded you, “When Roz died, dad left, and mom checked out, I took care of you.”

When you were a child, you thought that having your pre-teen sister do everything for you was the way things worked. It didn’t last long, things unraveled from there, but you always had JJ. “I’m all grown up now,” you reminded her. You didn’t need her protection in your early thirties in the same way you needed them as a child.

JJ took a shaky breath, cupping your cheek with her hand affectionately, the way a mother would to their child, “You’re always going to be my little sister.”

You looked at her, seven years your senior, and you sighed, “Do you know why I did it?” You asked her, studying the sad look in her eyes.

She smoothed your hair back, grabbed a cup of water from your bedside, and brought the straw to your lips, “Why, Ducky?”

The childhood nickname chimed in your ears, one of the only things that you retained from your eldest sister. You smiled at her, “Your boys.” The answer came easily to you, “You have Will and your tiny people, and I just thought… I couldn’t let you leave them.”

“But I almost lost you,” she countered, it wasn’t aggressive, it was almost like she was trying to make you see the value in your own life. The people in your life didn’t make you valuable, you had value as an individual.

Shrugging, you looked at her sympathetically, “Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’, “You’re stuck with me.”

She gave you a sisterly, knowing look, “Your heart stopped. Twice.”

You concurred, “Yeah, because you’re just that stuck with me.” You insisted, watching as Spencer answered a phone call in the hallway. “Did you call them?” You asked her, giving her a quick glance as you craned your neck to keep an eye on your boyfriend.

“Mom’s on a flight in tomorrow morning, but dad hasn’t responded to my voicemail,” she informed you, she didn’t look surprised, and you didn’t feel it.

Where your father was concerned, some things were better left unsaid, but you wouldn’t necessarily mind if he never responded to your sister’s calls. There was no reason to drag him and his new wife from their cushy life in Florida. Spencer reentered the room as JJ’s phone started ringing – Will – and the two of them traded off, amicably splitting time with you.

Greeting him with a content smile on your face, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your hairline, “I have to go,” he told you reluctantly.

You tried not to let any disappointment show on your face, “Why? What’s wrong?” You asked, studying his face for any sign of what his phone call had been about.

“That was Brookfield on the phone,” Spencer said, checking all of the monitors that surrounded you.

The grim look on his face made sense to you. Moving his mother into Brookfield had been the right choice for everyone, but her condition was never going to get better. Last time he had gone to visit, Diana hadn’t even recognized him, and you spent the rest of the day holding him, letting him know it was alright. “You have to go,” you echoed his earlier sentiment, nodding reassuringly.

He hesitated to leave you, sitting on the edge of your bed that had been previously occupied by your sister, “But you- you’re…”

You shook your head in dismissal, “Sometimes everything happens all at once, but you have to go.” If Brookfield was telling him to get down there, then he needed to go.

The next several hours passed slowly, Emily gave you an update on the case – the reader’s digest version, avoiding any gnarly details in an attempt to protect you. Will brought you and JJ dinner, eating the meal with them and your nephews, you were grateful to not have to eat the hospital cafeteria food. Slowly, the day came to an end, you sent JJ home when visiting hours ended, letting her know that you didn’t need to be protected while you were in a hospital.

You fell asleep not long after one of your nurses lowered the volume on your vital monitor, the dark peace of the hospital lulling you into a sense of safety. There hadn’t been word from Spencer, and you worried about him and his mother.

A tapping sound dragged you from what was thankfully a dreamless sleep, you recognized the sound of the footsteps, those shoes made a similar sound on the hardwood floor of your apartment, “You’re noisy when you wear your fancy shoes,” you mumbled drowsily, opening your tired eyes and tilting your head in the direction of the sound.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, “Go back to sleep,” he told you gently, slowly making his way around your hospital bed and to the fold-out chair next to your bed.

You hummed, following him with your eyes as they adjusted in the dark, “No, you woke me up. Now you have to talk to me,” you told him, reaching over to switch on a lamp, cringing at the way the light burned your eyes.

Unprompted, he inspected your vital monitor before reaching out to adjust your nasal cannula, “Where’s JJ?” He asked, cupping your cheek affectionately before taking his seat.

Reaching out for your cup of water, you smiled to yourself when Spencer moved it closer to you, “I made her go home. Our mom will be here in the morning, and she’ll need all the rest she can get.” There was also the fact that Michael had been freaked out by seeing you in a hospital, so he needed some extra love from his parents tonight. “Wait,” you said, “How did you get in here? Visiting hours are over.”

“I might have told a small lie about you needing security,” he admitted sheepishly, but beneath it, he was smug. You didn’t fault him on it, you probably wanted him here just as much as he wanted to be here, if not more.

Smiling in the dim lamplight, you inclined your head toward him, “Did you misrepresent the bureau?”

He rolled his eyes, “I’d do it again if it meant I get to spend the night with you.” Helping you put your water cup back on your tray, Spencer took your hand in his, “How are you doing?”

You were exhausted, not in the sense that you wanted to sleep, although that probably couldn’t hurt, but in the sense that your entire body ached. There was a pinch in your side that wouldn’t ease up, and you didn’t feel comfortable with asking for more pain medication. Part of you was afraid that in the process of being shot, you developed a fear of drowning. You almost died today. Huge strides had been made in an attempt to repair your relationship with Spencer and with your sister. None of these thoughts escaped your lips, you just looked at him sympathetically, “How’s your mom?”

All he gave you was a tight smile, squeezing your hand tightly, “She’s ah… she’s alright,” he told you, your chest tightening at the emotion in his voice. “They’re calling it an awakening,” he continued, sounding unsure of himself.

“Terminal lucidity,” you breathed, a term you had only read about briefly when Diana was first diagnosed. The two of you had made many cross-country calls, trading information while Spencer stayed with her in Las Vegas.

He nodded, “Yeah… they don’t know how long it…”

How long she had left. How long she would remain lucid. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he answered quickly, too quickly for your liking.

You wiggled your fingers in his hand, getting his attention, “I want you to go back tomorrow,” you ordered him. It wasn’t something you were willing to budge on, insisting that he go back to Brookfield tomorrow to spend more time with his mother.

“She asked about you,” he admitted, leaning back in the chair, keeping your hands intertwined, “She wondered why we never got married. I told her it was never the right time. Do you know what she said to that?”

Watching intently as he shared the story with you, you shook your head, “What did she say?”

He chuckled lightly, “She said that might’ve been the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard me say.”

You smiled as he recounted the story for you, mimicking the hand gestures that you were sure his mother had used. “Obviously she’s never seen your Dirty Harry impression,” you reminded him, trying not to giggle at the memory.

“The right time will never come if we keep waiting around for it,” he told you, reciting the words of wisdom that his mother had imparted upon him.

Your breathing hitched in the dark of the night, “Spence?”

He nodded, “Yeah, baby?”

“Are you going to ask me to marry you?” You asked him hesitantly, wondering if that was what he was getting at.

Spencer shook his head, “Not tonight, angel.” He looked around the hospital room, cards and balloons and flowers had made their way in through the afternoon and evening. Penelope had even brought your apple blossoms from your desk. His flower language seemed so inconsequential now. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Will you tell me a story?” You whispered, settling yourself back into the flat hospital pillows, resigning yourself to the end of the marriage conversation.

He hummed, dimming the lamplight, “Which one?” There were a few stories that he had memorized specifically for you. When work or life or nightmares got to be too much, he would recall them for you.

“Can we do Portrait of a Lady again?” You raised your eyebrows, smiling impishly.

He rolled his eyes sardonically, “Your love for Henry James should be studied in a lab.”

You waved him off, “Okay, and? It’s story time.”

taglist: @football1921 @thedancingnerdmermaid @dollarstore-lydia-deetz @cillsnostalgia @alivesarcastically

@hellsingalucard18 @poetoflawed @lillysfrogsandbogs @mega-kittyglitter-1 @sndixz

@k-corbett @nott-my-riddle @guiltyyassin @starkeyellow @rainydayathogwarts

@roblino

if you would like to be added/removed from the taglist, please comment or send me a message/inbox!

[chocolate-pies]

saw the "just the tip?" trope and am GOING FERAL OVER SIMON RILEY ASKING

MDNI

holy shit it'd just be a normal sunday morning too, the weekend after he came back from a mission and you figured you already made love to him, why would he get randomly hard again the next morning around LUNCH time??

well, he's standing at the doorway to the living room. you're sitting on the couch, attention focused on the television when you hear the shuffling of his feet.

"love?" his voice sounds a little strained.

"what is it?" you'd hum, and see movement in the corner of your eye.

simon would be standing near the end of the couch, bulge painfully obvious (and at eye level with you on the couch), his eyes focused on you sitting with your calves beneath you.

"you've no idea how beautiful you look sittin' like that." he sounds a bit gravelly now, breathy.

you let out an astonished breath of air--teetering on the edge of a laugh--as you sit up straight to look at him in the eyes. "are you really horny right now? we're about to have lunch. have you been holding it since morning, or?"

"been holdin' it since we woke up." he confesses, watching you move on the couch as your thighs reshape from the movement. simon practically salivates at the way your thighs and chest heave itself as you sit upright and with your legs off the couch.

"really, riley?" you ask, albeit a little annoyed and with an edge of arousal.

"just the tip? please? 'fore we gotta get lunch." there's a pleading edge to his voice, and it instantly makes you melt.

"fine." you give in, watching as he readily lays himself on the couch. you get up as a result, watching him shove his boxers and sweatpants down, his erection springing and slapping itself against his happy trail. precum is already leaking, glistening the couple pubic hairs it has touched.

the length and girth seemed.. bigger than last night. you quietly gulp as you move to straddle his hips, your left knee brushing against the couch a bit uncomfortably.

"le'me help you, sweetheart." his voice is husky, rough hands moving to grab your thighs and positioning himself with you so you didn't scrape your knee against the fabric of the couch.

the warmth from his dick catches your attention, your eyes downcast to see it rubbing against the cloth of your pajama shorts. a wet spot is already forming there.

"already so wet for me." simon rasps, digits harshly engraving dots into your thighs as he feels every slight movement from you against his cock.

"let- let me," you steady yourself as you hover over him, dick barely touching you. your one hand moves to lift your panties and shorts to the side, his dick twitching at the sight of your cunt sopping wet so fast.

"f-fuck." his hands rub circles on your thighs, feeling your pussy folds touch the tip of his hot dick. precum is immediately mixed with your juices, his eyes strained and focused where he disappears inside of you, "so fuckin' pretty for me."

you suppress a moan as you stay hovered, his fat head already feeling like a stretch as you feel the beginnings of his girthy shaft also enter. "y-you said just- just the tip." it comes out shaky, breathy, as you moan with your teeth on your lip.

"'m sorry, doll, you just look so fuckin' delicious. your cunt is so tight and addicting." his voice is strained again, groans erupting from his chest as he bites down on nothing. his jaw flexes from the motion as he stares at your juices staining your clothing and his dick.

you stare at him for a moment, his pupils blown wide as you begin to slowly take him fully. "so, so big." you mewl, thighs beginning to shake from having to keep yourself up as his length stretches your velvet walls.

"just f'you, my love. just f'you. all f'you." he begins rambling nonsense, his mind racing and at the same time, blank, as he feels himself bottom out. your cunt is just so perfect.

"'m not pullin' out, love." he rasps before his hips buck you into the air, the extra motion forcing his dick deeper into you as his balls press against your ass.

"gonna put a baby in you." he continues, hurriedly thrusting you into the air as you bounce on him to meet his hips with your own.

"would look so pretty f'me with a baby bump," he groans, practically growling, "and everyone will know you're mine." he seems to move faster with the last bit, his hips snapping into yours as the sounds of skin slapping get louder.

at the same time, the squelching from your wet pussy begins to pierce your ears as you shut your eyes, only mewling and moaning to the sensation of his dick brutally splitting you apart. your mind is numb, lackluster of any thoughts.

"cuh- cumming." was your only warning as he thrusts up one final time, your body slouching a bit as he fills you up. his hot cum already begins to dribble from out of you, and seeing this, simon continues to thrust more into you to keep it all in.

"look at you," he breathes, eyes focused on your blissed face, "all 'cause I creampied you?" his proud grin shows a bit of teeth as he focuses how your face contorts from the pleasure.

he stills, keeping his dick inside you to trap any and all the semen he could.

"love you, doll."

EDIT: found out about the read more divider!!!!!!

[kimetsu-no-yaiba-writings]

Hi! If youre still doing requests, i have kind of an odd ask , but maybe some of the upper moons' reactions to meeting Muzan's wife (reader). I also really like whipped!Muzan so maybe the other demons' reactions to seeing the demon king doting on his wife. Thank you very much :)

Hi Anon! (^○^.) I actually love this request, so thank you for sliding it into my askbox ♥

Honestly I love a powerful man - especially a powerful villain - who's just absolutely in love with their wife (♥ω♥.) and would do anything for them, it just brings me joy.

Anyway! I'm rambling abit, but here is your request! I hope I've done it justice (^ω^.) Please enjoy!

Come again to request whenever you want cause I'm always open.

Muzan Kibutsuji being whipped for his wife + Upper Moons Reactions - Headcannons:

You know those types of men that are just unmovable pillars of stone - who look like they were carved from the finest marble by the hands of angels - who are always impeccably dressed with a voice of icy poison and just command your attention?

Who turn to the softest love-struck mush when with their wife

yeah, that's Muzan Kibutsuji with his wife (aka. you)

The finest meals, clothes and jewelry are yours with a click of his fingers - all done to make you happy, to see you smile

Anything that you mention briefly - doesn't matter if it''s a book or a holiday - its yours by the end of the day

Just one smile and a fluttering of your eyelashes has muzan on his knees - a singular pout of your lips has his mind running wild

You just have to breathe and Muzan's heart squeezes, breath stuttering in his chest as he looks at you in adoration

You could ask for the world and he'd give it too you on a platter

Muzan worships you

Each touch from you is a blessing to his skin

Each kiss sealed into him

Each word of love that falls from your lips make him drunk to hear, each sentence thick with a love that leaves hearts in his eyes and his heart thumping wildly

He wants to wear you like a brand - each mark you leave on him (bite marks and all) are worn with pride - and you (and only you) get to touch and mark his skin in such sensual ways

Under his wedding ring, his finger holds your bite mark, something that he begs you to do each day - with love-struck tears pricking his eyes - and it always makes him feel like he's properly yours

"My Love," He purrs with a voice a think velvet "My wonderful wife, my moon and stars, I love you for ever and always" and he kisses you so softly

Sometimes you have to stop this man from wearing matching clothes with you - "But Beloved,"he whimpers with a face liked a kicked puppy "I want us to match" - because he will absolutely wear a matching couples outfit

Other days he just likes sharing the same colour palette

When you worship him by placing soft kisses to his skin - his wrists, knuckles and faces - Muzan feels like he's on cloud nine

Upper Moons Reactions:

When the upper moons first met you, it was by accident - pure accident -they'd been summoned and it just so happened that it was when muzan was just in the midst of kissing you and bathing you with compliments

Kokushibou doesn't even blink and just stands in position like a trained guard, this sight has been something he's accidentally stumbled upon a couple of times before and honestly it makes him miss his wife

Because this isn't the first time he's met you but rather the fifth, the first actually time he met you, you were incredibly respectful of him and actually treat him nicely - you became tea drinking buddies - so he quickly came to like you

Douma/Doma genuinely shrieks - like an honest to god scream - before quickly going to make fun (not a good idea) about how loving Muzan is and, "Why don't you treat us this way Muzan-sama~ You're breaking my heart~"

Akaza looks away from such an intimate scene with respect since it felt wrong to look upon his lord loving his wife - although his heart does ache for some reason when looking at such a perfect loving scene

Hantengu starts sobbing while apologizing anxiously - actually very jealous at how loving the scene is, he wants a wife and to dote on someone

Gyokko simply proclaims it as artful and simply leaves it as such

Daki Blushes a deep crimson - it makes her want a husband to dote on her so much

While Gyutaro simply sighs before looking away - much like kokushibou and akaza in respect - with jealous crawling up his ribs at such love, he wants somebody to dote on and love him so romantically

[gghostwriter]

Hi, love your writing. If you’re open to requests, maybe Prison!Spencer x fem!reader where she’s in his apartment and finds an engagement ring ? Maybe she goes to visit him? Maybe she says yes?

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established relationship; Angst & Fluff (?) w.c: 0.8k A/N: I found myself rambling throughout this and i dunno if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Nevertheless, thank you for requesting and I hope you like it! 💗 Main masterlist

Cocoa Powder. // Spencer Reid

A philosopher once said that a gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected with trials. If that was the case, these past few weeks can be viewed as the trial of your and your boyfriend’s lifetime. With him being wrongfully arrested for murder and with you attempting your best to be a stable pillar for him and his mother to lean on.

With tears brimming in your eyes, that was how you found yourself elbow deep trying to bake chocolate muffins at three am in the morning, hoping to chase the nightmares away. It had been a routine almost—pitifully sleeping for only a few hours, waking up before dawn breaks, baking or cooking depending on your feeling, putting a smile on your face, getting ready for work, going to the office, coming back home, and repeating again. And again. And again and again. 

Routines that once brought you comfort, now seemed to be the only barrier keeping away well-deserved nervous breakdown. Your hands begged for a distraction and your mind whirled, wanting to help find a solution to this trial. An act that you have no say on. The rest of the team was doing their best, you trusted them, but being a civilian did not make you privy to the ins and outs and red tape that came with Spencer’s arrest. All you knew was there was a female serial killer hyper-fixated on your boyfriend—and in extension, you and his mother. 

The cocoa powder was missing. The cocoa powder that you knew you shelved away before catastrophe struck. The most important ingredient nowhere to be found. You sighed, aggressively wiping away errant tears. This, this might be the breaking point that would send you to a spiral—a breakdown caused by cocoa powder. A giggle escaped your chapped lips. There could be worst triggers, really. 

You steeled yourself for another search that would no doubt end up with a failure. Maybe Spencer moved it? Maye he moved it out of your reach? You tilted your head to the side, loose strands falling out of your bun. Maybe it was up high on the cupboard? 

Looking back, The idea made no sense but in that moment when lack of sleep and terrors plagued the crevices of your mind, you found yourself scaling up to your knees onto the kitchen counter—no doubts or second guessing. 

You stretched out your fingers, further motivated when the tips felt a foreign object just within your reach. A triumphant sigh escaping your lips when the item was finally wiggled within your palm. The very same sigh that turned into a sharp intake of breath as the warm kitchen light gave away the mystery. 

A black velvet box. A ring size velvet box.

“Oh my god,” you repeated under your breath. “Oh my god.”

The temptation to sneak a peek was overwhelming, to know if your hunch was correct. A peek wouldn’t hurt anybody, would it? No, it wouldn’t but this wasn’t how you wanted to find out about his intentions. Pretty sure this also wasn’t how he planned to ask. Clambering back up the counter, you pushed it back to where it was found—wanting to save your reaction for his eyes to see and for his lithe fingers to slide the ring into yours.

Out of sight, out of mind as they would often say. So there must be some truth to it, right? 

———

Wrong. The box never left your mind. In fact, it had created it’s own quarters within your brain—whispering temptations for just a small glimpse. It was all too much, really. The stress, anticipation, and secrecy made you spoil it for Spencer, an act that you’re not at all proud of.

“It’s a yes,” you blurted out as you sat down for a visit. 

He raked through his unkept curly hair. “Yes? Yes to what, sweetheart?”

“I love you. Don’t be mad.”

“Now, why would I be mad?” his voice coated with sweetness, coaxing the truth out. You never did have the will to deny him anything.

“Top most shelf on the left kitchen cupboard.”

His body stiffened before slouching into his seat. A breathy laugh escaping him. “You saw?”

You nodded.

“And after all this, that’s still your answer?”

“Yes.”

A smile broke through. The type of smile that showed warmth in his hazel eyes and the same type that had your heart melting like a puddle of goo.

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Spence, till death do us part.”

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[anniebeemine]

subtle- s.r. x reader

For the last two weeks, you’d been noticing something strange about Spencer. He wasn’t acting like himself, and for the smartest guy in the FBI, he wasn’t exactly subtle about it either. It started with the little things—doors closing abruptly as you approached, drawers being slammed shut, and the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps whenever you entered a room. It was almost like he was trying to hide something, but not doing a very good job of it. His usual effortless chatter—the rambling facts about anything and everything—had been replaced with awkward silences and quick, nervous smiles.

At first, you chalked it up to the fact that you had recently moved in full-time. It was a big adjustment, after all, and Spencer had been living alone for so long that it made sense he’d need time to get used to having you around all the time. But as the days passed, your initial reasoning started to feel less convincing. There was something more going on, something he wasn’t telling you.

Your mind, of course, spiraled. The idea of him cheating crept in for about two agonizing hours, making your heart race and your stomach churn. But then you remembered who you were dealing with—this was Spencer Reid, the man who once cried over a nightmare where you left him. The same man who wore his heart on his sleeve and wouldn’t lie if his life depended on it. Cheating was out of the question; it just wasn’t in his nature.

So, with that in mind, you found yourself walking into the kitchen one evening, determined to figure out what was going on. The moment you stepped into the room, Spencer practically jumped out of his skin, his eyes wide with something that looked suspiciously like panic. His hand reflexively shot behind his back, as if he were trying to hide something.

“What’s behind your back?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light and teasing, though curiosity gnawed at you.

His cheeks flushed a deep pink, and he stammered, “What do you mean? There’s nothing behind my back.” He shook his head a little too quickly, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that only made you more suspicious.

“Spencer,” you said, laughing softly, “I can literally see you hiding something. What is it?”

He panicked, taking a step backward as if to put more distance between you and whatever it was he was concealing. The clumsy retreat would have been almost comical if it weren’t for the growing tension in the air. You reached out, trying to see what he was hiding, but he jerked away, keeping his back to you like a shield.

You stepped back, amusement fading into genuine concern. “Oh my god, you’re serious. What is it?”

Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. The longer he stayed silent, the more your anxiety grew, twisting into a knot in your chest.

“Spencer, you’re scaring me right now.”

Finally, with great reluctance, he slowly brought his hand out from behind his back, revealing a small velvet box. Time seemed to stop as your eyes fell on the box, understanding dawning on you in a rush of emotion. You clamped your hand over your eyes and, without thinking, screamed, “NO!”

His heart dropped, and he froze in place. “What do you mean no?”

You were practically hyperventilating, your words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Do not show me because if you do, I’m going to cry, and then you’re not going to be happy with proposing in the kitchen, so this did not happen.”

Spencer’s face was a mix of confusion and fear, his mind racing to catch up with what you were saying. “But… it is a yes?”

You peeked through your fingers, meeting his nervous gaze. “Yes, Spencer, it’s a yes.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relief washing over him as he took a tentative step closer. “Are you sure? Because I don’t want to ruin this moment—”

You cut him off with a kiss, your hands trembling as you cupped his face, the velvet box pressed between your bodies. “Yes, Spencer. It’s a yes. A thousand times yes.”

Spencer’s expression softened into a look of pure adoration, and he pulled you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you as if he were afraid to let go. “I’m sorry it wasn’t more romantic,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, tears already spilling down your cheeks. “This is perfect. You’re perfect. I just—can we pretend I didn’t freak out?”

He chuckled softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “Only if we can pretend I wasn’t hiding in the kitchen.”

“Deal,” you whispered, feeling the warmth of his breath on your lips as you smiled through your tears.

With a tender kiss, Spencer finally opened the velvet box, revealing a beautiful ring that caught the light just right, sparkling in a way that made your heart flutter. He took your trembling hand in his, slipping the ring onto your finger as both of you laughed and cried, the joy and relief of the moment overwhelming.

It wasn’t the grand, romantic proposal either of you had imagined, but in that small, cluttered kitchen, with the dishes still in the sink and the faint smell of dinner lingering in the air, it was perfect. It was real. And as Spencer pulled you into another embrace, his fingers brushing the ring on your hand as if to reassure himself that this was really happening.

[sunkissedrafe]

thinking about icky stepbro!rafe who found himself jerking off in the bathroom after excusing himself from dinner.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

he was desperate for a release- it’d been weeks since he last got to touch you. you’ve been rambling on and on recently about how it’s “not a good idea, rafe, we’re gonna get caught eventually. as much as i want to, we… we might need to call this little situation quits.” and he knew you were right, it was so wrong. he knew he had a real problem when the entire time you lectured him about it he was imagining sliding his cock between your juicy, glossed lips, shutting you up as his cum drips down your eager throat.

at dinner he thought you were teasing him on purpose- batting your fluffy lashes and touching on his arm when you asked him to pass you a fork. your petite fingers felt like massive weights against his skin, his body hyper aware of the sensation of them dragging away slowly. he watched the way you seemed to eat messy on purpose, letting food dribble down your chin only to bring a finger up to swipe it away, slowly sucking it clean as your eyes locked onto his own.

when he can’t take the tension anymore, he slides his dining chair back from the table with a screech across the floor. he feels the stares of the rest of you sitting at the table, but in true rafe fashion he honestly couldn’t give any less fucks as he strides away to the downstairs bathroom.

his forehead is sticky with sweat as he leans over the sink, his knuckles white as they grip the counter in an effort to hold himself steady. his brain is fuzzy, dazed and swimming with thoughts of your silky legs brushing against his own, the way your little skirt was riding up as you shifted in your seat during conversations with the rest of your family. he could swear he saw a peek of your lacy panties hugging tight around your warm pussy, and, oh, what he’d give to be inside of it right now.

his breath comes out in sharp spurts as he roughly fists his length, jerking up and down while he imagines you bent over the counter, just like that one time last month. he can almost feel it- the way your velvet walls suck him in in a way that shows you need him. each thrust makes you whine and cry, your arms reaching behind you to dig your nails into whatever skin you can grab.

rafe pumps himself until he’s panting and on the edge of release, his strong bicep flexing with every quick motion. he knows he’s been in here a suspicious amount of time, he can hear the rumbling voices reverberating through the walls. his abdomen grows hot and tense, every fiber of his being tingling as he reaches his peak and shoots his load, hot ropes of cum painting the marble sink he imagines you on your knees, tongue out and ready to receive it. he wipes his brow with his sleeve and stands up to his full height to peek at his reflection and fix his disheveled hair.

with a quick swipe across the sink he coats his fingertips in his own sticky release, running the water to rinse the rest down the drain. his footsteps echo steadily down the hall as he makes his way to the table, everyone too engrossed in their meals to acknowledge his return. everyone but you, of course- your doe eyes flick over to him and a smile pulls across your plush lips as he adjusts in his chair.

“you got uh…” he brings his fingers to your chin, swiping away something you both know isn’t there, before slipping his two fingers into your mouth and across your tongue. “you had somethin’ on your face.”

the salty taste is unmistakable, and so are your burning cheeks as you watch your stepbrother return to his meal like nothing had happened.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

he is so icky gross :(( <3

taglist: @stepbrorafe @bunnycvnts @hewwokitti3 @pinkribboncoco @rafesgiirl @beautifuldisaster88 @mousie101 @laniirackssss @ditzyzombiesblog @brooklynadoresdior

[seancekitsch]

Hello! Here’s the fic idea I commented earlier, sorry if I sent it the wrong place the first time 😅.

This is my first time asking but what if you did a fic where Lucifer gets startled by the reader (if you do that sorta thing) while he’s working on a duck or smth and his wings pop out and the reader (again, idk if you do that, maybe another character?) teasingly touches his wings and he gets really flustered because ✨sensitive wing trope✨ and whatever happens after that is purely up to interpretation and yeahhhh, that’s my fic idea! :3

hey dont worry! i know im prone to losing track of things i just wanted to make sure i didnt lose it :)

Curiosity has been killing you all day. It started with the chipper mood Lucifer had walked into his work shop with, and only increased when you started to hear the noise of tinkering tools. He’d cheerfully told you not to let anyone disturb him today, which, was a welcome change from the gloomy way he used to drag himself to this same workshop. With the way you’d have to drag him out to eat, the way you’d have to pretend you couldn’t hear him mumbling to himself through the door. It was easier for Lucifer if you pretended that you didn’t know about what he was going through, so you did just that, and he rewarded you with his loyalty and generosity, and dare you say it: his companionship.  Being his assistant for the past few years, you’d seen a change in him the more time he spent with his daughter. It was nice. This is the happiest you’ve seen him in a long time, and the curiosity is killing you. 

The sounds of a drill, the sounds of hammering, the sounds of clinking metal drift out from the door to where you’re sat, a plush lounger where you get to turn away any uninvited guests (thought there never are any). This isn’t the typical soundscape you hear when Lucifer has a new duck idea. You stop scrolling Sinstagram, throwing your phone onto the cushion as the nagging thought to check on him finally consumes you. 

You push open the door carefully, the sounds of tinkering growing louder. 

“Hello?” you ask, “Luce?”

No answer. Then you spot him, his coat haphazardly thrown to the side, working on the table near the window hunched over and in full focus.

“Hey?” you call again, your voice just loud enough to carry across the workshop space. 

Lucifer jerks up from the desk he’s hunched over, clearly having not heard your knocking before entering. He knocks his hip into the edge of it, jostling all of his tools, clanking together. Your calling out to him seems to start a chain reaction, one that ends with a carving tool hitting the ground and three sets of wings suddenly sprouting from already designated holes from your boss’ burgundy velvet waistcoat. 

Holy shit. You haven’t seen him like this since… well, extermination day. And sure, other demons have wings, but his are magnificent, in a way that even made you give pause to admire them amongst the bloodshed of that day. You shoulder slump, awestruck at the demon in front of you. Your feet seem to move of their own accord, crossing the space between you and your boss. 

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Lucifer’s shoulders sag, relaxing as he realizes its just you, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You shake your head, a smile spreading across your lips. 

“I should have been louder,” you offer, and step closer, admiring his wings still not retracted. Lucifer relaxes too, smiling at the welcome intrusion. 

“So what brings you into workshop today, huh?” He asks, and then falters, “Not that uh— not that I’m not happy you’re in here it’s just uh— you know, you don’t usually…”

“I got curious,” you answer, cutting off any rambling he’s going to do. Lucifer has been rambling a lot more often lately. So unsure of himself, it’s sweet. 

You reach out, fingertips brushing against the tips of crimson red feathers.

“Haven’t seen these in a while,” you muse, rubbing your thumb across the top of one wing. They’re softer than you expected them to be, rich luxe down that you’d expect of the worlds most expensive pillow. Your eyes follow them to where they lead back into his waistcoat, connecting to his back. What would his bare back look like? 

A groan interrupts your thoughts, and glancing to Lucifer’s face, his teeth are bared. Oh shit. What a fucking mistake. 

“I’m sorry, Sir! I hope I didn’t hurt you I didn’t-” you yank your hand back as if its been burned, fear spreading like ice in your veins that you’d irreconcilably fucked this up and maybe now you’re out of a job and you’d never be able to see him again, stuck finding work with the Vees or even worse. 

Lucifer inhales sharply, and then sighs. 

“No, no please don’t be sorry,” he reaches out for you, as if he’s scared too. His gloved hands cradle your hand, the one that dared to touch his wing. 

“You didn’t hurt me,” he assures you, a sheepish smile spreading across his features, just alabaster cheeks growing red as he keeps talking, “My wings are, well, they’re… sensitive?”

His voice rises as if he’s questioning himself in his own explanation. It takes you a moment, searching the King of Hell’s face for an answer before it hits you, almost taking the wind out of your chest. Oh, you realize. That was not a groan of pain. Fuck, this is awkward. 

“Oh I’m,” you pause, are you sorry? “I’m sorry.”

Lucifer searches your face, his mouth falling into a frown. 

“No! Please, don’t be. Stop apologizing,” Luficer’s hands start pulling yours, beckoning you closer to him again. You comply, stepping back into his personal space. Lucifer places your hand back onto his wing, smiling again. 

“I liked it,” he tells you, smile starting to melt into a smirk. Your hand travels along the top of the wing, smoothing out any feathers out of their spot. Lucifer shudders as your hand moves, a sigh leaving his lips. 

Emboldened, you keep going, running your nails along them, down between feathers. 

Lucifer reacts… exquisitely. His hands shoot out to grip your hips, fingers digging into you. He starts panting, the blush growing across his skin. 

“Been a while since you’ve been touched like this, huh, Sir?” you ask, pushing your luck. Lucifer nods as he lets his forehead fall against your shoulder. He moans into the side of your neck as he wraps himself further around you. 

“What were you making?” you ask him, finally remembering what you even came in here for. Though, this seems better than the original reason; With you quickly feeling yourself go weak at the sound of the noices falling from Lucifer’s lips and the feeling of his hot breath fanning out along your neck. 

“Fuck,” he pants, “Gift for you.”

His hands start wandering, moving from your hips to your waist and back down, just short of coming around to cup your ass. You would let him if he did. 

“For little old me?” you tease him, though internally, you could scream. It touches deep inside of you that he’d think of you like that enough to make you something. 

“Mmm, of course,” he hums, nuzzling his face closer into your neck. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him as your nails rake through his wing, the two of you pressed together in desperate intimacy. 

Your breath hitches when his knee knocks between your own. 

“Th- thank you, Sir,” you whisper, your voice airy and far away. 

Lucifer chuckles against your skin, his grasp on you tightening. 

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he says, “I’ve got another gift for you if you want it.”

You don’t need to be a genius to read between the lines of what he means. Hell, now you see it. What a charmer. 

“Oh yeah?” you challenge him, your free hand coming up to touch the buttons of his waistcoat. Lucifer pulls back, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you like a prize to be won.

"Get on the table and I'll show you," he says.

And then it's like you can't move fast enough.

[hunnysahara]

˗ˏˋ 𝒲𝒽𝓎’𝒹 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒪𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑀𝑒 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝐻𝒾𝑔𝒽? ˎˊ˗

Hamzah x fem!reader

It's harder and harder to get you to listen, more I get through the gears. Incapable of making alright decisions and having bad ideas.

Premise: Your ex friends with benefits calls you in the middle of the night and you know before you answer why he’s ringing you.

CW: cannabis usage / suggestive / crude + sexual language

WC: 2.6k

The soft glow of your phone screen fractures the darkness like a sliver of unwelcome light, casting long shadows across the room. It's the dead of night when the world holds its breath in a hush, yet here you are, wide-eyed, heart knocking gently against your ribs. You had been unpleasantly woken from your sleep by the sound of your phone vibrating itself off your bedside table.

Hamzah's name lingers on your screen. The messages spill one after another, frantic and garbled, like a stream you can't dam—misspelled words, scattered thoughts like he had thrown scrabble tiles together to form texts.

You aren't even able to fully read one message before it's replaced with another. You throw your phone down beside you on your bed, running your hands down your face and grumbling. It had been months since you heard from Hamzah.

The two of you had a very casual friend-with-benefits relationship though you took the initiative to end it when there was a landslide shift and the unceremonious hookups turned into mumbled confessions against your neck. It was too intimate, it breached the contract the two of you initially agreed on.

Though here he was, blowing up your phone like he would die without another word from you.

The phone buzzes again, his caller ID taking over the screen of your phone. You groan, your thumb hovering over the screen, debating whether to answer just to tell him to stop, to leave you alone. Maybe then, maybe if you hear the slur in his voice, the edge of something broken and far away, he'll finally understand that you're not his to call anymore.

The phone lights up again, and this time, you answer.

"Hamzah, stop."

"I knew you'd pick up," His words are thick like velvet, his voice groggy and coarse.

"Why are you calling me?" You ask, voice sharp like a bullet through skin.

"I just wanna hear your voice," On the other end, you can practically hear the smile in his voice. The way the words drowsily fall from his lips brings you to one conclusion.

"You're high?"

"Perchance," He takes a sharp inhale. After a moment of virtual silence, he giggles and coughs eventually settling down "Fine, you caught me. I'm very high."

"What do you want?"

"Why are you being so mean? I just wanted to say hi," There's a hint of playfulness in his voice and you can imagine him sprawled out in bed, hair a mess and glassy eyes half drawn.

Your head throbs as he jumps from one half-finished thought to another, rambling through memories like they're fresh scabs he needs to pick at, unravelling every thread you've tried so hard to tie up neatly. "Maybe I'm being mean because you called me at three AM."

"Yeah, that's kinda annoying," He laughs to himself. His voice filters through the phone, slick with an edge of playfulness that sends a ripple of irritation through you. "It's been too long since I've seen you," Hamzah says, drawing out the word in a lazy, teasing way that always used to make you laugh. But tonight, it feels grating like sand paper against your skull.

"Not long enough." You press the phone tighter to your ear, walking barefoot across the cold floor to the kitchen. The hardwood creaks under your steps, and the cool air feels sharp against your skin.

"Oh, how you hurt me," He adds a tinge of melodrama to his sarcasm.

"Hamzah," you sigh, but he barely gives you a second to speak.

"Did I wake you up?" He pauses to take a breath and you can hear the blunt crackling, and paper shuffling in the background.

"Yeah, you did."

"My bad, my bad-" He coughs again "What are you wearing? Is it that Grateful Dead shirt that hangs off your shoulder?"

You look down at your pyjamas, you were in fact wearing the Grateful Dead that hung off your shoulder and draped past your hips. "No." You lie through your teeth.

"Damn," He mutters before his brain hooks on another ramble "Remember that time—God, you were wearing that little white sundress, you remember?—and we went to that park with the swings? You kept pretending you were too good to be on a swing, but you ended up laughing like a kid when I pushed you too high."

You roll your eyes, frustration simmering beneath the surface. His tone is light, and flirtatious, like he's trying to conjure up a nostalgia that never quite sat right with you. The kitchen light flickers to life as you reach for a glass, the soft hum of the fridge barely audible over his rambling.

"Hamzah," you cut in, more firmly this time, holding the phone between your ear and shoulder as you twist the tap open. The sound of water hitting the glass is oddly soothing, something real and grounded amidst the chaos of his voice. "You're not making any sense."

"No, I think I'm making sense. You just don't wanna admit it." There's a slurred chuckle on the other end. "Come on, don't be like that. I know you're smiling right now. You miss this."

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and it makes your skin crawl. You take a sip of water, trying to quench the heat building in your chest. He always does this—twisting every conversation into something flirtatious, something playful.

"I'm not smiling, I’m frowning if anything," you reply flatly, setting the glass down with a little more force than necessary. "And you really need to stop calling me in the middle of the night. This isn't funny."

"But it's not the same during the day," he says with a laugh that feels too close, too familiar. "Night's that thing in that one song- made for saying things you can't say another day," He paraphrases poorly. His voice lowers, taking on that soft, honeyed tone he used to use when he wanted to get his way. 

Your jaw tightens as you lean against the counter, fingers tapping impatiently against the cold surface. He's pushing, and it's infuriating how easily he slips back into this—this game of his, like he can flirt his way out of the chaos he's caused.

"Hamzah, I don't have time for this. You're high. Again."

"And you're still talking to me, aren't you?" he teases, his voice laced with a kind of smug satisfaction. "You didn't have to answer. Y'know there's this magical button on your phone that makes it so I can't message you? I think that you want to talk to me."

The audacity in his tone sends a spark of anger through you, your fingers curling around the edge of the counter. He always knows how to toe the line, to keep you teetering between frustration and the pull of something that's sweet on your tongue but now feels like quicksand.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. "Hamzah, I'm not doing this. You need to hang up and sleep this off."

There's a pause, and for a second, you think he's going to listen. But then he chuckles softly, voice dripping with mischief.

"You're so hot when you're mad at me."

You nearly groan aloud, the exhaustion catching up with you in waves. This is pointless. You've been here before, hearing the same lines, feeling the same tired tug of emotions you've long since buried. But there's a part of you—a small, quiet part—that almost misses this, misses the ease with which he used to reel you in. And that's what makes it worse.

"Hamzah," you start, your voice sharper now, "go to sleep. Seriously."

"What if I told you that I really missed you?" He adds like it sweetens the deal. 

"I would tell you that I don't care."

"When did you turn so cold on me?" 

You pause, the phone still pressed against your ear. "Hamzah," you mutter, exasperation thick in your voice. The glass of water in your hand feels heavy, like a tether pulling you back into his orbit, even as you stand there in the dim kitchen, staring out at the quiet darkness outside the window.

"Just hear me out," he says, voice too smooth for someone who's supposed to be slurring. "I think me and you should do something together."

You don't answer, your hand moving on autopilot as you rinse the glass and set it down in the sink. There was always a certain ease between you and Hamzah, but that was before it got complicated, before the lines blurred. You clench your jaw, stepping away from the kitchen and into the hall, eyes scanning the house for some chore to distract you, to keep your mind from wandering back to those nights.

"Come on," he continues, undeterred. "I know you heard me."

You sigh, frustration buzzing beneath your skin, but your feet carry you to the living room where a few stray magazines and an old blanket still sit crumpled on the couch. Might as well tidy up while he babbles. Maybe if you let him talk himself out, he'll fall asleep or something. You grab the blanket, folding it with quick, jerky movements as he keeps talking.

"Can I come over?" He asks abruptly.

"No?" You furrow your eyebrows "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Damn, I really thought that would work."

As you sit down at the kitchen table, leaning your head into your hand, you notice the faint hum of traffic coming through the phone—tires on wet pavement, the distant growl of an engine passing by. Your brow furrows and a flicker of concern sparks through your irritation.

"Where are you, Hamzah?" you ask, voice sharper than you intended. It's late, and the sound of traffic at this hour doesn't fit into the picture of him sprawled out in bed, half-asleep and rambling, like you'd assumed.

"Why do you want to know?"

"So you don't show up at my house."

He chuckles to himself "Why on earth would I do that?"

"Maybe because you're obsessed with me?"

"I'm not- no, yeah. I am obsessed with you." There it was, the confidence that he so lacked when he was sober. With the help of cannabis, his tongue was as loose as his morals.

You press your lips together, gaze flicking toward the window, though the night outside your house is still and quiet, completely unlike the soundscape on the other end of the line. You disregard his admission "So, where are you?"

"I'm... walking. Clearing my head or whatever."

Your chest tightens, frustration mixing with a flicker of something you wish wasn't there—worry. "Walking where?" you press, though part of you already knows he's not going to give you a straight answer.

"Just around. Nowhere dangerous, alright? You don't have to freak out." He tries to sound nonchalant, but there's an edge to his voice that betrays him. 

"Hamzah, you shouldn't be out right now. It's late, and you're—" You pause, choosing your words carefully. "You're not in the best headspace to be wandering around." You're caught between the urge to scream at him or call Martin to pick him up and haul him home.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," he cuts in, that cocky smile returning to his voice. "I'm always fine, babe. You worry too much."

You want to hang up, to cut the thread between you and the mess that is Hamzah, but the thought of him alone, on some random street at this hour, makes it hard to press the button. "Go home," you say softly, barely above a whisper.

"Stay on the phone with me a little longer, alright? I'm almost home anyway," Hamzah pleads, voice taking on that boyish, playful tone you've heard too many times.

You rub your temples, eyes drifting toward the clock on the wall. It's well into the night, and here you are, listening to him stumble through whatever story he's trying to spin. "You always say that," you mutter. "But somehow, you're always ten minutes from home."

"Hey, it's not my fault time slows down when I'm talking to you," he says with a sly grin you can practically hear. "Like, relativity or something. I saw that in the Spider-Verse movie."

You roll your eyes, walking back toward the kitchen to grab another glass of water, your mouth feeling particularly dry. "You would know."

"Didn't we see that together when it came out?" He asks to no answer. "We should watch it again."

"I don't think so," You lean against the counter, cradling your glass as his words wash over you.

"I want to see you, I like the way you laugh," He humbles "That's why I was such a goof around you. I didn't mind embarrassing myself because it made you smile and god- that smile..."

 "I don't really care what you want."

Hamzah lets out a low whistle "And yet, here you are," he shoots back quickly. "Still on the phone. Ah- I got you there."

You lean back against the counter, the weight of his words sinking in. He's right, of course. You're still here, still wrapped up in this bizarre late-night conversation, still listening as he spirals through his endless stream of nonsense. There's an odd comfort in the banter, as much as you hate yourself for it, there's safety in the familiarity.

"Yeah, yeah," you say finally, shaking your head. "You know how to run your mouth. That's about the only thing you're good at."

"Hey, don't forget I'm a man of many talents," Hamzah quips, the humour softening just a little. "And one of them is keeping you on the line way longer than you should be."

"Trust me, I'm very aware," you mutter, though there's a strange warmth behind your words now.

"Yeah, but you still picked up," he says, almost gently this time, his voice losing some of that playful edge. "That's gotta mean something, right?"

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"Do you miss me? Like at all?" He asks, the words falling from his lips with ease "You can be honest." 

You roll your eyes, though there's a slight warmth blooming in your chest despite your irritation. "Please, Hamzah," you deadpan, pacing slowly across the kitchen. "Do you ever stop?"

A knock sounds from your front door, sharp and unexpected. You freeze, turning toward the noise, the sound cutting through the warmth of your late-night banter like a cold breeze. Your heart skips a beat, the suddenness of the interruption making your stomach twist with an uneasy kind of tension. "Hang on," you mutter into the phone, already moving toward the door. "Someone's at my-"

You trail off, eyes narrowing as another knock echoes through the quiet house. Your pulse quickens, a strange feeling creeping up the back of your neck as you grip the phone a little tighter.

As you open the door, the cold air hits you first, followed by the sight of someone standing on your doorstep. Your breath catches for a moment when you see him. There, leaning casually against the doorframe with that signature lazy grin, is Hamzah.

"What the fuck," You draw out. 

"C'mon, don't be like that," Hamzah says, giving you a crooked grin. His phone is still pressed to his ear—well, it is until he lowers it slowly, that playful glint in his eyes growing even more mischievous as he hangs up, ending the call without a word. “So- are you gonna let me in?”

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Day twenty one: Genies!Kalim and Jamil deceiving their darling

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/n: This idea seemed to be living rent-free in my head for a few months now, so ofc I had to write. I actually wanted to write more about it but decided against; all the fics on the halloween had to be easy to write and faster. Writing 30 fics in the span of two weeks was certainly something but tbh i was stress writing lol. Either way, I'm rambling now, good read, darlings!

The lamp felt heavier in your hands than it should have. Its ornate metalwork was intricate, with delicate filigree and worn engravings that hinted at centuries of history, a history long lost - now preserved as a legend.

The lamp gift from a friend, they had laughed when they handed it to you, suggesting the possibility of a genie inside. It was, of course, just a joke — something fun, a relic from a forgotten time. But as you sat alone in your quiet room, you couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't true.

Turning it over, you traced the smooth surface of the metal. The dim light of the room glinted off its curves.

“What’s the harm?” you muttered to yourself, half-smiling at the absurdity of it all. "Nothing will happen."

And yet, curiosity urged you on. You gently rubbed the side of the lamp, not expecting anything beyond perhaps the sound of metal against your skin.

At first, nothing.

You giggled, setting the lamp down on the table beside your bed. Wishing for something like that work was futile; you had to make your future happen with your own hands.

Yet, one could hope.

As you turned around to open another birthday gift, a faint warmth spread through your body, like a blanketbeing wrapped around you so gently and softly. The lamp vibrated slightly, a low hum echoing from its core. You froze, eyes wide as thin wisps of golden smoke curled from the spout, swirling and expanding until the room was filled with it.

You blinked, heart pounding as two figures emerged from the mist.

One stood tall and composed, his dark hair framing a serious face, sharp eyes locked on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His clothes were regal but foreign, a blend of deep colors and shimmering gold that seemed almost alive.

Beside him was another figure, smaller and brighter, with an infectious smile that lit up the space around him. His pale hair glowed under the lamplight, his eyes full of excitement and warmth, and he was holding the lamp on both his hands.

Both of them stood before you, impossibly real and tangible. If you reached out, you knew you could feel them there.

The taller one regarded you with mild interest. “I see… a new master,” he said smoothly, his voice soft and rich, like velvet. “I am Jamil and this beside me is Kalim. We're pleased to meet you.”

Kalim beamed at you. “Wow! It’s been forever since someone summoned us. You must be really lucky!” His enthusiasm was infectious, but you remained frozen, trying to process what was happening.

Was the legend real? They would grant you three wishes right here and now? Do you have any wishes? You can't think straight.

Jamil’s gaze didn’t waver. Soon enough, the famous words left his mouth as he almost purred the syllables. “You rubbed the lamp, which means you’re entitled to three wishes.”

You stared at them both, still struggling to wrap your mind around the situation. “Wait, what… this is real?” you stammered.

Kalim laughed for a long time, the sound light and cheerful. There were little tears forming on his eyes, but he wiped them. “We're as real as you are, habibi! You summoned us, so we’re here to grant your wishes!” He leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Go on, ask for anything.”

Your heart raced as you tried to gather your thoughts. Wishes… real wishes. The possibilities swirled in your mind, but the disbelief kept you from speaking right away or remembering what you truly wanted.

The two genies stood patiently, Jamil’s eyes narrowing slightly as he waited, while Kalim watched with a wide, eager smile.

Tentatively, you spoke. “I wish for… I wish to have plenty of money.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth than the room shifted around you. You gasped as money started to appeared out of nowhere, everything felt too much like a fever dream, but this also meant you could finally treat yourself to some nice things, as you wouldn't struggle anymore.

Kalim danced around, his laughter filling the air. “Look at it! Isn’t it amazing?” he exclaimed, summoning a flower of thin air and handing it to you with a grin. “You can have anything you want.”

Jamil’s gaze never left you. He didn’t smile, but there was something satisfied in his eyes, as though your first wish had confirmed something for him.

“One wish down,” he said, his voice low and measured. “Two more to go.”

“What happens after I make all three wishes?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

You held the flower in your hand, feeling its soft petals brush against your skin. But deep inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling of something lurking just beneath the surface. There was something too perfect about it all, too controlled.

Too much like a dream.

Kalim’s smile faltered for a second, but he quickly recovered. “You’ll be happy! That’s what matters, right?” He twirled around, his carefree nature pulling at you like a warm summer breeze. “We’ll make sure of it!”

Jamil, however, met your question with a deeper, knowing gaze. “All you need to worry about is the next wish,” he said, his voice almost hypnotic. “Whatever your heart desires.”

The unease in your chest grew. You looked down at the flower in your hand, feeling the weight of their stares on you. Could you trust them? The money spilled on your floor wasn’t what you had imagined. It felt… artificial, like it existed solely to please you, the perfect amount to pay your bills and live comfortably, it seems.

“I wish for…” You hesitated, trying to find something more meaningful. “I wish to see the most breathtaking sunset, something that can’t be replicated.”

The sunset felt eternal, like time itself had stopped for you to watch. You stood in awe, the sight so beautiful it was almost painful. Yet, even as you admired it, you could feel the weight of Jamil’s eyes on you.

This time, Kalim’s expression brightened, as though he had been waiting for something grand like this. “Oh, I can do that!” he exclaimed, raising his arms toward the sky.

The sun lowered on the horizon, its light turning the garden into a canvas of fiery oranges and soft purples. The colors spilled across the sky, streaking it with brilliance that took your breath away.

“Your last wish,” he prompted, stepping closer. “Choose wisely.”

You took a deep breath, the air thick with magic and the overwhelming pressure of their presence. “What if… I don’t want to make a third wish yet?”

Kalim’s smile didn’t waver, but there was an edge to it now. “But don’t you want more? You can have anything!”

Jamil’s eyes darkened, his voice a quiet whisper. “You can’t stop now."

The air around you shifted, growing heavier as the two genies loomed closer. The carefree atmosphere that Kalim had created melted away, revealing something darker, more insistent.

Before you could speak, Jamil raised a hand, his expression cold and determined. “We’ll make it for you.”

Kalim’s grin grew wider, but it no longer felt warm. It was possessive, unsettling. The golden mist from the lamp began to rise again, swirling around you. “We’ll make sure you’re with us forever, litte master.” Kalim said cheerfully, his voice sounding almost detached from reality.

You tried to step back, but the smoke wrapped around you like tendrils, pulling you closer to the lamp. “Wait— what are you doing?” Panic surged through you as you struggled to break free, but their magic was too strong, too consuming.

"Master, we've been watching you." Jamil’s voice echoed in your ears as the smoke tightened its grip, dragging you toward the lamp’s spout. “You’re ours now. You can't escape.”

The last thing you saw was Kalim’s glowing smile and Jamil’s cold, satisfied gaze before everything went dark, the world collapsing into the endless void of the lamp.

And there, in the heart of the lamp, you realized with a sinking dread that you were never meant to leave.

[velvetrambles]

Adding onto this, but I feel like one of the things I feel saddens me the most is the fact it doesn’t allow Claire to reunite with Sherry

I love that Sherry and Leon got to!! But the fact Claire didn’t is kind of a missed opportunity for me personally, even if it’s sorta explained. Idk, maybe I’ll take lore into my own hands one day and give myself the Raccoon Reunion of my dreams

Resident Evil 6 is such a silly game to me. Like, I wouldn’t say it’s the best game in series, nor the best co-op game in the series (5 had so many cool things it did with its co-op that just aren’t present in 6), but something about this game trying so hard to be all cool and actiony is kinda endearing at times,,,

Jake’s entire existence just makes me giggle sometimes, he feels like a character you’d make when you’re young and making OCs for things you like for the first time. I find it hard to actually fully hate

Of course it still has its issues, but playing through with friends is always a joy. Even though it can be a little long sometimes.. very long.

[shazzbaa]

"Welcome to a small, velvet lined box, delicious friend!"

SO UH………………………….. SAMUEL GOT, BURIED ALIVE, IN FALLEN LONDON………….. what a horrifying delight. a little treat just for me. OBVIOUSLY I HAD TO DRAW THIS

(rambling about Fallen London ambitions under the cut)

SO YEAH THIS HAPPENED DURING MY AMBITION -- I ended up finally picking Light Fingers, the "steal a huge diamond" ambition, DESPITE SAM'S ABSOLUTE WORST STATS BEING SHADOWY AND PERSUASIVE LMAO. I was waffling on choosing for a while, until a friend found one-sentence summaries of each ambition's tone that described Light Fingers as the one that turns into horror, which like…. I can't resist flinging sam into a horror story…… and it's surprisingly easy to make the ambition pretty canon for him, tbh -- "Someone you knew sent word that they knew how to get rich in the Neath, and you followed them, but now that you're out of prison they're nowhere to be found." While stealing giant jewels isn't Samuel's passion or anything, his main reason for coming to London was to escape a life in the church that he saw confining him more and more, and thinking he had a friend with a plan down here might've made it seem less like an impulsive nonsense idea. It works better than I expected!!

Anyway IF YOU FAIL ENOUGH TIMES ON ONE PART OF THE AMBITION you can get caught and THIS HAPPENS??????? ITS THE BEST!!!!!! One of the guys involved in the horrors does threaten to bury you alive if you keep sticking your nose into his business (since just murdering you isn't as effective in a world where death doesn't stick), buT WHAT A HORRIFYING SURPRISE TO HAVE IT ACTUALLY HAPPEN!!!! They give you a bunch of options and it's all stuff like "SCREAM" and "SCRABBLE AT THE LID," all of which Samuel attempted to no avail. i love this game so much,