#without acknowledging literally everything else

[arielderm27]

Rhysand: This is Mor, the only good person to ever make it out of the Hewn City. Ever. There is only her. No one else. Everyone else is categorically cartoonishly evil and irredeemable.

Feyre: Seems legit, I shall not question this.

GIRL WHAT

The laziness over Illyrian wing clippings, dismissal of Hewn City issues, Slums of Velaris, the casual shrugging off of the extremely problematic pregnancy trope, the complete disembowelment of Spring without an iota of consideration for the common folks of Spring, Rhys provoking and bullying Tamlin even after he helped save his life and wished Feyre the best and above all when you got a court to rule, peace to keep, conscious developments to make but you’re out here forging a death pact ‘out of true love’ with each other that will literally stop you from stepping up for the millions of people who pay taxes and are dependant on you when danger/war strikes will always have an ick for me.

Vivviane would’ve made a more deserving first High lady, considering how she single handedly ruled WinterCourt for 50 years when Kallias was under the mountain. The High Lady name looks like a fancy title gifted to Feyre by her mate just to make her happy. Rhys himself says so that he made her high lady because he loves her and not cuz she’s powerful (which was pretty insulting, imo). Rhys handles everything still now as Feyre paints and becomes a mom. No shade for women’s personal choices. I’m all up for it but am also up for criticism when such a big title is bestowed to a newbie who doesn’t take the role seriously.

The author should’ve shown us glimpses of Feyre, besides her art studio chronicles, starting on preliminary research and education on pyrthian history, court politics, being curious enough to gather what’s happening in her court, asking tough questions and bringing out amicable changes in her court. Rhys is an ambitious dreamer, a nerd I dare say with his self made globe/universe model and all that in his study. I don’t think Feyre matches his freak in that zone. I can’t even blame her cuz she never dreamt becoming a high lady or have any kind of political ruling power (as opposed to Jude Duarte in the folk of air who had a strong political vision and killed her way to rule over the fae). Canonically, all Feyre wanted was to feed her family and paint in peace. But, she is not a mere consort now but a high lady. She can’t just sit around with half baked history tales recited to her by the IC and rule over a court like a child playing house. Feyre was poorly developed by the author,imo. And it’s also sad how she hasn’t got any friends of her own. All her friends are her mate’s friends. The problem with having no friends of her own came to spotlight in acosf when they all chose Rhys over Feyre and hid vital medical information about her own body from her.

Whereas Nesta is one character that has been well developed and still got room for more development. The supposedly unlikable character, who was treated worse than the Fae of CoN, got her own set of friends who’d literally die for her, became best buddies with the broody shadowsinger, befriended a magic House, made not just a badass friend from another universe but also made her mom fall in love with her, brought profound developments in a single book by bringing the priestesses out in the air to train and defend themselves, questions everyone including her own mate instead of blindly swallowing whatever they push down her throat. Nesta is not just a hotheaded baddie but also takes accountability instead of shrugging off her shortcomings. She had an open conversation with Amren, apologised to Cassian for acting the way she did last Solistice, apologised and told Feyre she loved her and even when she utters an exasperated ‘fuck you’ to sweet, innocent Elain, she immediately acknowledges it and apologises on spot. Unlike Feyre who mocked when Lucien, her only true friend outside the IC, excitedly told her about his found family-The Band of Exiles. Feyre needs a lot of growing up to do. She became the very thing she swore to destroy when she was with Tamlin.

[pixelkip]

hii we used to be pals back when u were drawing hazy river stuff! i think your art is still amazing and its cool to see u keeping up with it!!! :3

-people who have no idea what this ask is referring to please feel free to ignore all this-

Hi anon! First of all id say "keeping up" is a bit generous- i kinda just like stuff i see now and then. Glad you enjoyed my art. I feel like i should take this opportunity to say some things but mainly- if anyone else knows me from when I was doing this stuff please know I AM A CHANGED PERSON NOW. As much as I had a lot of great experiences in that fandom and made some art and music i'm really proud of, there's also a lot of shit I wish I could un-make, or un-be-a-part-of, and people and projects I wish I could un-have-anything-to-do-with! I'm sure anyone else who was in the fandom at the time will know some of what I'm talking about and I don't want to have to recount it all in agonizing detail!

More under the cut my feelings about this are . Lengthy. And probably a bit of a downer. Cw for vague discussion of category 10 fandom bullshit my old hazy moots are probably somewhat familiar with already (though I'd implore you to read this anyway even if you already know)

There were some people in that fandom back a couple years ago that I and others ended up realizing were incredibly gross or shitty or doing things I wouldn't condone in a million years. Again, if you know you know.

Afaik that shits considered sort of over and done with and one person in particular who was quite popular and whose behavior made a LOT of people, myself included, feel deeply uncomfortable or unsafe has long been called out and ousted from the community more or less.

I knew this guy. They tried to defend some of the behavior they'd eventually be called out on to me personally. I was too scared to say anything publicly and starting shit with this person bc they were very popular and really nasty to anyone who criticized them. I regret that to this day and I'm greatful other people came out with actual proof that yea, this guy was a piece of shit. I won't mention them by name because again, if you know you know!

Edit: can't believe I didn't clarify but this didn't happen over text so I didn't have receipts anyway..

The only reason I feel comfortable interacting with anything hr related anymore is that a good few people I knew who I know weren't ok with what the person in question did still seem cool with hr as a whole and I can only assume that things were.. resolved more or less. At least that's what I hope is the case.

Edit 2: i didn't like how I worded the section here originally so I've opted to remove it. It'll suffice to say I personally was stressing over about the possibility that, from what I knew about the whole mess, hr's creators could've known what this person was doing and chose not to say something but I seriously doubt it and it'd be disingenuous to say that's even remotely true. Still, my own anxieties about it dissuaded me from going back to the fandom.

I think I've for the most part deleted stuff related to anything I particularly didn't wanna be associated with anymore. I might have to comb through some of it again idk.

That being said it's not all bad. Seeing new art of these characters gives me hope that the community is going in a better direction now and makes it feel a little better about the fact that on some level I'm still kind of attatched to them. And like I said, I'm still proud of the art I made in and of itself. I learned better anatomy, got better at music, I made myself learn basic vocal synth skills and pushed the very limited free software I had to its limit.

I don't think many other pieces of media have gripped me the way the hazy river characters did and that makes it even more difficult for me to process all the bad shit.

Tldr- shitty person in the hr fandom made me deeply wary of the fandom as a whole and its creators and I'm still not entirely satisfied with how it all turned out but if the people who denounced what this person did are cool with it, it might be ok? I don't know? I'm still a little worried?? Please tell me if I'm missing something?? Like actually tell me idc if you do it in asks or dms but closure would be nice. I promise I'm not trying to start shit I just wished I had answers idk. Sorry to anyone if this is sort of opening up old wounds for lack of a better term.

And if anyone is uncomfortable with anything I made or was involved with during my time in that fandom- I really am sorry. Chances are it's something I now feel really gross about too. I got caught up in what other people were doing and making and didn't want to question whether some of it was.. kinda not good.

If you read all this thank you. It feels nice to get it off my chest.

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

I shouldn't have looked up the new MHA I know better?????

You know you'd think I would be sadder

[jikigo]

you ever just see a post and just

. 😭

.⬅️🫀⬅️

[favvnsongs]

nearly twelve in the night and im having som Emotions about wash&lina ;__;

[readwritealldayallnight]

(part of the ‘Wife at First Sight Series’)

For the first time in a long time, Simon feels as if he’s walking on eggshells

He’s 6’4”, easily over 200 pounds of bulking muscle, strikes fear into the heart of each and every enemy he comes across (should they live to tell the tale that is), and yet he feels as though he’s tiptoeing, practically dancing around the issue he refuses to address

Yet you make him feel this way

It’s been months now, of this dance you still haven’t realized you’re apart of, shining on centre stage under the constant spotlight of Simon Riley’s attention, rather than one of the background performers as you seem to believe

He feels as though he’s done everything he can to get the point across to you, other than literally getting down on one knee and asking you those four special words he can’t seem to get himself to speak out loud

As easy as it is to pretend you two truly are husband and wife ‘til death do you part, he’s instead having to watch you leave base in exchange for your lonely flat each night, reminded of the fact that he’s not ballsy enough to just come out and say it to you

You make the Lieutenant nervous for fucks sake, something he hasn’t truly felt in so long he’s grasping for straws, searching for a life raft in these uncharted waters to help him stay afloat

That’s part of why he’s so confused when Gaz finally joins him and Soap in the gun range, landing a friendly smack across the taller man’s broad shoulders, saying something about how he’s ‘really happy for you LT, finally properly asked her, aye?’

“What are you goin’ on about?” Ghost practically grunts out, readjusting the weapon against his shoulder as he glances through the scope of his gun, only partly interested in what the Sergeants answer is, that is until he hears him mention your name

“Just saw her at her desk, talkin’ about how she has a wedding this weekend-” Gaz has barely finished his sentence before Ghost is whipping his skull clad head around, shoving his weapon into Soap’s arms, and beelining out of the armoury towards you, leaving a pair of chuckling Sergeants behind him

They’ve never seen their Lieutenant so whipped before. And the fact that you don’t even know you have this beast of a man wrapped around your dainty little finger makes it all the more entertaining for them

They totally haven’t taken bets on how long it takes for him to break and finally confess his feelings, and Price definitely didn’t put money down on it either

Ghost may as well float into the room on a cloud he’s feeling so overjoyed at the idea of finding you sat at your desk all pretty, chit chatting away with colleagues about the wedding you’ve finally realized he intends to give you, taking all the pressure off of him

Instead, he rounds the corner and overhears the last tidbits of your conversation, pretending as though his stomach doesn’t drop out of him and onto the floor when he realizes you’re telling your desk mate about your sisters wedding this weekend

He should’ve know better, it wouldn’t be that easy

“-not that I’m embarrassed to go without someone. That I don’t care so much about.” He hears you explain, failing to have noticed him behind you quite yet. “God knows it’s been ages since I’ve gone on an actual date anyways. But this is the first time I’m a bridesmaid, and my sister keeps saying I’m apparently the only bridesmaid without a date-”

“Well aren’t you going to bring your husband?” Your colleague asks, cutting you off. Just like everyone else on base, she knows thinks you are in fact Mrs Riley, for all intents and purposes. You open your mouth to correct her and tell her you don’t have a husband, when a deep voice comes up behind you and speaks first.

“‘Course she is.” Ghost replies for you, coming to stand behind you in your chair, sneaking a gloved hand onto your shoulder to offer a slight squeeze of acknowledgment. You lean your head back to glance up at him, offering a soft smile that melts his heart more and more each time he’s lucky enough to see it, to be the reason for it. Sensing she’s now the odd one out, your coworker quietly excuses herself and goes to find someone else to talk water cooler gossip with.

“Oh Ghost! Hi!” You say, reaching your own hand up to squeeze his in return, smile widening when you notice the crinkles next to his eyes that you hope mean he’s smiling as well under the mask. “Oh, you really don’t have to. I mean- I wouldn’t want you to waste a day off just to sit through a stranger’s wedding for who knows how many hours. I barely want to go.”

You try to joke about it, but this really has been causing you unnecessary stress. Your sister apparently doesn’t have enough wedding planning on her plate as it is, seeing as she has enough time to constantly pester you about whether you’ve secured a date yet or not, despite your answer always being no. She knows it’s been forever since you’ve dated anyone seriously, and that finding a date will be more of a chore than showing up without one and enduring your relative comments and questions.

Each time you told her no though, your mind wandered to the tall, dark, muscular man who liked to call himself your husband, imagining the looks on your family’s face if you were to show up with Ghost on your arm. But you never bothered to ask him, not wanting to force him into extending his kindness and charade of a happily married couple outside of work hours.

“I’d be with you for those ‘who knows how many hours?’” Ghost asks, quoting you, watching as you offer him a simple nod in return. “Then that’s the farthest thing from a waste o’ time in my books, love.”

As simple as that, the plan was set. Ghost would be your date to the wedding that weekend.

Now, Ghost was used to not having very much to look forward to in life. He could look forward to a hot shower occasionally, look forward to good pub food instead of mess hall dinners, look forward to a chance to sleep in a little later, simpler things of the sort.

But when you came into his life, he was suddenly looking forward to equally simple, but different things. He looked forward to reading your cute replies to his good morning and good night texts (he still never misses a single one, all these months later), looked forward to seeing your sweet smile greeting him when you arrived to work, looked forward to hearing your pleased hum when you took your first sip of whatever drink he prepared you that day. Essentially, he looked forward to seeing you.

Now though, he feels as if this weekend cannot come soon enough, finding himself practically giddy he’s looking forward to spending more time with you off base so much, feeling like a kid who’s itching to get their hands on their new Christmas gifts.

When he arrives at your flat almost a half hour too early (he just couldn’t wait anymore lovie, you can’t blame the poor man), and you open the door to greet him, he doesn’t think it’s fair to compare this to a gift under the Christmas tree.

No. It’s more like he’s won the goddamn lottery.

Standing before him, is the most beautiful, breathtaking vision he’s ever laid eyes upon in all his years. He half wonders if his knees are legitimately beginning to wobble where he stands, he feels so weak in the knees as he gazes upon you in your doorway. It’s still just you, the same woman he’s been seeing every day and dreaming of each night.

But you don’t look like you have every day these past months. Your hair is styled differently, your make up is a little more done up, and the thing that’s really got his mind reeling, is that instead of your regular work attire, you’re wearing a dress so stunning he half wonders whether or not you are the bride this evening. There’s no possible way someone so beautiful is expected to stand on the sidelines tonight, expected to be anyone apart from the star of the show, the centre of his the world.

You don’t take much notice of the way Ghost fails to greet you properly, standing outside your door and practically gawking at you, seeing as you’re preoccupied doing the same to him. His usual fatigues and black everything have been swapped out for black dress pants, a white button up shirt (your eyes definitely do not linger on the top three buttons being left undone, nope, not at all) and a black blazer, matching black surgical mask in exchange for the typical skeleton mask.

You two blushing, bumbling idiots in secret love manage to pull yourselves together enough to make the drive up to the venue, the car ride filled with laughter, stories, and too many stolen glances to count, each of you wishing you could pull the car over somewhere and jump each others bones instead.

At the venue, you go through the obligatory introductions with your family, simply so they couldn’t say you didn’t say hello at least once throughout the busy night, only partially intent on ignoring them later on. They’re left understandably stunned at the mention that the man beside you is your husband, and when your family members begin unloading question after question, the two of you manage to find a quick excuse each time to dash off, giggling and holding onto the other as you weave the growing crowd of guests, all too proud of your little inside joke.

You regretfully tell him that you’ll have to leave him to sit alone throughout the ceremony, though he insists you shouldn’t worry about it, lifting your spirits momentarily when he jokes that you should focus more on not tripping during your walk down the aisle, before the both of you are left bright red in the face at hearing him talking about you walking down an aisle, as if you don’t pretend to be married every day to begin with.

He truly doesn’t mind having to sit on the tiny foldable chairs that make up the seating for the ceremony, it’s only a small portion of the evening after all. And besides, his eyes certainly aren’t on the couple reciting their vows up at the altar. No, his gaze is on one person and one person only. From the moment the music kicked in and pairs of bridesmaids and groomsmen stepped out to walk the aisle in their matching attire and matching smiles, his eyes have been locked on you, just as yours have been locked on his.

His size certainly helped you pick him out of the crowd with more ease, finding him amongst the familiar and unfamiliar faces instantly, as though gravity was pulling your gaze in his direction alone. Later on, neither of you could even correctly point out amongst the groomsmen whose arm you were holding on to as you walked, attention only focused on each other.

Even as you stood up front, listening to your sister and new brother in law profess their love for the other, you tried your best to appear as though you were paying them your full attention, considering you were standing up at the front and all. But it was as though you could literally feel Ghost’s eyes on you the entire ceremony, unable to stop your eyes from straying towards him more times than was surely appropriate, feeling the heat of a blush creep over your cheeks every time you saw how devastatingly handsome he was today.

By the time the newlyweds are marching back down the aisle past their cheering loved ones, wedding party in tow, your eyes are no longer pretending to look anywhere other than at him. And Simon is looking back at you, but his mind is growing preoccupied, thinking of how he can finally ensure you’ll let him walk you down the aisle now.

Because in the glove compartment of the very car he drove you up here in, only inches away from your knees the entire drive, he’s tucked away a small little box, containing the exact ring you chose from the jeweller all those weeks ago. He carries it with him everywhere, eager for the moment, the opportunity to be lucky enough to truly call himself your husband and slip the band over your finger as his wife.

And he’s decided that tonight is the night he tells you.

The night he tells you this has never been a joke to him, never been anything apart from what he really wants to be true from the moment he saw you.

To call you his wife.

[vinnyvamppp]

You know that to be Desired fic you wrote? Would you be willing to write one Where Mainstream Mark finds out about his other versions wanting his childhood, he gets jealous and decides he has to have them in every way possible, and his other versions can go fuck themselves.

To Be Wanted

Note: Great minds think alike, I actually created this the day after the first one blew up and scrapped it. I'm going on a whim and making this as literal as possible before delving into everything.

Synopsis: He was wrong, he was foolish, and he's here to make up for his mistakes. Of course, you were always the better option, and no one else needs you the way he does. (To Be Desired ABRIDGED)

Warnings: Smut, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Multiple Sex Positions, Pussy Eating, Jealousy/Possessive, Porn w a Plot, Mentions of Anal, Slight Foot Fetish, Mentions of Other Variants, Switch!Mark Grayson, Switch!Reader (both are pretty subby), He needs that cookie real bad, etc.

Mark Grayson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,700 (Had to make it equal to the prequel)

Mark's knuckles ached from the last punch he threw— his breathing ragged as he hovered above the city, eyes locked onto him. Another him. He could charge headfirst immediately, but as his eyes landed upon the destruction and chaos wailing around him— he could only think one thing. I want to see her. You were independent and creative on the battlefield, but even he was angered and fearful. What if these versions of him convoluted your impression of him? He never had the chance to fully confess— and right now? — he hated this with every fiber of his being.

The city was unrecognizable, reduced to a graveyard of twisted steel and crumbling concrete. While the screams of the dying were drowned beneath the thunderous collapse of once-proud skyscrapers. Ichor slicked the pavement— bodies crushed beneath rubble or torn apart mid-air— and through it all, the Variants rained destruction without hesitation like a merciless plague of living extinction.

He shot forward, propelling through clouds of smoke tickling him. Smoke settled in his mouth, tasting charred wood and something almost metallic—like blood burned to dust. It was acrid and suffocating, but now was a moment of clarity. He was bruised, costume tethered as blood seeped from cuts among his skin, knuckles bruised with his eye threatening to swell shut.

This needed to be the end of their tyranny, and soon.

As Mark’s body cut through the wind with an unparalleled determination— fist meeting bone with a nauseating crunch, the force of the strike vibrating across the man's face. The variant groaned, wiping a smear of blood from his mouth, before turning towards him with that smug— knowing grin. "You don't get it, do you?" he taunted. "I don’t blame you. You weren’t there when she finally realized she didn’t have to wait for you."

Mark’s heart slammed against his ribs. He knew what the man meant, of the power you possessed. The familial ability to pierce a tear in the universe and peak into what the future beheld. This was an opportune time for you to be dissuaded— he didn’t seem to be the only candidate pursuing you— not with them here.

"Shut up."

The Variant only chuckled, tilting his head. "They say the multiverse is infinite, but you know what every version of us wants? Her. And we don’t hesitate. We don’t string her along. We don’t let her slip through our fingers a second—"

A second time. He didn’t wish to acknowledge that he never chose you, even when fate had bound you two together. He was lovesickV that was his biggest fault. Mark grabbed him by the throat and drove him through a building before he could finish. Glass and concrete exploded around them as they crashed through another two stories. "You think I don’t hesitate because I don’t care?" Mark growled, pressing his forearm against his Variant’s windpipe. "You think I don’t want her?!"

The variant only smirked, even with his air supply cut off. "Then why am I the one she's been warming up to?" His eyes widened in pure panic and rage flashed white-hot in Mark’s vision. He reared back, ready to hit him again when—

"Mark?"

The sound of your voice cut through the chaos like a blade. His breath hitched, movements halting as if to show the hold you had on him. Your costume was worn— the usual well-manicured appearance now frazzled from wages of war, and dried blood flaked against your skin. That look on your face… was different from the ones he recalled in his childhood. The difference was that the fuzzy warmth you once had, was slowly fading into something neutral, common, amongst the glances you shared with everyone.

Mark turned, his heart lurching as he saw another variant landing just a few feet from you. This one wasn’t fighting. He was standing too close, looking at you like he already owned you. His lips are pursing to deceive you. 

The Variant beside you reached for your hand. You were actually listening to him, just how many had found you by now? How many professed their love? "Come on. You don’t belong with him. Not when we—"

Mark didn't let him finish. In a blink, he was there— yanking the variant away from you and slamming him into the pavement so hard the ground cratered beneath them. "She’s mine," Mark snarled, gripping the Variant by the collar and lifting him up just to punch him back down. The variant spat blood— barely conscious, but Mark wasn’t done. "I don’t care how many of you there are," Mark seethed, throwing the variant across the street. "She’s mine. You want her? Go fuck yourself." His voice cracked with the sheer intensity.

After a long moment of silence, he turned to face you. Even after that display, you were left silenced. Truthfully, you had begun to consider their words— was it bitterness from his previous relationship with Eve? Or perhaps the feelings you forced yourself to bury? Being a hero made it easy to turn a blind eye, once you became resentful enough.

Mark’s breathing is shaky as he approaches you, his hands still trembling from the fight—from watching them try to take you, try to twist your mind into thinking they were better for you. It makes his stomach churn and his blood boil all over again. Because what if you had believed them? What if he’d been too late? When truthfully, they never stood a chance. 

“I mean it,” he said, his voice lower now— steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. “I don’t care what the others told you. I don’t care what they promised. They’re not me.” He awaited a response. Your lips parted, hesitation flickering in your expression. Not because you didn't feel something for him—he could see it. It was the uncertainty. Maybe even a little of the possessiveness still lingering in his tone.

So he softened. Mark reached out, his fingers barely brushing over yours as a silent question before running his thumb over your knuckles. The warmth nearly caused him to shiver. "I should have told you," he murmurs. "A long time ago. But I kept holding back because I thought—I don’t know, maybe I’d ruin things, maybe you didn’t see me the same way. But I can’t do that anymore. Not after seeing them try to take you away from me." You understood what he meant. This was his apology for abandoning you. Leaving when you received your powers— when he got his first girlfriend— when you needed a friend.

You stare at him, searching his face, your breathing uneven from adrenaline. He leans in, close enough that you can feel the way his breath trembles against your lips. "Tell me you want this," he demands with desperation. Your fingers trace along his jaw— voice a hushed whisper. “You threw a guy into the pavement for me, Mark. What do you think I want?”

Your voice is low but firm as you yanked him against you. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Mark knows he should be careful, knows he shouldn’t let his emotions swallow him, but then you’re pulling him closer, your fingers threading into his hair— body molding against his like you’re giving him the permission he so desperately craves.

And just like that— his restraint snaps.

Your back is against the nearest wall before you can process it, his lips crashing into yours with a fervor that nearly steals your breath. It’s messy, desperate—his hands gripping your waist like he needs proof that you’re his. He makes a noise in the back of his throat—something between a gasp and a holy shit again—before his grip tightens.

He groans into the kiss, his fingers sliding under the torn edges of your costume, skimming over bruised skin. "God, you’re so—" He exhales sharply— lips trailing from your mouth down to the curve of your jaw, then lower— ghosting over the pulse at your throat. He couldn’t stop touching you. He wouldn't stop.

You shudder as his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. "Mark—"

"No, seriously," he mumbles between kisses, words muffled against your collarbone. He found you to be perfect. The light in the muddled mess of his life. He could barely let you speak— just wanting to prove to you that he would always be the better option. 

His voice is wrecked now— breathless with want, and when you roll your hips against his just to tease, his breath hitches.

"Oh, my God," he chokes, pressing his forehead against your shoulder for a second. "Okay. Okay,—we should probably go home now because if we keep this up, I won't be stopping.” He was right; it was probably best if the news didn’t catch wind of the actual Invincible getting frisky in public during such a time. You bite your tongue, teasing, "You sure?"

Mark groans, lifting you effortlessly, his hands firm against your thighs as he takes off, propelling you both through the sky in a blur. "I have literally never been more sure of anything in my life," he says, his voice tight as he tries not to focus on the way your body is pressed against his—or how obvious his erection is right now.

But you do notice.

And when you grind down against his lap mid-flight, he lets out a noise so strangled and needy that he nearly forgets to keep flying. "Oh—shit, that’s—okay, wow, you’re evil. You’re actually evil. Holy shit, I’m gonna crash us into a building."

Once you two clumsily entered the sliding door of his home, your clothes were quickly strewn across the kitchen floor. He didn’t waste any time— his lips were on yours like a magnet— the taste of you intoxicating like he’d imagined. At this moment, he realized he would’ve never reacted the same for another woman. Excitement swelled his veins as you two collapsed against the couch. The renewed energy powering his body through its injuries.

Every part of you was his. From your knuckles to your shoulders, to your neck and collarbones, breasts— down to your toes. He’d make sure of it as every part of you was riddled with his saliva-ridden kisses. "I should’ve done this sooner—I should’ve made sure you knew you were mine before they even had the chance to try." He heaved— muscled body appearing from the crevices of your flesh. “No one else gets to touch you like this." His voice had a slight rasp, nearly distracting you from the harsh yank against your panties. At the sight alone he groaned— hands moving at inhuman speeds as he stripped himself of his boxers and the tight confines of your bra.

He moves lower, his lips tracing over your stomach— tongue dipping into your navel. You feel a rush of anticipation as he moves lower, his lips claiming your thighs. He parts your legs, his tongue tracing over your skin, his fingers moving to touch you. That’s when it happens— His tongue, almost hesitant, licks your cunt. Oh. You’re sweet like sugar all over. The realization dawned on him as his pupils dilated— lips messily smushed against your labia, and the rough texture of his dry tongue raked against your clit. The arousal that pooled from you was like water— his tongue seeking hydration. Your hips slowly rolled against his face; the soft mewls vibrating against your throat spurred him further.

It was almost sensual, slow as a reminder of who was between your legs right now. His muscular arms locked your hips into place as his tongue grew brutal. Its rapid— pleasurable lashes had you seeing stars. Just as you approached a quick orgasm, his tongue delved inside you, tongue-fucking you as far as his tongue could possibly reach. His nose nudged rhythmically against the bundle of nerves as his fingers glided up your abdomen— mapping out every curve to his memory. His hips rutting desperately against the now-damp couch cushion.

The quiet sound of the kitchen faucet dripping made your moans sound eerily loud. Your fingers roughly travel across his muscled forearm as your back arches into his mouth. With harsh gasps, your fingers roughly tapped him as he finally ripped the climax he so desired from you, his mouth covered in your scent. Divine.

Bringing himself up, his lips captured yours once more— your groans responding to one another. “You’re mine too, you know. But I like watching you get all worked up about it,” you mused breathlessly. He chortled quietly to himself— reddened and pulsing cock waiting readily in his grasp. Stroking it a few times between gasps, he spoke almost darkly amused. "They thought they could steal you from me, but they don’t know you like I do. They don’t know what you like. But I do." Before you could question him further on his remark— his hips snugly snapped against yours. His dick parted through you with ease as you both whined. The rhythm started slow, purposeful— punctuating with each thrust until he grew consumed with lust. Driving himself forward, the couch rocked from the unnatural movement. He had you completely beneath him, knees tucked against your chest and spread wide as his body pressed flush against yours. The wind was knocked out of you with every pummel— leaving you nearly salivating at the sensation. The raw sensation of your nipples rubbing against his chest adds a pleasurable sting to the mix, your hands now clawing at his shoulders.

"Mine. Mine. Mine," he muttered against the shell of your ear, his jaw unnaturally tight as he fought the urge to cum here and now. You were his— not theirs— just his alone in his suburban neighborhood when he should be putting an end to this. This was his moment to be selfish; to him, his need to defend was over until he devoured every inch of you. "God, I—fuck, I can't stop touching you. I don’t want to stop. You feel too good; you’re—oh my God, you’re everything." He rambled, abruptly pulling out, and a schlick sound echoed from between your legs. Suddenly, you were in his lap— pressed firmly against his torso, his hands wrapping around the width of your shoulders as he resheathed himself once more, his hips pistoning deeper into you. All you could manage was to bounce dumbly against him, the meat of his neck being your sanctuary as the skin absorbed the pornographic sound of your moans. He was breathless— barely able to contain himself as his skin became crowded in a red flush.

Then again— another position change, your bodies tangled together effortlessly— one of his legs hooked over your hip while the other remained stretched out beneath him. The angle was deep, intimate—allowing him to press closer, his body half-wrapped around yours as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Every movement sent a slow, rolling wave of pleasure through you, his hands gripping your waist to pull you even closer. His breath was warm against your skin— lips brushing against your shoulder as he murmured your name between each heated thrust. He slowly came up, hands spreading your ass cheeks as he watched himself be sucked into you willingly. The sight of your puckering hole clenching with each rock made his dick weep for its release. One hand melded against the fat of your ass— the other running up your sculpted calves until his lips mark your ankles and feet— his tongue swirling around your toe. "S... Say it again. Say you’re mine. Please—just say it." He pleaded, more so demanding as his movements became rougher— the couch shifting forward a few inches. “They don’t matter… I—I’m yours, Mark.” Your words were cut between burying your head in the couch pillows. “T-They don’t matter…” He echoed, a pleased groan vibrating against your foot.

Again. You were suddenly flipped as he stood, his feet backing into a wall as his knees nearly gave out from the sensations. You were hoisted into his arms as he bullied himself inside of you, both of your combined voices growing weak and raw. His neck craned lower as his tongue delved a nipple into his mouth— your skin was cold from a combination of sweat and his saliva. Creamy fluid leaked down his shaft as he unknowingly came from overstimulating himself. His hands gripped you hard enough to bruise, as you scratched up the length of his back, causing him to yelp. His canines finally blossoming their first hickey against your chest. Soon, his lips found yours, the rugged ends of your teeth nipping his lips hard enough to draw blood.

Not that it mattered—every scratch, bite, and pull only cemented one undeniable truth: you were his. And he wasn’t done. Not after feeling the slick warmth of your tongue against him, not after the way his thumb teased your rim while he moved inside you. Not even when he leaned you against the couch— having your legs straddle his as his tip prodded the entrance of your ass.

He seemed truly hellbent on caressing every inch. For further context, the previous two parts are listed in the MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[zshiftsrealities]

MANIFESTATION, AND IT'S CORE

this isn't a FUCKING joke. all of this isn't some big lie just so people can mess with you.

it's not "too good to be true", it's not "one day I will", it's not "can I?", it's not it's not it's not. it's REAL, it's LITERAL, it's YOURS.

it's different names for the SAME FUCKING THING. IT'S ALL THE SAME. one's not harder than the other, one's not easier than the other. it's the EXACT same.

lucid dreaming is the same as shifting which is same as manifesting which is same as the void. it's all the same. THE ESSENCE OF IT IS ALL THE SAME.

and the FACT is that it's all yours. NO, you don't have the "power to do it" because YOU DON'T NEED THAT BULLSHIT. it's YOURS.

there's no "specific time", "special day", "the one moment", "the one word" that'll make you shift/everything else. there's no nothing. there's nothing that you'll find that'll "make you" shift. there's no secret formula, secret recipe, "oh, maybe I'm doing this wrong", "wait, maybe if I do this", "maybe if I try that". there's just you, and everything that's already yours. SO OWN UP TO IT. SAY IT WITH YOUR DAMN CHEST THAT IT'S YOURS. SAY IT SO LOUD THAT EVEN SOMEONE IN THE DEPTHS OF HELL AND IN THE HEIGHTS OF HEAVEN HEIGHTS CAN HEAR THAT IT'S YOURS. say it with such a sense of entitlement that GOD HIMSELF hears you, sees you, and acknowledges you.

IT'S YOURS, IT'S YOURS, IT'S YOURS. say it until you feel sick of it. say it until your brain's fried. say it until you're out of it. say it UNTIL YOU CAN MEAN IT when you say IT'S YOURS.

one assumption, one assumption is all it takes. one sentence that you don't question. hell, question it even. doesn't matter. even so, one assumption is what it takes to be the you who has it all. the assumption that you ARE the you who has it all.

don't even believe. don't. don't even think twice. don't bother at all. don't do nothing. you don't NEED to do nothing. because you already are the you who has what you want.

what you desire was already yours before it was even put in your heart. it has been yours when it appeared. its completely yours when you work towards having it. it's yours to enjoy when you finally have it. so enjoy it throughout. enjoy it when you're persisting that you have it. enjoy it when an intrusive thought arises. enjoy it when you question it's validity. because it was yours the moment the big bang happened, and it was yours before it happened, and it was yours when nothing existed, and it's yours when the world ends. it's yours from start to end.

if it wasn't yours, it would've passed you by, and you wouldn't even have any idea. if it wasn't yours, you wouldn't be here right now. if it wasn't yours, you wouldn't be trying even if you're doubting it. if it wasn't yours, it wouldn't have found you in a hundred lifetimes.

you cannot make this shit up. it's a FACT. you don't find anything. whatever is yours, finds you. you cannot escape what's yours. that is your blessing. take it. own it. live it.

you're NEVER chasing. your desires chase you. they WANT to be yours. you CAN live without them. you definitely can. they can't. but since they're yours, they move with you, and so in your frame, it looks like you're chasing after them. that you have to have them. SO WIDEN YOUR FRAME. WIDEN THAT FUCKING PICTURE. ZOOM THE FUCK OUT. SEE, that they continue chasing after you, trying to catch up. so own them. stop running. give yourself a break. take a breather. what are you chasing after anyway? when everything is yours since the beginning of the world, and even before that. you're making your life awfully like Achilles's. stop going so fast that you pass your desires and then end up behind them. stop running in circles. stop, and relax. you've reached the end line. you ARE the end line. let your desires come to YOU. that's what you deserve, and that is EXACTLY what you have.

you will have exactly what you intend. intention matters, and actions follow. so intend big, assume the "impossible", and watch it appear before you. the mind is a powerful thing. it always works in your favor, but only if you keep it under your control. do not let it even DARE to think it can control you. don't YOU ever think it can control you. sit down with it. tell it your desires. tell it that you already HAVE your desires. and most importantly, tell it that it has to work for you NO MATTER WHAT. because that is what it's supposed to do. that's it's purpose.

no, you're not GOD. you're YOU. that's your power. GOD has too much to take care of. the wind; it's direction, the water; its flow, the rain; where it falls, the leaves; when they wither, your next breath that you'll take, every single person on this once fully green Earth. he's constantly taking care of everyone else. do you have the time to take care of every single individual alive and breathing right now? honestly, no. you're not gonna sit here saying "oh, yeah. let me pay the debts of someone on the other end of the world who probably doesn't even know me". I know I won't. is that selfish? I don't care. I deserve everything that I want as much as anyone else in this whole wide world. so no. NO NO NO. you're nothing, but YOU. you don't "make it happen", you don't have to. you assume, it happens. you intend, its here. that's YOU. you don't have to sit down and plan HOW what you want will happen, you sit down and assume it'll happen, and it will.

anyways, yeah. you get the point. you are you, do not try to be anything or anyone else. be you, do you, for you. and everything will be yours. it already is. you are the CORE, the CENTER, the start and the end.

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 9:33

Bakugou never believed he had room for love in his life. His world was defined by ambitions and goals he set upon himself—becoming Number One, proving what he can or cannot do, and making every moment count in the endless pursuit of the things that he thought would satisfy him for as long as he lived.

He knows what love is. He’d seen it in glimpses—his parents everlasting love, his friends falling over themselves for their crushes at UA back in high school—he knows.

But love wasn’t a luxury he thought he could afford, and even if it was, it wasn’t something he thought about often. Too caught up in the relentless wave of life.

At least, not until you.

He first met you on the job.

At that time, you were nothing more than his partner for this particular high-stakes mission. He initially rolled his eyes at the thought of working with someone new, but you managed to worm your way into catching his attention (and soon into his heart).

You weren’t too loud, flashy, or all bark and no bite like some of the heroes he worked with. You were sharp and methodical, always thinking two steps ahead, and your patience in the face of chaos was something he both admired and envied.

But admiration wasn’t love, not yet.

You were supposed to be just another hero to him—a capable one, sure, but nothing more than a colleague. Bakugou would never admit it aloud, but the way you carried yourself earned his respect quickly.

You weren’t one to back down, even when he demanded easy-fix solutions from you when it was nearly impossible given the situation. You’d meet his intensity halfway, standing your ground when you knew he was wrong—Bakugou thinks that the moment he met you, he’s never once been right.

It annoyed the hell out of him, of course, but it also earned his begrudging approval. It’s like meeting someone that could keep up with him.

He’s still getting used to that.

Still, it wasn’t love. Or maybe he was just in denial.

It started subtly, sneaking up on him like an enemy he couldn’t see coming—which is almost never because Bakugou’s been preparing for his whole life for as long as he could remember. So you were like a force that swept him off his feet, quite literally, when he remembers your first meeting, how you casually tripped him over all because he didn’t acknowledge your presence in the room.

Yeah, that one’s on him.

He began noticing things about you—little things he’d never paid attention to in anyone else. Like the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you were passionate about—like those little figurines you said were Hironos, or the way your voice softened when she comforted a frightened child.

He noticed how you always managed to keep your composure, even when the odds were stacked against you. You had this way of making everything seem manageable... no matter how dire the situation.

And then there were the quiet moments.

Like the time you made coffee for the whole team during an overnight stakeout, remembering exactly how he liked his: strong, no sugar, just a splash of cream. You handed it to him with a knowing look, and for some reason, that simple act stuck with him longer than he expected.

“Coffee?” you offered.

Bakugou looked at you as if he were like a deer in headlights. “Yeah, thanks.”

He’s not a complete asshole, so he says thank you.

Or the time you were patrolling together, and he caught you humming under your breath. That pop song that’s trendier to the younger generation these days. It was such a soft, absent-minded thing, but it pulled at something in his chest. He didn’t even recognize the tune, but he found himself wanting to hear more.

It starts small. Then it comes all at once.

“You good?” he asks after finishing the given task.

You blinked up at him, nodding with a tired yet triumphant smile. “Peachy.”

That was when it hit him. The relief that washed over him wasn’t just because the mission was a success. It was because you were okay. And the thought of a world without you, even for a second, was unbearable.

Bakugou was screwed.

He started looking for excuses to spend more time with you. Walking you home after shifts, claiming he was “going the same route” even when his neighborhood was in the complete opposite way. Bringing you snacks during long patrols, muttering something about how he happened to have an extra. Offering to spar with you during training sessions, even though he hated sparring with people who weren’t on his level.

He hated how transparent he was being, how obvious his feelings were becoming. But for once in his life, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The night Bakugou confessed, it wasn’t some big, dramatic moment. They were sitting on a rooftop after a long day, the city sprawled out below them, its lights twinkling like stars.

“You free tomorrow?” he asks abruptly, the words gruff and unpolished, like they’d been dragged out of him against his will.

You turned to him, your brows furrowed slightly. “Depends.”

“I— you...” he muttered, staring straight ahead. His hands clenched into fists on his thighs as he struggled to find the right words. “I don’t know what it is about you, but… you’re different. You don’t take my shit, but you don’t try to change me, either. You’re just… you.” He finally looked at you, his crimson eyes filled with a rare vulnerability.

“And I don’t wanna imagine this—any of this—without you in it.”

You stared at him for a moment, your expression softening as the weight of his words sank in. Then you smiled, your hand resting on your cheek fondly.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Katsuki?”

If he weren’t uncharacteristically nervous right now, he would have made a wittier comeback. Bakugou’s chest felt impossibly tight, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something warm and steady, something he never knew he needed until now.

“Yeah, so? Whaddya say?”

“I’d absolutely love to go on a date with you.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.��� 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[pellowinksx]

Where I was, what happened, and why I'm back so soon. My most personal manifestation and mistakes that should never be made again. (a success story)

My biggest ever insecurity was my hair. I had midlength, frizzy, weird curls that would never define no matter what. It looked like a matted rat almost I hated it.

Even after learning the law and manifesting other stuff, my body, face, anything. I just COULDN'T get my hair to change. I was always so aware of it I could always feel it. I could always see it in my silhouette.

So the 3D was smacking me in the face again and again. I had been trying to change my hair to better defined curls for a year. Yes, a year. Even me who has helped so many of you with my blog. It took me a year to manifest. What I did and the mistakes I made; I did robotic affirmations just like I manifested everything else. But it still, didn't work.

No matter what I did. I was in a spiral, I tested my abilities and I manifested so many other things but I just couldn't change my hair no matter what I did. Until literally 20 hours ago I posted this. Telling you guys that I would be taking a short break from posting and I would come back after manifesting something. I had expected it to take around a week or two for me to lock in, but no. It took only 22 hours.

What did I do? I locked in. I read success stories that MY OWN followers sent me. I had kept repeating to myself "ignore and affirm, ignore and affirm," And then I finally identified what was wrong. You know the saying that's like "when you can write down a problem, you already solved it halfway" well that's kind of what it was like for me.

I did psych-k and I asked myself "there are 2 reasons why I don't have my desired hair" I did the pull test and it was correct. I had 2 things I needed to fix. Then it just came to me, I said "one reason is because I just acknowledged I don't have it" did the pull test, it was correct. then, next I said "the next reason is because I would search for an answer" did the pull test, and It was correct. So my mistake, was questioning. Even if it was only in my actions and not my words. And my next mistake was kind of knowing that I didn't have it.

I locked in after that. I chose a very simple affirmation "I have jet black long curls" It wasn't that specific but my desire was long wavy/ish defined jet black hair that went down to my butt. And before you say "but pink didn't you already say you manifested long hair?" I did. And I lied. That was an affirmation. I was pretending to "act as if" when I wrote that. That was my wrong-doing, but please be assured I haven't lied about anything else.

Anyways- So I affirmed all day and I kept doing the pull test "I have jet black curls, I have jet black long curls" and every-time I pulled my interlocked fingers it assured me "yes, you have it" So then I went to sleep the next day. I didn't wake up with it this morning until I had an epiphany. The law. Is instant. No matter what you see. Your subconscious assumes after ONE affirmation. I told myself "I have assumed my desire" over and over this morning.

Until around an hour ago I passed the mirror without looking at it. But in my peripheral vision I saw a long black **thing** flowing around while I was walking. I stopped in my tracks and turned around. Lo and behold I had my desired hair. I was just staring and staring at it. I finally ran my fingers through my long curls, in shock and awe. And the best part is? I REVISED it. My mom asked me why I kept looking at my hair like that, and she was like "It looks extra nice today" not even questioning why or how it grew like 20 inches in a day.

My advice and a specific list of what I did.

Do not question where it is. Do not affirm "I have it" and then ask a blogger "where is it?" Do not acknowledge you don't have it. Don't affirm "I have it" and then be like "yeah I don't actually have xyz" How I fixed it and my new perception of the law: thing 1. Your subconscious can get confused, it can assume but not understand why you just said you don't have it. That's not a punishment, you're just not letting the law work. How to fix this: Affirm and don't contradict. Don't contradict in your actions. Don't ask a blogger where it is, or vent to an open ai (what I did lmao) If you ever feel a thought about it not being in your favor, just tell yourself "it has confirmed already" and try ignoring it for the rest of the day. Thing 2. The seed gets planted immediately. "I have thing" Your subconicous immediately accepts it and makes space for you to have thing. Then what? Affirm or go about your day. Accept that thing is already yours now. Even if you don't feel like it, just tell yourself "it has confirmed" or "it will confirm" Thing 3. You do not need to affirm so many times. I know my thing is robotic affirmations and saturation but honestly...Its already done. The reason why I think robotic affirming is so affective is because after you affirm once BOOM your subconicous is like "YES WE HAVE THING! NOW LET ME JUST MAKE SPACE FOR IT" but if you keep affirming again, and again, and again and leave no choice for doubts to arise, your subconicous will literally purge your desires. Its almost like you've overstimulated it. Don't make my mistakes. Now, How do we manifest literally anything we want? Its not "affirm and persist in affirmation until you see it" for me anymore. Its "affirm a little, remind, and stop asking" What do I mean by that? Affirm once or twice honestly. And then remind yourself "it has confirmed already" And then don't ask where it is anymore. you affirm its not here or if you ask anyone, just don't validate the old story. Don't make my mistakes. This was my biggest manifestation ever. Bigger than my parents becoming millionaires or me being popular among my friends. If you have a manifestation so important to you or you're trying to get rid of an insecurity, just try very hard to trust yourself and trust the law. Because your subconicous has already assumed just let it do its thing in the meantime. Thank you for reading if you've got this far, ciao my loves ✨

[luv-lock]

How would alien!reader be once mark becomes the viltrumite emperor?

She’s still with Mark. Of course, she is. Where the hell else would she be? She’s obsessed with him. Always has been, always will be. There’s no universe where she lets him go.

Their kids? All grown up now. Still adorable little freaks, still worship her like she’s a literal god. (Which, let’s be real, she kinda is.) They inherited her looks, her instincts, and that whole creepy-but-cute thing she has going on. They love Mark, obviously, but their real loyalty is to their mom. If she told them to burn a planet down, they’d do it without blinking.

And her? She’s different now.

No more playing dumb. No more broken English. That was cute while it lasted, but she doesn’t need to act like some clueless alien anymore.

She speaks perfectly now.

And the way she acts? Completely different.

She’s not that weird, clingy little thing Mark found anymore. Now? She carries herself like the goddamn Queen she is. She’s graceful, terrifying, and always watching.

And yeah—bikini. Always.

Mark tried to get her to wear actual clothes at some point, but she laughed in his face. She hates clothes, always will. Too restrictive. Too stupid. She wears the bare minimum and dares anyone to say something.

Mark’s Emperor of Viltrum now. Big deal. She doesn’t care. He’s always been her Emperor. The only difference is now everyone else has to acknowledge it too.

And her? Yeah, she’s his wife. His Queen. His immortal, overpowered, terrifyingly devoted wife.

She takes care of him.

And I mean, really takes care of him.

If she feels him aging? She fixes it.

If he so much as feels sore after a fight? She erases the damage.

Mark is not allowed to weaken. Not allowed to age. Not allowed to die.

And he hates it at first. He doesn’t wanna be some immortal being. He doesn’t wanna be kept alive forever.

Too bad.

She never asked.

She just did it.

Because in her head? He belongs to her. And she refuses to let time take him away.

Eventually, he just accepts it. Because he loves her too much to fight her on it forever.

She’s still the best mother ever.

Doesn’t matter that their kids are fully grown, probably terrifying, and could wipe out civilizations if they wanted. To her? They’re still her babies.

And they know it.

She still touches them, still pets their hair, still hums lullabies while braiding it. (Mark has walked in on fully grown warriors sitting patiently while she plays with their hair. He does not understand it. At all.)

The worst part?

They listen to her over Mark.

He’s the Emperor of Viltrum, goddammit, but if she says something different? They follow her.

Mark: “Go handle that mission.”

Them: “Mom said we should rest today.”

Mark: “I SAID GO.”

Them: “Mom said no.”

It drives him crazy.

Nolan finds it hilarious. (We keep him alive ok?)

She’s a housewife, sure. But she’s still her.

She cooks, cleans, makes their home perfect. But she also hunts, rips creatures apart with her bare hands, and rearranges planets when she feels like it.

She nests. Constantly. She makes sure everything is safe, everything is warm, everything is exactly how she wants it.

She’s always touching Mark. Always.

If she’s not wrapped around him, something is wrong.

She still clings to him like she’s claiming him all over again. And honestly? She is.

Because he’s hers. Forever.

And she will never let anyone forget it.

[muchanmocha]

Hyuna's Revenge

Hyuna's revenge is threefold.

First — she knows her death would hurt Luka more than his own ever would.

Luka, who does not value his own body at all, smiles at the fact that he won even though he is thoroughly injured.

— Round 5 Commentary, Artbook

Heperu has long since trained Luka's fear of death out of him. It's implied that he's been put through the sensation of dying again and again until he overcame it.

At this point he isn't even phased by a gun to his head, only acknowledging it for a second in Wiege when it physically stops his forward step, before turning away uncaringly to look at what's more important to him — Hyuna.

Second — her final request asks him, requires him, to live.

Luka, live with love.

Embrace the pain, the frailty and the moments so unbearably shameful.

Forgive yourself…

Again and again, endlessly.

Because everything… begins from there.

Luka no longer has an easy out. Because oh death would be the easy way out. Living is the true challenge.

And to do what Hyuna asked of him?

Despite being subjected to the cruelest, harshest training known in Alnst since childhood, this will be the hardest thing he'll ever do.

By leaving him with those words, Hyuna has left him with no choice but to honor her final request, continue to live on without her, and be haunted by the gaping hole of her absence thereon.

This is even more harsh when you consider Hyuna has been Luka's coping mechanism this entire time, and she mercilessly stripped that away from him. Which leads us to:

Third — with her death, Hyuna is forcing Luka to confront everything he's been avoiding.

Luka was only able to walk away so easily (figuratively and literally) because he was escaping reality through Hyuna.

I resented you so.

I had to keep moving forward in every moment...

In comparison Hyuna was never able to accept what happened. She had to grapple with her pain, her loss, and her inability to come to terms with it in her every waking moment.

By dying right in front of him, Hyuna is forcing his eyes open to the reality he wasn't facing when he made her his entire world.

Luka made her his chosen savior, but what can he do when she's the one dying?

He now has to confront not only her death, but Hyun Woo's, and everyone else's. All of the horrific deaths he had witnessed, all of the ones he had a hand in.

But...

Hyuna also left him the answer within her last words — words that serve as both his condemnation and his salvation.

They're one last puzzle to solve, and if he manages to find his answer, Luka will be able to save himself.

She left him the answer, the words he needs, because even to the very end Hyuna cares deeply for that small child.

Hyuna truly chose to carry out her revenge in the cruelest... and gentlest way possible.

This time...

I'll be your new puzzle to solve.

So don't rush, and take your time to figure it out.

I don't know how long it'll take...

But I hope you find your own answer.

[nymphaiofmoros]

TRAVIS MARTINEZ headcanons

x reader .ᐟ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

⸙ - Travis doesn’t actually have many friends back home. Due to his many family problems, he has learned to be independent and alone. Most of the time, he either hangs out alone, or with you.

⸙ - Travis is very inexperienced. Like VERY inexperienced. When the two of you kissed for the first time, he literally stood still. You had to teach him how to do everything, and although he was super embarrassed, he felt safe with you. He knew you wouldn’t make fun of him.

⸙ - Travis is a very jealous person. He tries to hide it but it always slips out. He doesn’t want you to view him as controlling, or possessive, or insecure. But you can always notice when he gets like that. If he sees someone getting a little too close and friendly, he’ll squeeze your hand, gently enough to not hurt you – but hard enough for you to feel it and acknowledge his presence. Then he will ‘death stare’ at the person with absolutely zero shame. And – of course – if the person that’s talking to you tries to talk to him too, he will reply with a sarcastic, sassy comeback like the diva he is.

⸙ - When you get home after a ‘jealousy incident’ as you call it, he’ll act like a grumpy cat, keeping his head down and grumbling short responses. Even though he looks mad at you, he still follows you around the house like a lost puppy. After probably an hour of this, he’ll finally break and start getting affectionate again. Then he will start asking ‘if you still like him’, or ‘if he did anything wrong’. You always reassure him, and that makes him feel safe. His jealousy issue isn’t actually because he doesn’t trust you – he fully trusts you, he just doesn’t like it when other people view you in a similar way he does. You’re special to him, and he wants you to know that no one else cherishes you truly like he does. That’s why he tries so hard to better himself – to make you and himself proud of the person he has become after all of his trauma. 

⸙ - Travis isn’t a confrontational person – at all. But when it comes to you, he tries his hardest to defend you. Especially in the wilderness, he’d make sure you never, ever got hurt. He’d rather eat his own damn arm than kill and eat you. That was his limit – even if he was starving, he was never, ever going to eat you.

⸙ - His favourite spots to be touched are his back – especially if you’re scratching him –, the back of his neck, his hair and scalp (getting petted, playing with his hair, massaging his scalp with your nails), and his arms.

⸙ - He’s always tense, which is why he absolutely adores massages. Not in a sexual way – he just loves having your arms all over his back, releasing all of the tension he had stored up in there. After a massage he’s always limp, just laying there on the bed, on his stomach, groaning like he’s just been shot. Whenever you tell him he’s being dramatic, he always shoots back with a quick, light-hearted “Shut up!”.

⸙ - One of his first gifts for you as an official couple was a cassette tape with a bunch of songs that reminded him of you. He had spent weeks rethinking each song and tweaking the playlist, wanting everything down to the lyrics to be accurate to how he feels and thinks of you. 

⸙ - He loves gossip. Whenever you’re gossiping with your girl friends, he’s always nearby, pretending to be doing something while he’s listening in. He lives for the drama, although he pretends that he’s not interested. After your friends live, he’ll try to ask for more information (without you catching on that he was listening in), although you can always clock him. Now, whenever your friends come around, you all invite him to listen to the new hot cup of tea.

⸙ - He's awkward as hellll when it comes to flirting, or any type of suggestive talk. He tried his hardest, truly, bless his heart, but he's just... bad at it. He always just lets you do all the talking, while he stands there and nervously chuckles.

that's all,,,, for now ;).

[hyuniemyunie]

Interrupted Serenity

shadow the hedgehog x gn!reader

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): sonic interrupting yalls cuddling after shadow starts to embrace his instincts🙏 why is this pic different from all my pics? no idea.

IM WORKING ON REQUESTS. i just need to empty my drafts first, theres a lot of finished fics in it😭

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

It started small. Little things.

At first, you thought Shadow was just getting used to affection. The occasional nudge against your hand, the way he leaned into you when you scratched the right spot between his quills. But then—then it got worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it.

It started with nuzzling. Subtle at first. He’d rub his cheek against your shoulder when he sat next to you, bumping his head against you like some kind of overly dignified cat. Then came the purring. The first time it happened, you thought you were imagining it—until you laid your head against his chest one night and felt it vibrating through you like a low, steady engine.

"Shadow," you whispered, half-laughing, half-in-awe, "are you purring?"

He immediately stopped. Froze. Completely shut down. Like a Windows XP critical error in real-time.

"I don’t purr," he muttered stiffly.

"You literally just did."

"You're hearing things."

"Shadow."

"I'm leaving."

And he did. He straight-up left the room like that would erase what just happened.

But the next day? The nuzzling was back. The nudging. The low, almost subconscious purring whenever you ran your fingers through his quills in just the right way. He started instinctively circling around you when you stood still for too long, and if you weren’t paying attention? He’d just position himself right in front of you until you acknowledged him.

It was adorable.

It was also hilarious.

Because the moment anyone else was around?

Nothing.

Cold, unmovable, untouchable Ultimate Lifeform mode activated.

And the best part? It was instantaneous.

One moment, he was nuzzling into your shoulder, comfortably wrapped around you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—then—

“Yo, Shadow—”

BAM.

He was on the other side of the couch before Sonic could even finish walking into the room.

Just sitting there.

Arms crossed. Legs crossed. Staring at the wall like he had never even heard of affection before in his life.

Sonic, holding a chili dog in one hand, stopped mid-step. Blinked. Slowly looked from you—still sprawled out from where Shadow had just been snuggled up against you—to him, now acting like a statue.

“…What,” Sonic finally said, eyes narrowing, “is happening here?”

You turned your head, making direct eye contact with Shadow. His expression? Blank. Nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion.

But you?

You grinned.

“Oh, nothing much,” you said, stretching dramatically. “Just hanging out with my very affectionate boyfriend.”

Shadow’s ear twitched. If looks could kill, you’d be vaporized.

Sonic, meanwhile, slowly pointed his chili dog at him. “Ohhhh. No way.” A smug grin spread across his face. “You’re going soft, huh?”

Shadow exhaled through his nose. “Leave.”

“I knew it!” Sonic cackled. “I knew you had a mushy side! This is amazing.”

Shadow, still maintaining his unbothered, ice-cold composure, stood up. “I’m leaving.”

“Okay, okay, wait, hold on—” You grabbed his wrist before he could teleport out of pure embarrassment. “You literally just got done rubbing your face on my shoulder like a needy little—”

His entire face twitched. His quills bristled slightly, his body so tense you thought he might actually combust.

“I don’t do that,” he said stiffly.

Sonic, hands on his knees, was trying so hard not to completely lose it. “Dude. Dude. I gotta tell Knuckles about this.”

Shadow—without hesitation—turned and teleported out of the room.

Sonic and you locked eyes.

“…Do you think he’s embarrassed?”

“Oh, he’s mortified.”

And for the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop giggling because, despite everything, you knew exactly what was going to happen the second you were alone again.

Shadow was going to be right back at your side, nuzzling, nudging, and purring like nothing ever happened.

The next day, it didn’t take long for the inevitable to happen. After Sonic's teasing, you figured Shadow would keep his distance, pretend he was too proud to even acknowledge his soft spots. But as always, you knew better. The moment the coast was clear, the instant Sonic was out of the picture, Shadow was back at your side.

You were sitting on the couch, trying to focus on something—maybe a video game, maybe just zoning out. But you knew, you knew, the second he’d show up. It wasn’t a matter of "if," it was a matter of "when."

And just like clockwork, there he was. Without a word, without a sound, Shadow was suddenly there, sitting beside you, his presence so subtle and yet unmistakable. He didn’t sit too far, but he didn’t crowd you either. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but there was a certain stillness about him—like he was waiting for something.

You couldn’t help it. You turned your head just slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. His quills were a little more relaxed today, his posture still cool, but there was that familiar nudge against your shoulder again, just barely noticeable, as though he couldn’t quite stop himself.

“Shadow,” you said, voice soft, playful, “are you trying to be sneaky?”

He didn’t respond at first. He simply leaned in a little closer, the smallest of movements, but enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he muttered, eyes still glued to the screen, though you could see the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re imagining things.”

You knew he was lying. The air between you had changed. There was something different in the way he hovered around you now. He was still trying to keep up his tough-guy act, but it was slipping. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was enjoying this—enjoying being near you.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached over and brushed your fingers through his quills, a motion so familiar now that it almost felt automatic. And there it was—the hum. That low, steady vibration against your fingertips. The purr.

You smiled to yourself. He hadn’t even realized it was happening.

“Shadow,” you said again, louder this time. “You’re purring.”

His whole body stiffened, his quills slightly bristling, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he gave a deep sigh, still trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

“I’m not purring,” he insisted, eyes still trained on the TV, his voice rougher than usual. “It’s just... the sound of my quills.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, smirking, not buying it for a second. “Sure, Shadow. Whatever you say.”

You couldn’t resist. Reaching out again, you gave him another light scratch between the quills. His body reacted instantly, leaning into it like a cat getting the best back scratch of its life. You felt the purring deepen, the vibration stronger this time, and this time, he didn’t try to hide it.

“Stop it,” he muttered, but there was no real anger in his voice. If anything, there was a slight softness that you knew he didn’t want you to catch.

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” you teased, continuing to run your fingers through his quills. “This is too much fun.”

“Quit it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, his composure completely slipping now.

But the moment you let your hand fall away, Shadow relaxed again. His purring stopped, but there was an almost relieved sigh that left him. He didn’t move away, though. Instead, he leaned his shoulder against yours, just barely touching, as if he couldn’t bring himself to leave but also didn’t want to admit he liked it.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, resting your head against his. “But I don’t think you really mind, do you?”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you could feel his muscles tense again, like he was debating whether or not to argue. And then, with a sharp exhale, he gave up. “Just... don’t tell anyone.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, I won’t. Your secret’s safe with me.”

And that was the moment it hit you: Shadow wasn’t just coming around because he had to. No, he was choosing to. The tough exterior, the cold demeanor—it was all still there, but it was slipping away in little ways. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he didn’t want to admit it to himself yet, but it didn’t matter. Every time he stayed close, every time he nuzzled or purred or made some small, almost unnoticeable move to be nearer to you, it was like he was telling you, in his own way, that he cared.

And you, of course, were more than happy to let him have his soft side—embarrassment and all.

“I won’t tell anyone, Shadow,” you said again, reaching over to lightly tug at his quills. “I think you’re kind of cute when you’re all... mushy.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward again.

You knew this wasn’t the end of it. It wasn’t going to stop with just a few purrs or nuzzles. Shadow was in too deep now, and though he’d never admit it, you were pretty sure he was just as hooked on it as you were. It might have started small, but now? Now, you could almost feel the change in him—just the tiniest crack in that icy facade.

And you were more than happy to keep him close, to be the one who saw the softer side of him, the one who got to tease him and let him enjoy the affection he never thought he needed.

It was all too easy to know what would happen next.

Shadow, pretending he wasn’t soft? That was so yesterday.

Now, he was yours.

[lost-inthe-v0id]

Someone PLEASE needs to do this

Like something about zuko and fire bending reader being engaged. Like she’s a royal and they’re being “forced to get married” but they actually fall in love. They support each other through everything and they’re literally stuck at the hip. They sneak out to see each other and whenever they have to go to formal events they can’t wait to see each other and they goof around all night. She knows all of his secrets and how he feels about his father and mother.

Reader somewhat gets along with Azula. Reader doesn’t like the way she treats zuko sometimes but she acknowledges she is only a product of the adults around her so she has a soft spot for her.

Then when zuko get exiled he’s so caught up on getting his fathers approval. He promises to her he’ll be back before she knows it. He knows how hard it is for her in the palace. She tries to go with him just as his ship is leaving, pleading with him one last time; insisting she can be of help. He declines her kinda harsh but she understands and bids him farewell. She walks away but remembers she has to give him something. A token of good luck. When she runs back to give it to him she over hears Zuko talking to someone telling them he didn’t want reader to come because she’d be baggage, a burden, dead weight. Reader is hurt and goes back to her room in the palace and cries her sorrows away. She really thought he thought more of her, he always complimented her when she firebent, she was taught by the best and he still thought of her as deadweight?

In Reality Zuko only said that because he knew he wasn’t going to come back for a while, he knew it would inevitably she would fall for someone else during the time he was away. What if he came back with his hopes up only to find her in the arms of someone else, someone who was there for her, who would care and love her then and there. He wasn’t good for her. And the faster he convinced himself he could move on, the less he would cling to her when he inevitably saw her again.

Time passes by and reader comes to the conclusion from the help of overthinking, that he never loved her. It was all a facade to win the approval of his father. If he really cared for her , he would know how awful it was in the palace without him. He abandoned her. And for what to find some kid?

She joins azula. She’s really good at fire bending and she hates to see azula practically destroy herself and the people around her for some approval. So she decided if no one will properly take care of her, she will. Over time Reader has disconnected her feelings from the actions she takes under Azula. Her only concern right now is Azula. She realizes Azula at her core is a wounded little girl and she takes care of her as her own.

IDK when or where reader and zuko reconnects or see glimpses of each other again but when he sees how she cares for Azula he melts away. You’re so scary to people around you but soft and nurturing towards his sister. He wants that. He needs it. At one point when you challenge him to fight due to anger from maybe hurting Azula in some type of way or jealousy due to his kindness towards katara. When you firebent in the past you made sure your flames wouldn’t hurt him but now they’re coming at him full force and he doesn’t know what to do.

@ me if u do plz give credit 👉👈🥺 I can’t write like that