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hardlyinteresting · 2 months

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Love, Guilt and Other Wounds

Aaron Hotchner x female reader

When Aaron and his partner are taken hostage, he has to break her heart to save her life.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, a little bit of domestic fluff, mention of blood, injury (non-graphic), hostage situation, knives, cannon-compliant themes of violence, non-detailed discussion about religion (Christianity), themes of childhood abuse, please let me know if you want me to add anything else.

Word count: (less than I expected, sorry) 3.7k Request here! | Masterlist

"Of course, I’ll hurt you. Of course, you’ll hurt me. Of course, we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence". - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Aaron isn't sure if he believes in a God or a higher power. He was taught to read scripture; and spent Sunday mornings perfecting his posture in church pews-- starched shirts and neckties pulled too tight. The preacher's sermons left him wanting-- wondering how this man of God could stand over his congregation preaching every week, and not see all the lies they were holding back. How could he not see the secrets Aaron seemed to read so clearly? At just fourteen Aaron knew who was having an affair and with whom. He could see which children feared their fathers. Every pew had another story, another family growing together, or falling apart. The hypocrisy of it all drove him mad, and he imagined standing from his seat to shout it, overwhelmed as he realized he had unintentionally become the keeper of everyone's secrets. He learned that everyone in that church was a liar in their own right, and he hated it. But, when he left for college, his mother called to ask if he was still going to church on Sundays, and he lied and said yes.

He should have paid more attention. Maybe then he'd understand how he ended up here. Perhaps it's some sick retribution. A cosmic evening of the scales; his penance for his sins. He just wishes you weren't here with him. How dare he think he could love someone when all he's ever done is punish those who love him? His hands are stained with blood; he taints everything he touches.

Very early on in his career, Aaron learned he couldn’t take cases personally. As devastating as it was to have another victim show up while hunting a killer, it wasn’t a personal failure. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He repeated the process again and again. Logically he knows that he is not responsible for the actions of the aggressive sociopath who is now holding the two of you hostage; but, he blames himself for not keeping you safer, for bringing you with him, and for putting you in harm's way. He knows he will not recover if you don’t make it out of here. He won’t forgive himself.

The profile said this man would be anti-social. Physically, he’d be small in stature. It was clear he’d been sneaking up on his victims. He had been taking couples, knocking out the men with a blow to the back of the head, and then the women. It’s a method that the team had seen before, common for UNSUBs without the social ability to lure their victims, or the physical strength or confidence to attack head-on. But they had not profiled that he would escalate to taking out his targets with a taser.

After six days in San Diego, the team finally had a lead on two rental properties in the UNSUB’s comfort zone. One was an old tyre factory, listed as a multipurpose warehouse and storage space; the other was a large storage facility in an industrial neighbourhood. Both units had been paid for in cash, both offered the privacy and space required to hold and torture two people for days at a time. The team split up, Hotch and you arranged to meet the owner of the factory space to find out more about who the renter was and gain access to the property. With no response from the owner of the second property, Morgan, Prentiss, and Rossi headed over to check it out.

The two of you had only been on the property for five minutes before Aaron had been incapacitated and taken out. He had foolishly made his way into the building while you ran back to the SUV to grab your jacket. Out cold, there was nothing Aaron could do to stop you from meeting the same fate.

It’s not his fault. But he feels like it is as he watches you shiver from across the room. He can’t be certain how much time has passed, but it feels like hours. He can only hope that you’re being kept in the building you were attacked in, that the team will connect the dots and come and get you, but until then you’re stuck. He watches, nauseated as your eyes flutter open, and then shut again. You’re concussed, he doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that. His ears are ringing, and he’s sure the blow he took to the head has at the very least temporarily worsened his hearing.

“Doesn’t the FBI have rules against fraternization?” The UNSUB wonders out loud, waving a knife around as he walks towards you.

“What makes you think we’re a couple?” Hotch asks, as he tries to work his hands free from the rope that binds them behind his back, “She’s just a colleague”.

It’s a lie. But it needs to be said. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. Buy time, shift the UNSUB’s interest away from the two of you. Ruin the fantasy.

“I think I’ve been doing this long enough to know a couple when I see a couple, Aaron,” the man taunts, obviously proud of himself. He’s feeling emboldened having taken two FBI agents, but that works in your favour. He’s getting cocky, too full of himself. It’s a level of confidence he isn’t used to having, it just gives him a higher height to fall from. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. “I think it’s time we wake your girlfriend up,” the man says, his hand gripping tightly at your hair, your head tugged back without remorse.

Aaron resists the urge to cringe as he hears you groan, your face twisted with obvious pain as you’re rudely awakened. “She’s pretty. What’s she doing with you?”

“I told you. She’s a colleague”.

Your eyes are unfocused, scanning the room trying to make sense of what is going on.

The man raises the knife, holding it to your throat. This time Aaron blinks, desperate to control his expressions and micro-expressions. In this scenario, the less he cares about you, the safer you are.

It’s the burden of being tied to him. Time after time his love destroys people.

The blade presses closer to your throat. Aaron controls his breathing.

“Impressive agent Hotchner. But I’m still not convinced,” the UNSUB moves the blade but pulls your head back further. Your eyes meet Aaron’s, “Do what you’re going to do, he doesn’t care,” you say. You’re speaking to the man with the knife in his hand as much as you’re speaking to Aaron. He weighs his options, his heart pounding as he watches you hold your breath, willing the tears to leave your eyes. It’s the permission he needs but doesn’t want. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He knows you’re doing the same, telling him to break your heart to save your life.

“Please, Hotc--”.

He doesn’t let you finish, “Just shut up for once. Please,” he thinks the words cut through him more than they cut through you. Knowing his cruelty is a lie does little to soften the blow, and it breaks his heart to be the one throwing it.

But this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Letting people down. Surely it’s not just coincidence that so many of those who have dared to love him end up damaged. One way or another he destroys people. Who is he to say that he’s the one who is suffering when it’s he who does all the damage?

Even as a child, he couldn’t help it. He thinks perhaps he inherited his sharpened tongue and lack of patience from his mother. She loved him in her own way but could never show it without first tearing him apart. Her biting words, and regular beatings. Prentiss had been right when she once said he was distrustful of women-- unfairly so. Not all women carry the hateful, spiteful heart his mother had. Very few had ever turned their rage at the world and their shortcomings into a personal and violent rage against him. He grew weary nonetheless. Better safe than sorry.

At a young age, it became clear to him that there were few things, if anything, as important to his mother than appearances. On Sundays, she fussed over his clothes and his posture. She lectured him on table manners from the moment he could hold a fork. His room had to be spotless. His grades had to surpass average. Long before his brother was ever born, he learned how to live up to her expectations. But still, there was always something she could find him lacking in, an excuse to take her open fist or wooden spoon to his skin, a reason to send him to bed without dinner. He remembers crashing into the china cabinet trying to escape her one night. She was mortified on Monday when he had to walk into school on Monday with a cast around his arm. “Make sure they know this was your fault,” she told him. Perhaps I was built to fail, he had thought. She loves me and I embarrass her. I will only ever let her down. God, how disappointed she would be to see him now.

Seconds feel like hours as the UNSUB leers expectantly. The man's mouth twists into a smile when he sees the tears forming in your waterline again. Aaron watches your fist clench presumably to distract yourself from the migraine that matches the pounding in his head, just as much as it is to pull your attention away from the hurtful lies he's about to weave.

“You were supposed to have my back,” Arron spits with faux vitriol. “You had one job and couldn't even manage to do that”. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward.

“From the moment you showed up I knew you'd be a problem”.

He continues to try to work his hands out from the binds. He can feel the knot loosening as he continues to buy the two of you time. “Aaron,” you beg, tears slipping down your cheeks now.

“Following me around with some school girl crush. Look where we are now,” Aaron breathes.

He can feel his father’s rage resting on his shoulders, as heavy as his hands were when he used to pat him on the back. It’s a quiet burning, far more silent than his mother’s anger, but it’s there and threatening him all the same. A silent shame; a fear induced by the knowledge that he’s failing but not being able to stop it. His father lived like a ghost in their home, just as Aaron has learned to haunt his life. He only ever raised his voice when he drank, but even then his hatred was self-directed. A sorrowful self-pity. A cry for help. The affairs, the gambling, the drinking; the man punished himself, stumbling home to a house with a vengeful wife, a silent boy, and a crying baby. It was a heart attack that finally killed him, but Aaron never doubted his father had stopped living long before that.

Aaron breaks his own heart as he delivers each verbal blow. He hopes you understand. He prays that just maybe your concussion might leave the memories of this moment blurry. Selfishly, he begs you to forgive him, because he won’t forgive himself.

He can see the way your wrists strain against your restraints. The UNSUB adjusts his grip on your hair as you struggle to distance yourself from him. Your eyelids flutter and he knows your vision must be swimming but you don’t give up. With a sadistic grin, the UNSUB wipes at the tear stain on your cheek with fake sympathy, grasping your jaw roughly he forces you to look straight at Aaron, “Poor girl… guess boss man doesn’t care about you after all. What a waste,” he sighs his breath heavy against your cheek, as he moves to hold the knife to your throat again, “She’s so pretty,” he directs his commentary at Aaron this time.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve slept with her. How couldn’t I when she was practically throwing herself at me?” The words taste bitter on his tongue as he speaks them. His stomach churns as he continues, “But what we have certainly isn’t love”.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. Aaron grounds himself choosing to remember the quiet morning you two had shared only a few days earlier. Waking up without an alarm but with Jack sneaking in to jump up on the bed. As he watches you cry now he recalls how you had smiled so brightly at the little boy, ruffling his hair and cuddling Jack into your side. He had watched with a smile of his own as you bargained with his son, promising pancakes in exchange for ten more minutes of sleep on your shared day off.

You crept into his heart so slowly he had hardly noticed. Until one day, he looked up from the bright pink sticky note you'd left on your recent report, reminding him not to work too hard; he knew, without a doubt, he was in love with you.

For so much of his life, Aaron conditioned himself to expect a fight around every corner. He learned to make sacrifices from his happiness in fruitless attempts to keep peace. For the first time in forever he's been feeling like maybe, just maybe, he's enough. You’ve been more than patient with him; understanding his hesitance to open up to people again. You don't get upset with him for working late, but you scold him for not getting enough sleep and skipping meals.

He smiles more. He cracks jokes the way he used to. You've helped him see the forest from the trees-- healed parts of him he didn’t know needed mending. He's tried to do the same for you. He's watched you open up and trust the team more. He's seen the way your confidence has grown and he can't take credit for your growth, but he's enamoured by the transformation just the same.

You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better. The thought echoes in his head the same as it does most days. But now, it’s louder. The voice in his head matches the volume of the ringing in his ears, and the rushing sound of his pounding heart. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He fights to remind himself, but the UNSUB is laughing now. Taunting you and your emotions, and there’s nothing Aaron can do but sit there and watch. He struggles to feign indifference, watching as you continue to make yourself smaller. It’s only then that he notices that you too are working your hands out of the rope that restrains you. The UNSUB was stupid enough to tie your wrist in front of you.

Aaron’s eyes focus on the bandaid wrapped around your index finger. You cut yourself making dinner last week. He could have sworn his heart melted when you turned to him holding your hand out, blood beading already. “Aaron, where do you keep your first aid kit?” you’d asked. Your brows furrowed, and your lips pouted. “In the bathroom, the cabinet under the sink,” he’d answered with no intention of letting you go off and tend to your wound alone. Instead, he guided you down the hall, his left hand looped in a gentle hold around your wrist, his other hand on your waist.

Once you were sat on the countertop he took great care, making sure the wound was cleaned before he bandaged it. “My hero,” you teased, leaning in for a kiss.

A simple cut he could manage to fix. Jack promised you could use as many of his Star Wars bandaids as you wanted while you healed as well. A little love and patience could make it better, a philosophy he adopted to heal Jack’s scraped knees, and schoolyard bruises. But the sight before him now is far worse than any kitchen mishap could be.

Your nose is still bleeding. Bruises have already begun to form, red marks turning deep purple with every passing minute. He knows that your concussion is something you'll recover from. The contact burns from where the taser touched your skin will become new skin someday soon. The cuts and scrapes will scab over and then disappear.

Aaron worries the damage he's done can never truly be ameliorated. Your compassion is unmatched. It’s what makes you a good agent, a good partner, and someone Jack can turn to. You are forgiving. God knows you've excused enough of his behaviour. But, he doesn't deserve to be absolved of this guilt. He will carry this day around in the darkest corner of his heart; the same place he holds the memory of Haley and how he failed her. The words “what we have certainly isn't love,” will linger uneffaced by time or kind words.

The squeak of an old door opening piques Aaron's interest. The UNSUB doesn't react. Seemingly only interested in tracing the tear tracks on your cheeks. Your eyes are closing again. It's over now, he wants to tell you. He wants to hold you; comfort you; to apologise because you deserve to hear it anyway.

“Paul Simpson. FBI,” Morgan’s voice booms, “drop the knife and put your hands where I can see them”. Prentiss and Dave come to stand next to Morgan, their guns trained on the newly identified perpetrator. Aaron bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood-- it's all he can do to stop himself from bursting into a fit of bitter laughter. We win, he wants to say.

Disarmed and handcuffed, Paul is escorted outside by Morgan and two members of the local police. Prentiss and Rossi make quick work of untying you and Aaron.

“Aaron?” he can hear you mutter, breathy and quiet.

“Yeah, I’m right here,” he promises kneeling at your side. Your eyes are glazed and unfocused as you nod and tip forward. Unconscious, your entire body falls forward into Prentiss’ arms. Aaron’s voice joins Rossi in calling for a paramedic.

The doctors assure him that you’ll wake up soon. They dealt with his injuries quickly. Bruised ribs are the worst of his injuries. A cut at the back of his head and the taser burns were patched in only a few minutes, though he’ll readily admit he was far from a good patient. Too anxious to keep still much to the nurse’s dismay.

You’re still asleep. A major concussion will have you out of the field for much longer than he knows you’ll be happy with. He makes a mental note to start setting aside some extra paperwork for when you inevitably start hounding him for something to do. With the lights in the room dimmed, and a comfortable silence settling he allows himself to indulge in the illusion that everything might be alright between you.

With your hand in his, he breathes deeply trying to focus. He prays to a God he’s not sure he believes in. And when the quiet starts to get to him, he speaks out loud, as silly as he thinks he may look. He tells you about the phone call he had with Jack earlier and lets you know that Jack has a new painting he can’t wait to show you when you get home. Your hand squeezes his, encouraging him to keep talking.

“Aaron?” your eyelids flutter as you adjust to the light. The nurse had them turned to the dimmest setting but it’s still far more than you feel immediately capable of coping with.

“Yeah, honey,” he affirms. You release the breath you’re holding your brow relaxing.

“I love you,” you tell him. Your voice is steady and steadfast. Your resolve is impressive, unwavering and determined as you focus on making eye contact with him. “It’s not your fault,” you promise. He’s sure you don’t expect the weight on his shoulders to lighten instantaneously. You’ll tell him every day that he’s not to blame; intent on chiselling away at his guilt, shrinking it down before it manages to consume him.

“I love you,” he swears. He knows it won’t squash any of the doubt he’s planted. Aaron knows there will soon be days that the niggling insecurity threatens to break what you’ve managed to build together; when the worry that you aren’t enough seems louder than it ever has before. He won’t blame you if you decide it isn’t worth the pain of staying with him. But, he’s hell-bent on loving you through it. He can only hope that it’s enough.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds fic #hotch x reader

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yoru-no-seiiki · 10 months

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VILLAIN! READER WITH A YAN! MASOCHISTIC! PROTAGONIST

tw/cw: DDNE, mentions of abuse, actual abuse (by reader), implied parental neglect. protagonist’s gender is whatever you want it to be. gn pronouns.

[ second part ]

MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI OR I WILL BLOCK YOU.

You wholeheartedly believed that you’d rule the world one day. The oracles deemed it so, and the rest followed. The only problem being is that you’d rule with an iron fist, causing the death of millions under your tyrannical reign. Many opposed your position as heir to the throne.

In comes the protagonist, your adopted sibling who is also destined for great things. The difference being is that they’ll gain it through defeating you.

Everyday is a murderfest with you trying to kill the kid but because of plot armor they’re resistant to any and all sorts of spells, weapons and even people you’ve hired.

Yan! Protagonist who had been abused their entire life saw this as just an act of love. Even moreso since you were so determined to hurt them everyday. It must mean you adored them does it not? They don’t understand why they’re not able to die or properly get hurt by you though, so at times they’ll even try to get in your way to make it easier.

But this just ends up with you hating them further and further.

As the two of you grow up, tactics start to become even more underhanded and deadly. You had lost all sense of empathy and kindness at this point. You had also halted trying to hide your attempts as your sibling clearly knew of it anyways.

But with your duties increasing as well, you are unable to execute much of your assassination attempts much less see your sibling directly. It came to the point of dull poisoning plots of which Yan! Protagonist had literally gained an immunity to with how frequent it was.

Yan! Protagonist never wanted to become ruler. A kingdom was far too much to manage and think about. All they wanted was to relax and be with you.

But with you being all busy and ignoring them. . . they simply can not stand idle and let this be!

And so they throw themselves into their studies. Those that doubted the Protagonist are now in awe of the way they picked up things in addition to their overflowing determination. They must really want to take you down.

Unbeknownst to them, they were simply doing this so you’d go back to giving them your attention.

Years after you’d officially taken the throne, they barged into castle. Thousands of troops behind them as they declared,

—

“Exalted sibling, I’ve come to take the burden of the throne from your hands!” The protagonist stood before you in all their glory. Magnificent as the scriptures had foretold. Absolutely befitting for the next in line for the throne. Blessed with a face sculpted by the gods.

You wanted nothing more rip it from their skull and watch the blood rain down on their regal clothing.

“You’ll have to take it from my cold, dead body.”

The protagonist froze in their tracks. Your words and pure confusion taking a while to settle in.

Wait, what?

. . . to be continued

Anyways that’s just a smol part from one of my webtoon ideas i’ve been writing haha. It probably won’t be expanded on until I officially published that one and it’s like further down the list of webtoon order so oop-

©️ yoru.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

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yuri-alexseygaybitch · 1 year

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What stood out to me on my rewatch of Midsommar is how obviously hokey and full of shit the cult is. Like, we kind of just take it for granted that they're some sort of ancient pagan commune leftover from pre-Christian times, but the thing is there's no actual evidence they are actually that old, and what we see of their beliefs and practices is fucking sketchy to say the least. The attestupa ritual and blood eagle? Both probably were never actually practiced, since accounts of them largely come from myths and tall tales of foreigners and bards. They have a maypole dance and a May Queen (a tradition from Britain) in fucking June. Their "scripture" is entirely made up and based on the fingerpaintings of a heavily inbred child. What little we're told about their theology seems like generic New Age tripe, complete with doing a shitload of drugs, rather than a continuation of ancient Scandinavian paganism. They're also obsessed with blood purity and eugenics, something that necessarily didn't exist in ancient times since we didn't even know what a gene is until less than 200 years ago.

You know who plays fast and loose with traditions, history, and culture of pre-Christian Europe? Nazis and other white supremacists. Constructing a bastardized Disneyland version of ancient Nordic/Germanic culture to ground their blood and soil bullshit in is kind of a linchpin of the entire ideology. The farthest back we absolutely know the cult existed (according to them anyway) is 90 years, when they last did their sacrifice ritual. Gee I wonder what was happening in Europe 90 years ago.

#midsommar #nazism tw

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melancholicbutterflies · 11 months

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You Don’t Own Me

Summary: You’re tired of Elvis always telling you what you can and cannot do as his wife. You decide to pushback. He puts you in your place.

Warnings: underage, smut, dubious consent, bdsm themes (dd/lg), cursing, yandere!Elvis themes, breeding kink, 18+ (cannot stress this enough!)

Word Count: 4,046

It was a decision you would come to regret, but you were young and naive, and dreaming of a better life.

You met him at your high school. Elvis, up and coming rock ‘n roll sensation, had just returned from two years in the service and had successfully reformed his bad boy image in the eyes of parents everywhere. As such, he was permitted in venues since objected to (and the ones of teenage girls’ wet dreams).

Elvis the Pelvis was coming to your school, and students and teachers alike were all abuzz. Growing up in a very Christian family, you weren’t allowed to watch his performances, and knew only what you heard from friends of less strict upbringings, and the odd radio programming when you snuck into the teacher’s lounge.

Nothing could prepare you for what he looked like up close. Thick, dark hair that was somewhat cartoonish framed a devilishly handsome, tanned face with high cheekbones, sultry eyes, and a snarling smile that beckoned you. And he was tall, taller than any of the boys in class (although they were much younger, you had to concede). Still, he looked dapper in his suit, his well-loved acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, devil hips cocked to one side.

He was a stunner, all right, and you were as good as gone.

You watched as he gave each and every person his undivided attention, all smiles and bashful head ducks. You wouldn’t have pegged him for humble, couldn’t imagine him being so with the amount of talent and charm and good looks he’d been endowed with, but he surpassed your every expectation. He was here to teach some scripture, and at some point he wove in some music, too. His voice was like a siren’s, no business singing such innocently devout lyrics.

At the end everyone clapped, and he went to signing autographs; the line took up the whole classroom and wrapped around the hallway as other students from classes that broke out joined in.

When it was your turn, he started, “who should I make it out to?” Pen poised, eyes tired as he lifted them to look at you with a waning smile, and he stopped. Nearly dropped the pad of paper then and there as he stared at you. You stared back, entranced, and found you were the first to break eye contact. “Well, it’s Y/N.”

“Y/N, huh” he snapped out of his reverie, eyes alight with... something, as he licked his lips. “What a pretty name for a pretty gal,” he scribbled something on the pad of paper, barely legible, but finished with a heart. His next words you couldn’t predict in your most wondrous of fantasies:

“Say, you wouldn’t wanna grab a burger and shake with me one o’ these days, would ya? Or am I gettin’ ahead of myself?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, in shock. He laughed, hair flopping as his head tossed back. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You nodded vigorously, finally finding your words, albeit breathily. “Yes!”

“It’s a date,” he said lowly, gaze now stuck on your lips.

It was nothing short of sweet. You avoided your coworkers interested looks as you sat down with Elvis, who’d held your purse as you slid in the booth opposite. You were hungry and he vocalized he liked a girl who ate and set down a tip that was more than you made in a shift. Ice cream followed, a nice walk in the park, and he drove you home, politely not commenting on the sort of neighborhood you lived in. “I had a nice time,” he said in the low light of the fading sun, leaning in real close. “I did, too.” You said it as you looked down in your lap until he picked your chin up, forcing your gaze to his. You thought he looked sinful for someone so religious.

“Good, because I really wanna kiss you, Y/N.”

You stopped him with a hand at his clavicle. “I can’t.” Looking backward, he saw a figure by the window, felt your sudden nervousness. It was about more than just want, and thankfully he understood. “Sure, baby, I get it. You’re unspoiled, aren’t you?” His eyes implored you.

Reticently, you nodded, not fully understanding his meaning but knowing enough.

It should have concerned you how happy he looked at that.

Pretty soon he showed up everywhere. At the local diner, your ballet lessons, even one late night you were out walking your dog, Marnie. You could have sworn you saw a car at the end of the street, eyes watching under darkness. It was unnerving, it was exciting; you hadn’t experienced the weight of someone’s entire attention on you before now.

If you were less naive, you might have questioned why a grown man who had plenty else to do was expending so much effort getting to know you. It all became clear one day when he took you out to dinner, not just at any restaurant, but the fanciest one in town, followed by a romantic moon-lit walk at the beach and kneeled before you in the sand asking you to marry him.

You said yes, of course, and he looked like the happiest man alive as he wrapped you up in a breathtaking kiss. You two couldn’t wait to get to his hotel, and made love right then and there, the sounds of the ocean waves lapping in the distance.

He wanted to marry at once, and only a few days later you were at the courthouse exchanging vows. None of your friends could come (they were all in school), and only a few of his came, including his father, who hadn’t exactly looked favorably on you, but knew his son couldn’t be reasoned with once he set his mind to something. The colonel scowled in the corner, smoking his pipe up a storm. Your mom and dad wanted nothing to do with the whole affair and had all too happily washed their hands of you, signing paperwork to allow you to wed before your eighteenth birthday.

When it was time to say, ‘I do’, you did so enthusiastically, and a beautiful smile broke out on his handsome face. He pulled you in, thumbing your bridal veil, and kissed you like a man possessed. You were forever changed in that moment.

Mrs. Elvis Presley. It was like a dream come true.

And for a while, it was.

Elvis was attentive, doting, a true joy to be around. He took care of everything for you. You wanted for nothing. You were happy, happier than you ever thought possible in your short and, up till now, wretched life. Elvis changed everything for you, and you were eternally grateful.

But, like all dreams, there came a time when reality set in. The bubble burst. Oh, boy, did it ever.

It started with little things, at first.

Before he’d met you, you worked at a diner waiting tables. Now that you were married, he claimed there was no reason to keep waitressing. “Waste of time,” he remarked, “’sides, who’d wanna keep on their feet like that all day long when you don’t have’ta? Nuh-uh, didn’t think so. You’ll put in your notice tomorrah’.”

You thought to object, but he had a point. It was enjoyable enough to you, sure, passed the time all right, and gave you some pocket change to buy things for yourself that your parents never would. But now with Elvis occupying your days, and making just about a hundred times what you ever did after a full day’s work just sitting around, what was the point? Your coworkers, as nice as they were, were hardly reason enough.

So you promptly shut your mouth and smiled, giving him a big hug, and that was that.

Then it was your hair:

“Oh, doll,” he crooned one night after a heavy bout of lovemaking, running his meaty paw through your thick, wavy hair. “Wouldn’t you look good with straightened hair?”

You turned to him in mild surprise, still blissed out. “You never said a thing about my hair before. Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, ‘course I do, baby. I just thought you might like to keep up with the fashion is all. All them girls have their hair straight these days.”

“I guess that’s true.” You admitted. “And, say, maybe you ‘oughta darken it while you’re at it. Might be nice to have us match, you know.” You touched a hand to your hair, furrowing your brows as he leaned in to nuzzle your neck, applying light, sweet kisses there. It was awfully distracting, your hand falling limp on the bed as you gasped.

“Promise me you’ll think ‘bout it, at least...” He murmured low between kisses that went ever lower. “Oh, sure.”

“Good girl,” he growled, and he said something about “...have Jer make an appointment at that salon o’ Sandy’s.” And he proceeded to eat you out.

As time went on, that charming, subtle needling to shift your behaviors in his favor turned meaner:

Once before a press conference, he stopped you in the hallway, seizing your arm. “Hey, what’s wrong—” you winced as he twisted it around harshly in an effort to inspect your hand. “Quit it, E, that hurts.”

“What is this?” He looked at you angrily, disappointed, even.

“What is what?” You didn’t see anything other than your ring, which was where it should be, on your ring finger without anything out of the ordinary. When you saw where his eyes were directed, you realized he meant your nail polish.

“So it’s a little chipped. Who cares?”

“Who cares?” He seethed. “I care, and if you had any sense in ya you would too! Everything you do reflects on me, little girl, so when you look like a cheap hussy, you make me look bad. Make ‘em think I can’t take care of my baby. Get it?”

He wasn’t shouting, he wasn’t even raising his voice, but the venom dripping from his quiet wrath was so much worse.

Tears built at the corner of your eyes and you ducked your head, turning on your heel to run back toward the bedroom before he caught you by the arm again. You thought he’d apologize, say he overreacted. He didn’t. Instead he said: “Dry those eyes, girl, and put on a smile. I don’t care if it ain’t real, but I won’t have ya embarrassin’ me.”

It only snowballed from there.

Your whole wardrobe was thrown out, and a new one replaced to match with Elvis’. You didn’t finish school, didn’t do ballet anymore. You still cooked and baked now and then, but only on special occasions. Mary did all the real cooking in the house, and she already knew what Elvis liked and she did it well. Drinking, although technically not even legal, was forbidden (“a lady shouldn’t drink, you’ll get sloppy and less chivalrous men than myself’ll take advantage. Don’t want that, do ya?”)

Want to go to the movie with some friends? Think again. Boys weren’t allowed anywhere in your vicinity: he barely let Red, trusted bodyguard of the Memphis Mafia, guard you. He said he didn’t like his wandering eye one time. Personally, you thought he was delusional, but didn’t bother arguing since you hadn’t exactly taken a liking to the man.

Your friends were more acquaintances now, and when you saw them, you didn’t know what to say. They’d moved on, had new friends or new boyfriends. They felt you abandoned them (you did, although not intentionally). You never felt more alone in your life, and yet you were never alone; Elvis made sure of that, always having someone stay behind to watch you when he couldn’t.

Eventually it was the summer, your first summer as a married couple in fact, and you were invited to your cousin’s wedding. It was her high school sweetheart; they got the bug from you and wanted to get hitched as soon as they graduated high school. You were hellbent on making it to that wedding, come hell or high water. Elvis, as your husband, was of course also invited and expected as your plus one. They were renting out a small venue in Nashville, and the bride-to-be wanted you as her bridesmaid if not the maid-of-honor (a role you suspected in the back of your mind would have easily been yours pre-Elvis, but post-Elvis you was less reliable, and you couldn’t fault her for making that decision).

Elvis’ first reaction to it surprised you. After all, he’d hardly wanted you to leave his side and had grown increasingly controlling. So when he said, “Sure, hunny,” you almost questioned if you’d imagined it.

You were ecstatic. “Oh, thank you, Elvis. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Each word of gratitude was punctured by a kiss all over his face and any other bare patch of skin you could reach. He laughed that booming laugh of his and pulled you in to give you a proper one. “Well, if that’s the way you were gonna thank me I ‘oughta have more o’ your friends get married!”

This was Fall. Now that it was summertime, and the wedding weekend was upon you, he put his foot down.

“No,” he said simply, not even sparing you a glance as he casually strummed his acoustic guitar, legs spread apart on the couch. Your mouth nearly fell to the floor, and you felt a distinct ringing in your ears, your heartbeat speeding up. Blinking, you saw a few of his Mafia crew milling about, pretending they’d gone deaf and blind as your temper rose.

“What?” You screeched.

You did.

You almost forgot what it sounded like, your defiance. It was spectacular, and you thought you had never felt so angry in your life.

And you had a right to, damn it. You did everything this man said and more. You dyed your hair black, you straightened it to his liking, you always had a fresh paint of nails, you wore the dresses he picked out for you, even the ones with the ruffles that you couldn’t stand, and wanted to make you tear your eyes out of your sockets. You stopped working because he said so (although that was not entirely something worth fighting). But you left school, and you stopped talking to your friends for months until they stopped trying so hard and all you had was him and his damn Mafia. The girlfriends and wives didn’t even hardly talk to you. You were too young and there was very little in common.

You think you spewed all this out to him in your rage, not thinking it even made sense, but you wanted him to feel what he put you through, and being his wasn’t enough if you didn’t have a life outside of his wants and desires.

Finally, chest heaving, out of words to say in your tirade, you saw him through blurry, teary eyes. He’d frozen, shoulders hunched, body tensed for a fight. He looked around the room, but he needn’t — his Mafia was nowhere to be seen now. His eyes cut to you, dark and stormy, as he rose to his full height and strode towards your panting figure.

It was a sight to behold, your husband so angry. He’d been cross with you — lord knew he’d been annoyed on many an occasion — but enraged was new. It felt like the point of no return. Like he’d really hurt you this time, all those words about never laying a hand on a woman falling by the wayside.

“Now, Elvis, hold on now—”

“Long past time for that, baby. You been backsassin’ me and I won’t stand for it.”

Your eyes cut to the side, seeing a crack in the doorway.

“Don’t you even think about it, lil’ girl.” Elvis growled. You yelped as he took you in his arms, forcefully tugging you to the couch where he fell back against it, the momentum leaving you to fall across his lap in a rather unlady-like manner.

“Elvis, please, I’m sorry,” you began, attempting in vain to rise from the precarious position he had you in. His arm only tightened its hold around your waist much like a boa constrictor around its prey. “Should’a thought ‘a that before you went off like that. Now, sit tight and take your punishment.”

He hit you, then. He actually did it. But it wasn’t across your face or strangling your neck like you’d heard some women claiming of their husbands. He’d pulled up your dress so that it hung your belly and pulled down your lace underwear so that you were bare-bottomed and smacked your butt with his open palm, rings and all.

You gasped first, shocked that it had happened, and that it felt like it did; the contrast of his warm skin and the cold metal rings was a contrast you hadn’t known you needed. Then as one became two, and two became three, and four and five, and so on... you’d lost track, a strange feeling built up in your lower abdomen that felt familiar yet also foreign.

Were you... enjoying this absurd, perverted version of punishment? Surely you weren’t getting turned on by your husband beating you like an errant child?

And yet... you couldn’t deny the flare of hot want flowing through you, and you certainly couldn’t deny the wet stickiness that started collecting in your bared cunt. You had to bite your lip from making your desire audible; you were angry, aghast that your husband would go to such lengths for simply voicing your very legitimate frustrations to him.

When a slap fell slightly lower, just catching the bottom of your pussy lips, you couldn’t contain your excitement. A moan slipped past your lips.

Elvis froze, cock hardening in his pants some.

Your eyes widened, cursing yourself internally. The last thing you wanted was for the bastard to know some part of you was enjoying yourself. You wouldn’t look at him, burying your head in the side of his thigh, even as you felt that hot and searing gaze of his on you. You were humiliated, something you hadn’t thought possible after what he’d already done.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice deeper, thick with lust. “Seems my baby likes this more than she should.”

“Please, Elvis, let me go,” you begged.” You’ve had your fun, being humiliated like this is punishment enough.”

He laughed, barrel chest vibrating against you. “Oh, hunny, I ain’t nearly done with you. In fact,” he circled your ass with his palm, your slick wetting his fingers now. “The fun’s just begun.”

“What—” You interjected, only to cry out loudly (or perhaps moan, it was some contrived version of the two), as he promptly pushed his fingers deep into your crevice, the warm, wet walls hugging his long digits with gusto.

He hissed, “oh, baby girl, that vice of yours just about does my head in. I need to be inside you now.” He started fumbling with his slacks, the belt coming undone in record time as he pulled his rock-hard cock out of his boxers. He gave it a good tug, grimacing at the action. The tip was red and weeping, practically twitching with need.

“C’mere,” he said, positioning you where he wanted you like a doll. “On all fours, that’s right, just like that hunny.” Your knees met the carpeted floor, hair falling around you like a curtain as your head bent. You know he could go deep like this, but usually you had sex facing one another. He could piss you off to no end, but sex was always a sacred thing between you two. This felt cold, unfeeling. Fucking was what it was; he could care less to see you, he only wanted to possess you. You felt cheap, a plaything — and yet your cunt continued to thud with need.

“Jesus, you’re a pretty sight,” he rubbed his cock over your pussy lips, grab at your ass, take another smack of it and delighting in the jiggle of it. “Please, Elvis, just...” You pleaded, and he cut a look at you. “Don’t think you’re much in the position to be makin’ any sorta demands, doll.”

You hung your head, sighing, waiting for him to get his fill. “Oh, hell,” he said, “you’re lucky I can’t hardly wait anymore either.” And with that he pushed into you, causing a surprised yelp to leave your throat. Pulling on your hair, causing your back to arch towards him, he set a punishing, brutal pace, one that hard you seeing stars. In this position, he could hit your g-spot dead on, and hit it he did.

“Oh, godddd,” you groaned, scraping a hand back to hold onto his arm holding onto you. He huffed a laugh that turned strangled toward the end. “Not God, darlin’, but close.”

You would have snorted at the cheesy line if you weren’t full of his cock.

“Nothin’ to say?” He taunted. “That’s a real shame. To think you just needed some good dick to quiet down. Bet you ain’t never had one good as me.”

It wasn’t a statement, he expected an answer, but you were too far gone in the blissed-out feeling to recognize it.

Smacking your sore ass harshly, he repeated his words. “Ain’t you? Say it, or I swear to God I’ll stop right now and won’t let you come.”

“Yes, E, yes! You’re the best I’ve had,” you cried as the building sensation waned. “That ain’t my name, try again.”

“Daddy,” you whispered, feeling some shame about it. You always felt weird about calling him that even though your relationship with you father had never been close, but he demanded you refer to him in that way.

“Daddy what?”

“Daddy you’re the best I’ve ever had,” you admitted. He smiled; really, you would have said anything to have him keep fucking you the way he was.

“That’s right,” he pet your head, slipping his cock back into your tight hole as your eyes rolled back in your head. “You’re my good girl when you’re like this, almost forgotten you was bad earlier. Throwin’ a temper tantrum back there after all I done for you. Ungrateful. And for what? Some weddin’ you felt you needed to go to?” He tutted you, each word punctured by a punishing stab at your cervix; the pain intermingled with pleasure to create a heady concoction leaving you at a loss of words. Intelligible ones, anyhow.

“Ye-ah...” you moaned.

“What was that?” Elvis goaded, pinching your swinging titties between his hands.

“A-agree, I w-was bein’ bad.”

“Right. ‘Cause the only person you should be worryin’ about is me. Your husband.”

“Mhm.”

“Hmm,” he hummed deeply. “Need you just as much, more than ‘em. Can’t have you halfway ‘cross the state if somethin’ came up.”

He soothed your head, running his fingers through your dampening hair. “Need my yittle baby by my side, and she needs her daddy,” he cooed in the baby-talk language he loved so much.

You nodded, more so due to the buildup in your pelvic region. He groaned, feeling the tighening in his balls as your walls started fluttering around him.

“Shit, hunny, you got me ready to burst. You gon’ take it? Take all my lovin’?”

“Yes, Daddy! I’ll take it all.”

“Gonna fill you up,” he mumbled, hips moving erratically now. “Fill you up with my babies ‘till your big and swollen with my seed. Shi-itt—!”

You cried out at the sensation of his warmth shooting into you, triggering your orgasm.

“Agh!” He yelled, falling over you, hips slowly still moving as if to fuck more into you. You collapsed on the floor, and he was right behind you. You two laid on the floor in the fading light that spilled through the French windows.

Turning so that he was looking at you, he pulled your face to his in a deep, slow kiss. “You gonna let Daddy take care of you?”

You hesitated, knowing what he wanted of you. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll make the call tonight.”

He grinned, looking every bit the angel and devil as he hovered over you. “Good girl.”

#elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis #elvis presley #oneshot #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley oneshot #elvis presley smut #smut #melancholicbutterflies #yandere!elvis #fanfiction #fanfics

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greywritesthings · 10 days

Text

Weeks

Spencer Reid x F!Reader

Warnings - (fic based from Tobias Hankel episode) Drug use, torture, mentions of seizures / convulsions, drug use, panic attack, rage, crying, death by GSW, withdrawal

A/N - This is a vague enemies to lovers ig, I really do like it even if it doesn't deal with the nicest of topics, comments, reblogs and likes appreciated <33

Spencer Reid masterlist

Masterlist

“Can you just leave me to do my thing for ten minutes Reid!” You near enough yell at him but he still doesn't move, he hasn't said anything for the last half an hour, he's just been sitting a foot away from you watching what you were doing and it was driving you insane. “I haven't done anything y/n. I’m just thinking about what you're doing is all.” he shrugs at you. You just huff and spin around from the board deciding to step out for coffee. You stop in your tracks as Hotch enters the room and gives you a look before turning to Reid and doing the same. “You two need to get some air, go and interview Tobias Hankel, Garcia's sending you the address. Reid is driving there, Y/n you will drive back unless you come to an agreement without an argument, do I make myself clear?” His tone leaves zero room for argument so you just walk off to the SUV with Spencer in tow.

After a tension-filled drive to the address Garcia had sent you and Spencer to, you get to clamber out of the SUV and find yourself at the wooden cabin where Tobias Hankel apparently lived. Reid decides to split off to the barn he had seen while you went up to the main door and knocked where it took you less than two minutes to decide he was suspicious enough to bring in. When you tried to arrest him however he ran out the back before you got the chance. You take a chance and head out into the corn fields where you found Reid unconscious on the floor, head bloody but you noted he was still breathing as you spun on your heel. “You son of a bitch! What the fuck are you doing!” you yell. You reach down for your second weapon at your ankle, cursing yourself for leaving your first one in the SUV by accident but Tobias lunges at you from behind catching you off balance. It's a struggle when you hit the floor but he gets the upper hand with a piece of wood and darkness quickly overtakes your vision.

“Y/n, wake up, cmon” you hear someone whispering to you, not entirely sure who yet, the only thing you were sure of was that your head hurt like a motherfucker. You groan as you open your eyes. “y/n. I know you're probably concussed given the gash on your head but you have to focus sweets, with me, eyes open.” It's Spencer, he's calling you sweets? Well you must either be dead or pretty damn close. “He's taken us to a second location and shaken the police tail, he asked for directions and went the opposite way, we have to figure a way out of here sweetheart and I need your brains with me to do that okay?” you finally make eye contact with him, focused on him, he looks exhausted, you figure he's been through other things while youve been unconscious. Anything you were going to say was cut off by the sound of footsteps approaching and the look of pure fear coursing through Reid's eyes.

By the time that Tobias’s father was done with you it had broken spencer, his own torture was bad but hearing your own cries felt worse. You tried reciting bible scriptures you remembered to no avail, the beating just continued. He wanted a confession of sin and wouldn't stop till he got it.

Then he did, Tobias getting to take over and Spencer had to listen and watch as you begged him not to give you the dilaudid and then lose yourself to the high as it took hold. It pained him to watch, if he could have he would have thrown up. Somehow it all got worse, Spencer watched as you were forced to choose a person to kill, he hoped you were too high to remember it but really he could tell you were mentally present and it made his heart twist.

When the team managed to cut off the videos you were Charles's target, much to Spencer's dismay. He hadn't been through much in comparison to you at this point and he knew your body couldn't take another beating. He watches on with tears streaming down his face as Charles continuously hits you before shoving your chair backwards, forcing the chair to fall to the floor. He's forced to watch, unable to tear his eyes away as you convulse and eventually go limp, flatlining with Tobias trying to revive you. He has a small glimpse of relief when he is finally successful knowing you're still alive but it's replaced with dread at the fact that now you will be put through even more.

You were praying to every god you didn't believe in that Hotch got the message, you didn't have an eidetic memory but you knew the bible and you hoped that hotch would understand the misquote of genesis. You were so high at this point your brain felt like cotton and Spencer was forced to just watch on. You knew eventually Charles would have enough of you and end you in one way or another and you were right. He dragged you out to dig your own grave, threatening to bury you alive. He left Spencer in the cabin for now, you guessed he would deal with him later so it was up to you to save at least him if not the both of you if the team didn't get to you in time.

You saw the glint of flashlights before Charles did and managed to trick him even if you were high as ever, pulling his own gun on him managing to get a shot as Spencer, Emily and Hotch round the corner towards you. “Y/N!” Spencer cried out, you realised he thought you were the one shot. The three flashlights land on you looking like a deer in headlights as you knelt over Tobias's body. “Sup guys, kinda chilly out isn't it?” you let out a dry laugh, desperately trying to remove the horrified look from their faces. Spencer was the first to move towards you. “Come here sweet girl, come here, god i'm so sorry” He wraps himself around you. You know hes been taking the brunt of the mental torture the last however long so you let him, He practically holds you up as you lean against him. “You're going to be okay, we are going to be okay, I promise.” he whispers before he lets himself be slightly separated from you. Emily loops an arm around your waist as Spencer does the same so they can guide you to the ambulance waiting nearby.

–

It had been three weeks since you spent those five days of hell with Tobias Hankle and so far you were struggling, nightmares plagued your sleep and cravings plagued you when you were awake. You had managed to keep the bottles of dilaudid from Tobias's body. You knew sooner or later someone would catch on and you would be out of a job, your friends and with them your family. You would lose everything and everyone you loved if you didn't get a handle on it. Luckily you had another four weeks to kick the habit before you were back in the BAU, for now it was light paperwork at home when you could and the occasional conference call with the team so you weren’t isolated.

You were sitting in the bathroom with a new needle and a vial ready when three loud knocks sounded at your door, breaking you out of your trance. You practically fall over getting to your front door, withdrawals hitting hard from timing out the doses longer and longer. You knew you didn't look good and anyone would put you as an addict in withdrawal, you were biting at your nails, your pupils were blown out of proportion and you just overall looked a mess.

You manage to unlock your door after looking through the peephole and seeing it was only spencer. “Hey spence, what do you need?” You ask, hoping and praying it was just to borrow a book or a case file so you could get on with your task. He looks you up and down with a look of concern. “I need you to let me in, pack a bag and come stay at my house while you detox.” His eyes still show concern but his tone gives you no room for argument, but you try anyway. “I don't know what you mean Spence, detoxing from what exactly?” You try and meet his gaze but you're so antsy it's impossible. He places a hand on the door and pushes in past you and closes the door behind him, still gentle. “Honey, i know you took the dilaudid from Tobias okay and I know you’re addicted to it, you can't go into a rehab centre without losing your post permanently so your staying with me for the foreseeable, we have an extra four weeks off from Hotch so we have eight weeks to get you to functioning again. This is a non optional, so, tell me where it is before i go through your apartment myself. Please, let me help you.” He keeps a hard but caring tone and it forces you to give in, you know he's right. “Bathroom, Cupboard above the washer and in the copy of sherlock holmes with the orange cover” you look to the floor in pure shame. “Sweets, you don't need to be ashamed, it's not your fault, you didn't choose to be addicted, okay? It was given to you against your will, I don't blame you okay? I just want you back okay” He says as he tips your chin up, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He still doesn't look angry or disappointed, just caring. “You're going to be okay, you just have to let me help you. Go pack a bag while I clear out and we will go to mine okay? I turned the office into a guest bedroom for you.” and with that he turns away, walking into your kitchen. You take a second before your feet start to move on their own, moving towards the bedroom so you can do as he asked and pack a bag of things you would need to live at his for the next however long.

—

It had been two weeks and you felt slightly better. Your heart wasn't beating at a million miles a minute, your pupils were regular and you weren't sweating all the time and you finally had an appetite but emotionally you were still strung out. The cravings were still hard to deal with and it made you an emotional mess, one second you were fine then seeing red angry and that quickly turned into floods of tears but Spencer didn't once react to you. He just gave you coping mechanisms and comfort. He held you as you cried for hours on end every night till you fell asleep, if he left you he tucked you under a weighted blanket and left lamps on through the apartment so you could find his room should you need him in the night.

—

The team knew you were staying with Spencer, they didnt know why but they knew you were struggling, they assumed it was from the kidnapping, not the fact you had spent weeks addicted to drugs and so they assumed that you would appreciate them coming over to hang out, something that was a semi regular occurrence prior to the kidnapping.

Three knocks pull you and Spencer pulls from your activities, he was reading and you were tucked into his side drawing a mandala on a small art pad he had given you. “Were you expecting anyone?” you ask. “No honey and I'm guessing you weren't so I have no clue.” he says, the nickname easily slipping in place of your name now. You uncurl yourself as he stands up from the couch, going over to the door and looking through the peephole. “It's the team, you want to change?” he asks knowing that while you didn't really care how the team saw you you probably would mind them seeing you in just Spencer's sweater vest and a pair of boxers. You nod quickly and slip into your room as he unlocks the door greeting the others.

By the time you come out they’re all stood in the living room chatting between themselves seemingly waiting for something and you realise they're waiting on you. You feel their eyes on you as you walk in and then they all start moving and talking at the same time. Multiple forms of how are you and we miss you's getting fired your way. Before you can realise you're pulled into one pair of arms and then another as a third ruffles your hair. It's overwhelming and it makes your skin crawl. Your peace and quiet, the sanctuary that you had gotten used to in Spencer's apartment had been interrupted and you couldn't deal with it. You pry yourself out of the arms that had you trapped and bolt towards the nearest door, spencers room, directly down the hall, and slam the door behind you as the tears start to fall down your cheeks, sobs wracking through your chest as your mind races and the cravings come back full force again.

“Darling, I need you to let me in, they’re gone okay? Open the door for me.” Spencer asks quietly so as not to spook you, he was nervous for your reaction to the team and had tried to emphasise the point of not to overwhelm you but he knew they would get over excited and were used to you being very touchy so your reaction like this was out of the ordinary. You moved out of the way of the door and pulled Spencer's sweater over your shirt and curled up under his covers. Spencer decided to try the door and his heart melted at the sight, you looked peaceful, a stark contrast to the panicked look he saw in your eye earlier, similar to what he saw when you were with Tobias, it had hurt and he had nearly snapped at the team to get them out but Hotch and Rossi had ushered them out before he could, Hotch saying that you and spencer could take more time if you needed, the brass had already approved it alongside working from home for the pair of you. He crept over to the bed and got in, wrapping his arms around you as you nestled further into his chest, relaxing against him.

—

It had been twelve weeks since you moved into Spencer's apartment and you were over the worst of the cravings, the mood swings and irritability were almost non-existent but you now dealt with the anxiety of being asked to move out every night. You had gone back to work a week ago now and you and Spencer were on desk duty for another week for formality reasons. It was nice living with another person and it was even better that person being Spencer. Now you were getting better you had started cooking for him, often making dinner while he made you breakfast. You both went about your days naturally, you divided up chores without question and Spencer started buying your favourite snacks regularly when he went grocery shopping, something he refused to let you do when he found out that the fluorescent lights bothered you. You thought your fears were coming true when one night he called for you from the living room to talk.

“So, look I’ve been thinking about something and-” You cut him off before he finishes his sentence. “You want me to move back into my own place again? I can do that, I mean it's not like i can live here forever is it, this was just while i was in recovery and getting over the worst of the withdrawals, I can pack up over the weekend and be out by monday dont worry.” You rush over the sentence, tears filling your eyes as you stare at the couch. Over the weeks you had been living with Spencer you had realised that you had started liking him. You knew he wouldn't do the same, given the things he had seen in the last three months it was fair enough but being told to leave hurt nonetheless.

“This is the one fault about you, jumping to conclusions, now will you allow me to finish with words or can I just show you?” His words cause you to look him in the face with confusion. You don't get any more thoughts or words as Spencer's hands reach over to cut either side of your face and his lips are on yours, soft and vaguely unsure until you relax and push back, reaching to tangle your hands in his hair. After a minute you both pull away, “I don't want you to move out, the opposite actually, I want you to move in permanently” He says with a smile. All you do is nod, going in for another kiss with a smile.

Taglist: @reidstheyfriend , @oosnapitskat, @lover-of-books-and-tea

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ventique18 · 1 year

Text

Dreamlike

Malleus x Yuu♀️ (nameless) short one shot.

⚠️ Suggestive warning!

It's a hot summer. For Lilia, summer always makes him think of very specific things: beaches, watermelons, swimsuits. It's the perfect time to enjoy one's youth. Now, he's not actually young anymore to be bothered by such frivolities, but he is bothered anyway. It's because his young master, who is quite literally young and should, indeed, enjoy his youth, is instead spending time cooped up in his musty old library and eating nuts instead of watermelons or mangoes or coconuts.

That simply won't do. So, with the power vested in him as the boy's guardian, he manages to forc--convince him to join a youth summer camp.

Malleus Draconia isn't particularly pleased. But since he's getting bored of the same tomes and scriptures anyway (the scheduled procurement of new books isn't until a few months more), he accepts and uses it as an excuse to loiter around the mountains by his lonesome.

Until one night he isn't quite alone. He isn't sure if it's good or bad fortune, but for the first time in his traditionalist life, he experiences something truly shocking.

He walks in on a woman bathing. In a river, by the forest. Completely, utterly, naked. He watches her a second too long, he's ashamed to confess.

"Like what you're seeing?"

That snaps him back to reality. Flustered, he blinks and his mouth babbles and his hands shift in many different combinations of poses that he dreads the woman might think he's performing an odd sort of avian mating dance.

"No," He speaks quickly, "What I mean is, please do not misunderstand and think that I find you foul or, unattractive. I don't. I do think you're rather fascinating. But it's not that I'm watching you deliberately, goodness no. Please do not be afraid as I do not plan on doing anything more than look. I mean,"

He sucks in a sharp breath. He's not making any rational sense, and he's sounding like a creep, "I am merely curious."

For all his attempts at sincerity, he's failing horribly as he just cannot take his eyes off her.

But she laughs, and with a shake of her head, asks him playfully, "Alright stranger, can you hand me my towel?"

He does, and he almost stumbles from how shaken he is from this whole ordeal.

Much to his surprise, the woman does not think badly of him at all. She, in fact, asks him to come back tomorrow night. Same place, same time. Now, he's no fool and knows better than to fall for such suspicious traps, so he ignores her request and walks through a different trail the following night.

... Until he circles back and finds his feet perching on a familiar stony path; soles drenched and socks dampened by the moonlit water.

There she is, swaying languidly in the clear river. He can fully see every inch and curve of her alluring body, yet she does not bother to hide herself nor reprimand him for his obviously captivated gaze. And whether by pure curiosity or something else entirely, he finds himself wading through the waters and towards her, when she smiles and gestures for him to come a bit closer.

Nothing much happens that night, except for her asking what kind of flower he likes. He answers and asks her in turn if she likes berries, and if she prefers strawberries or blueberries or any other berry. What's your favorite color? Do you take care of any pet? As odd as the situation is, he catches himself looking less and less at the soft slopes of her womanly body and more on the tugs of emotions at the corners of her mouth.

He finds himself visiting her again the following nights. They talk about anything and everything, and very soon he thinks she knows more about him than anyone else he's ever met in his life. He finds comfort in her, and he wonders if she feels the same. He becomes a bit confident that she does, when she asks to touch him a week later.

For the first time in his life, he undresses in front of another not to dress up, but to... simply undress. He cannot fathom what comes over him. But he lets her roam his body, from the tips of his fingers to the ridges of his peculiar horns. From the slope of his nose to the dip of his hip. She stops before she can cross the boundary of appropriate and inappropriate (though one can argue their circumstance is not a very usual one), but rather than taking a step back, she moves forward and asks him,

"Would you like to touch me too?"

He does not reply. He cannot think. And when the head refuses to function any more, it's the heart that takes over the body. He cannot hear anything but the loud thumping of his chest, but he nervously perseveres and places a palm upon her left breast.

Thump, thump, thump.

Is that the blood that runs through his veins, or is that her heart resonating with his, through the red that dusts her cheeks and the fingers that shakily reaches for his own?

Thump, thump, thump.

He doesn't know. He cannot think. Not when her smaller hands intertwine against his much larger ones. Not when her legs coil around his waist, arms wrapping tightly around his back and nails sinking deep across the skin above his spine. Not when his mind is occupied with the soft enamor of her thighs, his fingers squeezing her tightly as he pushes and pulls her against himself; sinful sweat washed away by the unsullied waters.

What a terrifying feeling. He's never felt so out of control. He knows not what he's doing, he has nothing planned out in his head. All he has is this strange electricity coursing through him-- a magnet that draws him to her. He doesn't want to let go. He cannot let go. Not even when a wave of ecstasy crashes through his entire body and threatens to knock him out cold. Not even when they settle on his lodgings and bury themselves in the warmth of sheets and blankets.

Even then, he buries himself in her warmth.

So when he wakes up to find her nowhere to be seen-- not in bed, not in his immediate surroundings-- he no longer feels out of control. He is not in control. The trip has come to an end, and so did his dreamlike encounter.

Only the wanton marks left on his skin are proof that it was, in fact, not a dream.

---

"Malleus, cheer up a bit, why don't you? You wouldn't want to scare your... let me check my notes... Ah yes, your 57th potential wife away, no?"

"And it's the 50th time I am telling you this: no one would ever want to waste an hour with me. Much less a lifetime. You would think the first seven were proof enough."

"Don't you say that! You're a handsome young man, if you would just learn to smile--"

"Enough, Lilia. This is the last time. If this still doesn't work out, I would rather let my bloodline die with me than suffer through any more humiliation."

*click* *creak*

"Hi there, stranger."

"..."

"Like what you're seeing?"

"... You have a lot of nerve, standing me up like that. And suddenly you show up-- out of nowhere-- with a cheeky little smile? This audacity calls for a fitting punishment, don't you think?"

"Ohh, scary. I like it. Lay it on me. Or would you prefer it in me?"

"Witch. You deserve a life sentence. Lilia, take out the marriage papers."

💖💖💖💖

Notes: THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ONE PARAGRAPH LMAOOO! I just wanted to share that I like cheesy cliche stories with a bit of sensual flavor and was just gonna share a rough plot. Somehow it turned into a short fanfic HAHAHA

I really really like the thought of Malleus catching Yuu bathing and doesn't really do anything to hide his interest. He's an honest man. It's a staple in any of the MalleYuu AUs in my brain.

#twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #malleus x reader #twst fanfic

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years

Text

Guide to a ripoff-free funeral

In the decade-plus that I’ve been reading and watching Caitlin Doughty, I’ve become increasingly aware that even death is no escape from late-stage capitalism — indeed, if you have the misfortune to die unprepared, you will pass out of this world attended by a monopolistic, rapacious, price-gouging monopoly.

https://www.orderofthegooddeath.com/

Indeed, the situation is so grim that I’ve often joked about leaving my body to med-school pranks: corpse at the alumni dinner, arm hanging from a toll-booth, etc. But for the mourners whose grief is turned into cash, this is no laughing matter.

Writing today for Propublica, Carson Kessler delivers an essential piece of service journalism: “How to Avoid Being Overcharged for a Funeral,” whose advice and analysis is exactly the kind of clear guidance needed to carry you through a very difficult moment:

https://www.propublica.org/article/how-to-negotiate-funeral-costs-qa

The funeral home industry is governed by a set of reasonably good regulations, but you only benefit from this if you know about them. Kessler turns to Joshua Slocum, of the Funeral Consumers Alliance to explain them:

You have the right to get a quote by phone;

You have the right to an itemized, printed price-list;

You have the right to order a la carte; funeral homes can’t force you to buy a bundle of products and services.

When your loved one dies, the first thing to remember is that “death is not an emergency.” Don’t let yourself be hurried (this is harder for people planning Jewish burials, which are scripturally mandated to take place within 24 hours of death).

If your loved one died in hospital, check whether the morgue will keep them for a few days while you check with funeral homes in a 20–30 mile radius. Set a budget. Under no circumstances should you tell a funeral director, “Money is no object, she deserves the best.”

Funeral home pricing can vary wildly — businesses within a few miles of each other will often charge thousands of dollars more or less than one another. Don’t imagine that you have a “family funeral home.” The funeral home you used last time is not part of your family — they’re a business.

As mentioned, funeral homes are actually the best-regulated part of the death industry. Far worse are cemeteries, which have transitioned from being largely nonprofit providers of public goods to for-profit ventures frolicking in an unregulated ocean of easy money.

https://www.propublica.org/article/cemetery-long-island-pinelawn-lockes-pinelawn

Cemeteries don’t have to show you price-lists and they can bundle products and services as a condition of doing business with them. If you buy a third-party tombstone and avoid their price-gouging, they’ll hit you with an “inspection fee” to make up the difference.

Thankfully, the FTC has taken up the long-neglected question of cemetery and funeral home regulation. A new docket seeks public comment on the question; the Funeral Consumers Alliance comments are an excellent template to start with:

https://www.regulations.gov/comment/FTC-2020-0014-0656

They call for an expansion of the rule requiring funeral homes to give you a printed price-list, so those lists would have to be published on funeral homes’ websites. More importantly, they’re calling for the extension of funeral-home rules to cemeteries, forcing them to disclose prices and unbundle services.

Private equity has rolled up funeral homes and cemeteries into massive, national chains of hundreds of businesses, and the giants of the industry, like Service Corporation International, have doubled their earnings between 2019 and 2021:

https://filecache.investorroom.com/mr5ir_scicorp/237/Investor%20Fact%20Sheet%201Q22.pdf

Caskets are also a monopoly. Hillrom is a private-equity backed rollup that has cornered the market on both hospital beds and caskets (talk about “complementary businesses!”), using its market power to jack up prices:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/05/hillrom/#baxter-international

Slocum advises that the best way to avoid funeral ripoffs is to shop around and skip the price-gouging funeral homes. Failing that, you can ask the funeral home to meet their competitors’ prices — even if they’ve already picked up your loved one’s body “as a courtesy.”

It’s not cheap or gauche to want to avoid having your pocket picked when you plant a loved one’s remains. Your mom might have wanted a decent burial, but she didn’t want you to hand over thousands of dollars to a hedge-fund-backed monopolist.

Remember, “everything is optional.” No US state requires embalming. This is an emotional moment, but that’s why it’s become a robber-baron racket.

Image: Eugene Peretz (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/peretzpup/3370664952/

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

[Image ID: A graveside casket. Dancing atop it is a drawing of Monopoly's Rich Uncle Pennybags, but instead of a cane, he is wielding a scythe. His face has been turned into a skull.]

#pluralistic

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sofasoap · 8 months

Text

Lastochka - wedding night

Pairing : Nikolai x F!Reader ( OC/Mini MacTavish)

Summary: You want to please your newly wedded husband, just as he has pleased you.

Part I , Part II, Interlude,Part III,Part IV,Part V,Epilogue, Night, Esiponage

Warning : E rating. Smutty smut. Dom/Sub vibe. Safe word and consent discussed.

A/N: I am half asleep while proofreading this thing. any mistake I will come back correct it later. and i tried. I really tried. Thank you @siilvan for listening to me ranting about the plot. @nrdmssgs for helping me with Russian word. and @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot for rotting my brain and the main trigger to the birth of this fic from this NIKOLAI RENDER

“masterlist”

Rising and falling tone of the Priest's prayer echoes through the wall of the small near empty church, reciting passages from the scripture.

The only two occupant to the ceremony, standing right in front of the altar, was Nikolai and yourself.

You lean your forehead against his, hand in hand, eyes closed, revering in this deep and sacred moment.

“My Lastochka.” Nikolai murmured. Tinge of emotion in his slightly wavering voice. “My beautiful Lastochka.” he releases one of his hands and cupping your face gently as his thumb caresses your cheek.

“I can’t give you a real wedding.” His guilt ridden face breaks your heart when he admits to you the harsh reality. “I… we.. we can’t get married legally. I am sorry. I asked you to be mine but…”

Too many enemies. On both sides. Even with backings of strong allies, he couldn’t risk it.

Not his beautiful bird.

Gently grabbing his hands, you splayed it over your heart.

“I couldn’t care less what the world thinks.” you stroked his face. “I am yours already, body and soul.”

The prayer came to a halt. Both of you open your eyes, and turn towards the and speak in a language you couldn’t quite understand.

“Time for the vow.” Nikolai helpfully translated as he smiled. “Just repeat after him, as best as you can.”

Pouting slightly, but couldn’t hide the smirk on your face, “Easier said than done.” You tried, with your best effort. The friendly priest slowed and broke down the sentences in little chunks to help you to get through the vow. You paused slightly at the middle, looking at the priest, then back towards Nikolai. He leaned forward slightly, whispering into your ear. His name. HIS REAL NAME. You nearly choked up as you repeated his name. Feeling it on your tongue. The sound of it in your ear. So sacred. So divine. He truly loves you. Trust you enough to entrust you with his real name. To let you hold that secret that only a handful of people in this world knows.

“See? You did well.” Nikolai squeezed your hand as you slid the simple gold band around his finger, giving you encouragement. Your heart melts and also some nether region which you really shouldn’t be feeling anything at this holy ground starts to heat up as well.

The priest turned towards him, waving his hand to him, indicating it was his turn. Sentences flowing more freely. Letting his soothing baritone voice washes over you. Now you have the rest of your life to listen to it. You snapped your attention back when he gave your hand a light kiss, after sliding the wedding band on.

Priest made the final prayer and smiled at you both as he closed his bible.

“Now we are husband and wife. We are one.” Nikolai leans into your forehead again, cupping both of your face, eyes to eyes, gazing with adoration and love.

“May I kiss my beautiful bride?” he asked with a husky voice as he hovered his lip mere millimetres away from yours.

“I wouldn’t say no to that.” you smiled. Tears in your eyes. “The Lastochka is now forever yours.

He is never satisfied with just one round.

Oh no. He will always make you scream out his name multiple times. Until you are satisfied.

Overly satisfied.

“You begged me for more, my little bird, who am I to deny my lover's request?” he purred, lapping up all the juice seeping out from your swollen lip, beard glistening with all the wetness, inciting another moan and shudder from you. “It will be sin to not make my bride fully satisfied on her wedding night.”

His ability of coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you is mind blowing. Just as you thought you have nothing left in the tank, he draws out another blessed high out of you. With his tongue, mouth, hand or cock, or even just words of praises.

You want to show the same amount of attention and love to him as well.

This is where it leads you, kneeling in front of him, dressed in nothing but revealing lace lingerie, one hand at the base of his shaft, another gently massaging his balls, as you swirl your tongue at the tip of his cock, teasing him.

Nikolai grabs your chin with his thumb and finger, tilting the head up slightly to face him. You gave the tip a good suck, before releasing it with a deliberate pop, as you batter your eyes innocently, contrasting with the sly smile.

“Being a tease, are we?” he smirked. “Now be a good little bird, Take it all in. Indulge me in what you can do.” Tracing the contour of your face with his finger, until he reaches your mouth, sticking his thumb in. “and make sure you swallow every drop of it when I fill this pretty mouth of yours with my pleasure. Nothing is to be wasted.”

“As you wish…” sucking on his thumb lightly, while your hands running up and down his thigh, “Commander Nikolai.” you cooed.

Oh, how his cock twitched, muscles tightened and eyes darkened with lust. You know you have played your card right. As much as you like the soft love making session, you also enjoy the dominating and possessive side of him, taking what he needs from you, yet still taking care of your needs.

He leans back into the armchair, continuing to sip on the whisky from the tumbler glass, while looking down on you with lustful eyes. You couldn’t help it but clenching your thighs together trying to add some friction to sooth the heat and ache of your dripping core.

Taking a deep breath in, you took as much of his cock into your mouth as possible. His length and girth never ceases to impress you. Sucking, twirling your tongue, where you couldn’t fit into your mouth, you pump it with your hand. Determine to pleasure him, to please him, and to show how much you appreciate him with all you got.

As you feel his muscles tightening and breath hitching, you know he is getting close to his climax. Flickering your eyes up towards him, you can see him rolling his head back into the headrest, eyes closed and throaty groans could be heard over the obscene wet sound of your ministration. You feel his hand creeping up your shoulder, towards the back of your head, pressing down slightly, urging you to go deep as he thrust his hip up, matching your rhythm.

Finally with a few more deep strokes, nearly choking you, he let out a loud groan as he finally released his hot cum into your mouth, as he continued to thrust into your mouth in a sloppy manner.

You sup up all his release until every drop of it was swallowed. Almost. You opened your mouth slightly as you pulled back, dragging your lip over the whole length of his still hardened member.

You deliberately let a bit of your saliva and his cum dribble out as you lick around your lip, fully knowing the consequence of the action. After catching a bit of his breath, he leaned down towards your face, swiping his finger at the corner of your mouth and frowned.

“What is this?” he tutted, “I think someone hasn’t been listening to my instructions.”

You feigned displeased look on your face, fingers on your lips, “Oh, I am sorry, what can I do to make up for it?” leaning back onto your heel, you battered your eyes, as you duck your tongues in and out, licking your lip and teeth, questioning him. “Obviously I do deserve to be reprimanded for this… sloppy work.”

“On your knees.” He demanded as he stood up from his chair, placing his glass onto the side table, slightly harder than intended.

You followed his instruction quickly as you turned around, getting on all fours on the rug in front of the fireplace. You need him inside you NOW. Your sex is hot and dripping with wants. You tried very hard to refrain from touching yourself in the clit just to release that tension as you were sucking his cock. But you know the wait will be worth it once he starts to slam you with his hard and thick cock.

Kneeling down onto the rug, Nikolai positioned himself behind you. Leaning forward and whispering into your ear, “Tell me if it's too much, my little bird.” he caresses your back, pushing you down slightly for better position. “You remember the safe word.” you nodded your head before you repeat the safe word both of you agree on, reassuring him.

Straightening himself up again, he grabs the meat of your ass, giving it a hard squeeze and massage before parting the cheek slightly, running the thumb down the crack, teasing a little over the tight ring, enticing a gasp from you, before continues down to the dripping folds of yours, sliding the fingers in and out.

“Wanting me so bad? Look at how wet you are already, and I haven’t even started..” pinching your clit, you tilt your head back with a wanton moan, “Don’t worry. I will give you what you want, not before I get what I want from you first..”

With that, he grabbed his cock, teasing your opening slightly, sliding it up and down, wetting it before thrusting it in one go.

It always feels so good. Too good. Getting stretched and taken from behind by him. He always knows where to aim, hitting the right spot, to give you the maximum pleasure, making you squirm and clench around his cock. He just knows your body too well.

The sound of you moaning and gasping, along with his throaty groan, the slapping sound of body to body,slick wet sound of him thrusting fast in and out of your wet cunt into you echoes throughout the stone walled room, making it so dirty, so erotic, yet so sensual and passionate.

“You take me so well, my beautiful bird,” he growled. “Look at you, squirming underneath me, you want it so bad? To cum hard on my cock?“ He asked as he changed the angle a bit, ghosting his thumb over your clit, teasing you.

“Please let me cum please please please… ” you begged as you felt the coiling feeling building up fast. With another few more hard thrust from him, you screamed out as you reached your orgasm, following not far behind with his own, his hot cum coating the inside of your wall, filling you.

“Take it all in, Lastochka, take it, Keep it. Feel me, savour it… you mine.. No one else's… No one…..” he rambled on as he kept thrusting, until he was totally spent. Both of you collapsed onto the rug, panting away. He was careful not to put his weight on you, leaning his head into the crook of your neck, peppering you with kisses and words of praises, making sure you are alright.

“Remember, your punishment doesn’t end here… we still have all night to go through.” After a few minutes of silence, he speaks up again. You can feel him nibbling on your earlobe as he runs his hands up and down, grabbing your breast and teasing your nipple. You can feel his cock starting to harden up again inside you.

“Anything for you, my dear Nikolai.. Anything to satisfy my beloved husband. Please,take all you want.” you whispered,

“This Lastochka is all yours, just as you are mine forever, дорогой.”

Tag list:

@homicidal-slvt

@nrdmssgs

@siilvan

@roosterr

@preciouslittlecreature

@floral-force

@jynxmirage

@gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot

@glitterypirateduck

@whydoilikewhump

@alypink

@liyanahelena

@caramlizedtomatos

@ashwasherelol

@okayyadriana @deadbranch @celshideout @froglights-and-pearls

#cod nikolai #nikolai cod #nikolai cod x reader #nikolai cod x f!reader #nikolai reboot call of duty #call of duty #nikolai cod x female reader #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty mw 2022 #mini mactavish #mini mactavish universe #lastochka series #sofasoap writes #cod mw2 #cod

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 6 months

Note

AITA for writing an essay and sending it to the sheriff?

This sounds so dumb but

I grew up Christian. I still believe most of it. Me and my family have always beenlaid back, don't judge, God loves all type people. I know there are some Christians who don't believe that- we aren't that kind and they give it a bad name I get it.

But my sister. I love her, I do, but she didn't know what she wanted to do when she graduated high school. She graduated the year before me and decided she would go do this "discipleship" program a woman had given a talk on.

We both were under the impression that going to this program, she would get the necessary coursework to become a pastor. Which, technically, they did do the coursework.

Except it was a cult. 100% a cult. Not every religion is a cult, but a lot of cults have religious aspects. I know without a doubt this was a cult.

Things she went through: wasnt allowed to get a job the first year she was there and was financially dependent on the leader to find them "charity" work and "fundraising" opportunities, all had to live at apartments the leader owned and pay him rent to live there, everyone was called family, was placed on restrictive diets that eventually got less restrictive the longer you stayed, got sprayed with a water hose for being unable to memorize Scripture, weekly had to thank the leader for allowing them to be there and include him in their prayers, etc.

After the first year you are there, you get more responsibility if you come back a second year. Those who didn't come back a second year are encouraged to not be talked to. Third and fourth years are invites only, but by the third year you are so indoctrinated they invite you *anyone who showed any signs of insecurity or questioning were not invited back*. After the fourth year, every single person has joined the staff or helps work for this group.

It grosses me out and I didnt even write half of what my sister went through. My sister got out after her third year because she was in a car accident and had to do extensive therapy to recover. She is fine now, but misses the group. She is convinced it isnt a cult.

I wrote down things she has said as well as things I was told by an excommunicated member. I used citations of well known cults as examples, and even cited different models and psychological papers.

I submitted it all as evidence to the local sheriff of where the cult is based. My sister and the member were not named. My sister found out and freaked out, saying they would never take her back if they found out what I did. Then she said she was scared they would harm me. She finally doubled back and claimed it wasn't a cult and I caused a ton of innocent people to lose their jobs as well as their homes if the leader gets arrested. I hadn't thought about that and felt bad about the families and innocent kids involved.

So AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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humanpurposes · 9 months

Text

Come So Close That I Might See, part iii

Aegon reflects on his marriage // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

Warnings: angst

Words: 3800

A/n: Okay, um... surprise? Sorry this took so long but I lost interest in this completely for a hot minute :) This part is from Aegon's pov as a finisher to this mini series. Also available to read on AO3.

Aegon may have been a burden to his family, but he certainly was no fool. He knew what it would mean if his wife gave birth to a son, the position it would put him in, put his family in. He was less of a challenge to Rhaenyra, so long as his wife bore no children.

So learning Lucia had come to be with child hit him like a blow to his stomach in a tavern brawl.

He had a few vague memories of waking up beside her with no recollection of the night before. He would ask if he fucked her and she always said “no”.

With the expectation of just one morning.

What a fool am I that I hadn’t even realised I fucked my own wife?

Now he felt similarly to how he had when he had woken to find Lucia in the bed beside him, head pounding, the burn of last night’s liquor lingering on his tongue and a retching feeling twisting in his stomach. He had dragged himself to a balcony overlooking the gardens and draped himself over the balustrade, hoping the air would ward off the nausea. So far it wasn’t working.

He could still see the moment he had reached for that damning bottle of whiskey, the one that had pushed him over the threshold of his usual limits. He supposed it was a special occasion afterall, and he had been keen to celebrate his wife’s condition on his own terms.

The air wasn’t doing him much good and the sunlight was starting to hurt his eyes, but just as he was about to head back into the castle a pair caught his eye.

His dutiful wife seemed to float through the greenery in a loose sitting gown of dark green silk. All of her gowns were like that now, in anticipation of her swelling stomach. Aemond walked beside her with his hands behind his back. The garden was otherwise empty.

On instinct, Aegon shrunk behind a pillar as he watched them. He didn’t truly need to hide, their backs were turned to him and they shouldn’t have had any reason to look up to his particular balcony. He hid himself all the same.

They didn’t walk very far. By the order of Maester Orwyle she was not to engage in any ‘strenuous activities’, and sadly for her that included walking down to the rose garden, so instead they circled the fountain.

Lucia placed a hand on Aemond’s arm as she whispered something into his ear, and he smiled. Not the murderous grin that precedes a kill on a hunt, or a scathing smirk before he humiliated a sparring partner. He actually smiled.

She first arrived at court as Lucia Westerling, a timid little thing, clinging to the arm of her aunt, Lady Lannister. She had been dressed in a red gown and adorned with dainty gold jewellery as she was paraded before the King and his court. Aegon remembered little else of that first meeting, having ensured he was appropriately inebriated to meet his future wife, but he remembered her eyes, dark brown and wide, like a doe staring at a hunter.

She was of little use to him. He was a man and she was barely a child, a year younger than Aemond. She spent the first year of their marriage under the watch of a septa, studying history and scripture.

She grew into her title of Princess as though she had been born to it. Knights fell at her feet at tourneys, vying for her favour. Women of the court fawned over her constantly, complimenting her silky dark hair and her affinity for Dornish fashions. The Queen sang her praises and even the King seemed to delight in her company. The whole realm seemed to be enamoured with Princess Lucia, except for her husband.

But while he found they had little in common, her love for books and frequent visits to the library ensured she and Aemond became companions of some kind. Thank the Gods, it saved him having to entertain her.

Two years into their marriage, on the morning of Aemond’s eighteenth nameday, Aegon woke to find himself in his wife’s bed.

He asked the usual question.

“You did not ask for my assistance,” she said of the stain on the back of her nightgown.

She bathed and dressed quickly while Aegon waited for the daze of sleep to wear off. It was unusually early; her handmaidens hadn’t arrived to wake her, and yet there she was making quite the fuss over her pale blue gown and her hair.

“What are you…” he trailed off, watching as she rubbed perfume into her wrists and dabbed a few drops of rosewater onto her cheeks.

Before she left she went to grab a small black box from a drawer.

“I’m going to give Aemond his gift,” she said as she made her way towards the door.

He frowned. It was a pitiful size for a gift. “Why?”

Her fingers curled over the box. “Because I should like to,” she said with a voice that seemed to sharpen every time they spoke. “He is my husband’s brother after all.”

He learned what the gift was some weeks later. He couldn’t quite remember why he had gone in the first place, but one particularly sweltering afternoon, he had wandered down to the training yard, where his brother was sparring with Criston Cole.

Aemond’s movements were starting to get sloppy and before long Cole had the Prince on his knees.

“Do you yield, my Prince?” Cole asked, blade resting against his collar.

Aemond nodded, hardly able to catch a breath. He hauled himself to stand and pulled off his eyepatch to wipe away the sweat on his drenched brow.

Aegon’s eye was drawn to something blue, glinting in the sun. A gem, he realised, set in the empty socket and the scar that sliced down the left side of his face.

“When did you start wearing that?” He asked as he stalked towards his brother.

Aemond had only just noticed him. He was already glaring on account of his defeat. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Aegon pointed to the jewel and grinned. “It’s horrific but I think it makes you look rather formidable.”

Aemond huffed and slipped the eyepatch back over his head. “If you must know, your lady wife gave it to me as a gift.”

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “She gave you a sapphire and you put it in your empty eye socket?”

“T’was her suggestion.”

He pondered the gesture for days. Aemond and Lucia read together in the library from time to time, rode out into the Kingswood every so often, exchanged a few hushed words during formal appearances at court, but she had always been more affectionate with Helaena and her ladies maids, and more lively with Daeron than she ever was with Aemond.

There was something different about seeing them now. They came to sit at the edge of the fountain. He was too far away to hear Lucia’s voice, but he watched her lips move as her fingers started to trail over the surface of the water.

Aemond was unrecognisable with his shoulders relaxed, head tilted towards her, ankle crossed over his knee and his hand absentmindedly tapping against his leg.

Occasionally one made the other laugh, and he couldn’t decide which was the more impressive feat, Aemond saying something funny or Lucia being able to crack the facade of the revered one-eyed Prince.

Before they walked back towards the castle, Aemond took her hand in his, placing a light kiss to her knuckles.

A gesture between friends. Like their little glances and smirks across the dinner table. Like their rides to the Kingswood. Like her gift of the sapphire.

It was the Queen who delivered the news to the Small Council, some months later, on one of the few occasions Aegon had been invited to sit at the table.

“A son!”

Jaehaerys was large for a newborn with wrinkly skin and a powerful set of lungs. He wailed constantly, but Lucia adored him. She insisted on feeding him herself and that his nursery be in the room next to hers. She said it was important that she and the child be allowed to bond.

The presence of an heir was cause for celebration. His birth was marked by a tourney and a whole week of feasts by the order of Otto Hightower. Everyone was keen to remark how beautiful the boy was, how healthy and content, how much he resembled his father. His mother visited the child daily, as did Aemond.

Aegon found his appetite for fucking became insatiable after that. He longed to see his seed dripping from the cunt of every whore in King’s Landing and to see the streets overrun with white haired bastards.

Every child he had sired was of no consequence. But one boy had changed everything. Why? Because he had recited a few words in a Sept. Because Jaehaerys had been born from Lucia and not any other woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

He thought at least he might indulge his wife after she had begged him for a child for so many years, but she refused him, claiming her body was still recovering from the birth.

And shortly before Jaehearys’ second name day, she was with child again. She had announced it rather abruptly as they took dinner with the Queen.

“A few months along, so the Maesters say,” she said, resting her hands on her stomach under the table. “It’ll start to show soon.”

“Wonderful news!” The Queen proclaimed, rushing to give the Princess a warm embrace.

Lucia took Aegon’s hand. “Are you pleased, husband?”

Aemond was sat across the table from him, beside where their mother had been sitting. His expression was blank, but Aegon knew when his brother was keeping a secret, he could see it in his eye.

The child was a girl. Lucia named her Visenya. Aegon could only bring himself to chuckle into a goblet of wine when he heard. Surely she could have chosen something a little less obvious, unless it was done out of spite.

“She is the image of Helaena,” the Queen cooed into the bundle Lucia held in her arms, “save for the eyes.” Dark brown, like little onyx stones.

While his mother fawned, Aegon remained slouched on the settee before the fire, fiddling with his ring of Valyrian steel. He had hardly worn it since their wedding, but these days he found himself reaching for it more often.

The King might have been delighted with the new addition, but the pain of his condition had become unbearable. He could hardly manage to keep himself awake, let alone acknowledge the world around him. The milk of the poppy didn’t help in that regard.

“Named in honour of her dear uncle?” Alicent asked suddenly.

Aegon looked to Lucia. There was no flinch in her expression and her eyes did not leave the babe. “Rather fitting I thought, one child named for a consolidator, the other named for a warrior,” she said.

“Perhaps she will ride her namesake’s dragon one day,” Aegon added dryly.

She finally looked at him, and smiled, so sweet and innocent. “I am sure her uncle would be willing to accommodate such a request.”

He held her gaze and resisted the urge to sneer, but she did not back down. He’d never noticed how gifted of a liar she was, eyes completely vacant and free of any guilt, remorse or even amusement. She spared nothing for him.

He turned towards the fire, digging his teeth into his lip. It was so rare Aegon ever found himself to be angry. Losing a bet at the fighting pit was a nuisance, but he could easily steal himself some more gold from the royal treasury. Being woken before noon often put him in a bad mood, but that was often remedied with a few cups of wine.

But then there were those moments, the mournful look in his mother’s eyes whenever she looked at him, the tight lips and silent glares from Aemond, the obvious disgust of his wife… his father hadn’t so much as said his name in years. It was in these moments he felt true, unrelenting fury burning through his blood.

And the worst of it was that the feeling was inescapable. He couldn’t drink enough wine or fly far enough on Sunfyre to escape his mother’s ire, his father’s apathy, his grandfather’s ambition or Aemond’s jealousy. Sooner or later he would always have to sober up or return to the red stone walls that made up his prison.

He had never asked for this. Behind closed doors, the Hightowers often whispered of the will of the gods. They said it is the gods who decide the matter of our births. It is they who elect Kings to govern with their guidance. The same gods who had made Kings of Maegor, Aenys and Viserys.

Still, for more than two decades, the Hightowers had told Aegon that his ascension would be the will of the gods. Why? Because the son of Queen Aemma had not lived longer than a day. Because Rhaenyra was a daughter and not a son.

And perhaps he might have escaped it, the burden of the crown and the war it would surely inspire, were it not for the silver haired children who whined and wailed constantly. His wife’s children. Bastards. An observation which had cost Aemond his eye.

Alicent did not stay for much longer. Lucia placed her daughter into the arms of a maid, to be brought to the nursery. She followed the Queen to the door and huffed a heavy sigh once it was closed.

Aegon drew his tongue over his teeth. He had a mind to reach for the decanter of wine before him but refrained. “I don’t suppose I’ve properly congratulated you on the birth of your daughter,” he mused.

Lucia’s footsteps tapped softly against the floor as she moved towards the bed. He glanced over his shoulder to see her running her hands over the already smooth throw and attempting to adjust the particularly placed pillows. To fill the silence, he realised.

“Do you think yourself clever, wife?”

She kept her eyes down. “Whatever do you mean?”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh, but hummed in mocking disbelief as he came to his feet. “Your children are bastards, are they not?”

She paused, then steadily straightened her back. When she turned to face him, she still had that same look on her face. Indifference. But there, in the smallest frown of her brows, he saw something a little more concerned; a quiet loathing and a flicker of fear.

Finally the facade had cracked, just a little. He held his breath, desperate to see if she would try to keep up the lie.

She cleared her throat oh so delicately. “Our children are the blood of Valyria–”

“But not sired by me,” he said, coming to stand.

Her fists clenched by her side. She took a slow breath. “I have done my duty–”

“By whoring yourself out to my brother?” he exclaimed, taking a step towards her.

“Lower your voice,” she hissed, “I am sure the rest of the city do not wish to hear your drunken ramblings.”

She made for the door and his rage rook over. He quickly followed behind her and yanked her back by her shoulder, took hold of her wrists and pushed her back into the bedpost, despite her struggling.

“You seek to humiliate me, is that it?” he snarled.

“Aegon! Let go of me!” she cried.

“You’ve played right into their fucking hand! You’ve given Otto Hightower exactly what he wants, and you’ve given Rhaenyra another reason to hate us–”

He let one wrist slip and suddenly her fist had collided with his jaw. He staggered back, already feeling the bruise blooming under his skin.

She straightened her spine and stood tall. “Do not seek to blame this on me,” she said with a deathly calm. “You wish to speak of humiliation? Do you have any idea what I have had to endure as your wife? I was worthless to the eyes of the court until I gave you a son. Now I have done what has been asked of me and it still isn’t enough.”

Aegon dabbed his fingers to his lip, surprised to see blood until he realised the stinging sensation in his mouth, where his teeth had met his flesh.

“Have you ever considered that perhaps I did not ask to be your wife any more than you wanted to be the firstborn son?” she said.

Aegon knew he was not born for this.

Aemond was a weak little thing. Everyone made a fuss of his birth, the Queen’s third child and her most difficult, Aegon just remembered the Maesters saying how lucky he was to be alive. “He is half the size you were,” his mother said to him as he peered into his brother’s cradle.

Studious, sombre, stubborn Aemond, who followed his brother and nephews to the Dragonpit to sulk at his own shortcomings.

Vaghar had changed everything. In the space of one night, Aemond found himself with one less eye and the most powerful living dragon.

He was the perfect Targaryen Prince, dedicated to his studies, his training, so attentive and sharp-minded. He saw how his brother looked at him. Their roles should have been reversed, just as his father often said Prince Daemon had always lusted for the throne far more than he.

He wondered if Aemond would be the same man if he had not had to make something of himself.

Of course he would. He would have been a good, faithful husband. He would have meant it when he made love to his wife, and Lucia would have loved him back.

He looked up at his wife and the silent tears glistening in her eyes.

Perhaps their union was a lapse in judgement on the part of the Gods, but that was a foolish explanation. Their marriage was a scheme, made to seal together two great houses looking to consolidate their own influences. And of course, the only people who would suffer for it were the only people who never had a say.

“I want to offer you my protection,” he said.

Lucia scoffed. “As if that means anything to me.”

“My silence then. I will continue to claim Jaehearys and Visenya as my trueborn children. If your secret should be uncovered, it will not be by my indiscretion.”

They glared at each other for a moment, but Lucia’s face began to soften.

“Thank you, husband,” she said.

Aegon hung his head and left her with a hopeful look in her eyes.

He sauntered through the quiet halls of the Holdfast with a sinking feeling in his chest. Perhaps he could have tried harder to love her, and to make her love him, but none of that mattered now. Lucia had what she wanted, what she needed, and their fates were sealed.

When the time came, the Hightowers were quick to secure the throne for Aegon, for his son after him.

Lucia was by his side in the Dragonpit, as he was coronated with the conqueror’s crown. His mother then stepped forward, to place a silver circlet on the new Queen’s head. Hers fit perfectly, while his was was heavy, and a little too wide.

Helaena, Martyn Hightower, and Aemond lined up to Aegon’s left. His sister couldn’t look at him and her husband kept his head down. Aemond on the other hand never took his eye from him.

Aemond stared at him with a thousand emotions. Aegon singled out hatred and pity, but there was acceptance too.

It should have all been his. The crown, the duty, Lucia.

But that’s not what the Gods had decided. They had made Aegon the firstborn son of Viserys, and the Hightowers had made him King on that belief.

He felt it for the first time, as he turned to face the crowd gathered to witness his ascension. He raised Blackfyre above his head and the people cheered for him.

They cheered for him.

And it was all gone in an instant, as the ground rumbled and the dragon Meleys erupted from the very ground, sending dust, rubble and bodies flying in her wake.

And Lucia went to Aemond. When she thought she was going to die, she ran nto his arms and he placed her behind him, clutching desperately to her hand. His eye was wide and his face determined, as if he could protect her from a fucking dragon. Oh but he would try. Years of being bonded to Vhagar had made him as stubborn as he was fierce. The world would fall to ash before Aemond let any harm come to someone he loved.

It was suggested an alliance with Storm’s End would be desirable for their cause, to be sealed with a marriage pact. Aemond put up surprisingly little resistance when he was told.

On the evening of his departure for Storm’s End, Aegon went to his wife’s chambers. He found Lucia by the window, with little Visenya in her arms, pressing her lips to the babe’s delicate head. Beyond the glass, Vhagar soared over Blackwater Bay, headed west against the sunset.

Aegon came to stand beside her. Silent tears streamed from her eyes and as she pulled her face away from the babe, he saw her lips were downturned in a mournful frown.

There was little doubt Borros Baratheon would pledge his banners to their cause. Still, they would need all the support they could get in the face of the threat of Rhaenyra and Daemon.

And if Aemond was successful, he would return with a wife.

There was no outcome which would lead to her happiness, he realised.

“I fear you might have been right,” she uttered.

He frowned. “What?”

“Rhaenyra will not give up her birthright so easily,” she said, the fate of Vaemond Velaryon was still fresh in her mind. She stared into empty space with the same horror in her eyes as when Dark Sister had severed Vaemond’s head from his jaw.

“It will not come to war,” he said. He promised his mother it would not. The Kingdom had to be secure, his family kept safe. “You will not be harmed. I swear it.”

Suddenly the child started to squirm, letting out little grunts that were dangerously close to cries.

“No, no, no,” Lucia whispered, trying to rock her back to sleep, but the babe began to cry in earnest.

Aegon winced instinctively. He couldn’t stand the sound, but regretted it when he saw Lucia frown sadly at his reaction.

“Apologies, I’ll see her to bed,” she said with a slight curtsey, and moved towards the nursery.

Aegon let her leave without protest.

Vhagar was a spec on the horizon now.

He imagined Aemond was thinking of her and the children, and would think of them every moment until his return.

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy

Series taglist: @padfooteyes @darkenchantress @kezibear143

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x original female character #aemond smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction

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moodymisty · 4 months

Note

“He was always heavier than his brothers. His armor had to be adjusted three different times to fit him as he outgrew it.”

“His armor might be cold, but astartes run hot; Like their blood is boiling, so beneath that metal chill is the heat from the skin visible on his face and neck. You think if the cathedral was any colder, his hot breath would be visible.”

Our black templar bf is large and warm??? Everyone in the reblogs is talking about sleeping with him, while I’m thinking about how nice it must be to sleep (nap, rest, snooze) with him. That man is a human version of a heated weighted blanket! The cuddle sessions with him must be astonishingly good!!

You're thinking good thoughts, anon. Honestly other than the interface ports, a big ol' space marine would be a fantastic cuddle partner in the cold. But maybe that's just me deluluing.

Also I know writing requests are closed because of my backlog, but I just really wanted to do this. So enjoy.

Warnings: Unnamed Black Templar from this fic/Fem!Reader, Possessiveness, Size difference, General 40kness, A very rough drabble so plz forgib

The wind outside howls, battering against walls much less suited for keeping heat comfortably indoors.

To think, you would now very much prefer to return to the Sigismund's Oath instead of having to face weather significantly more severe than just the cold hollowness of the ship. At least he is of a high enough rank that he's allowed a barracks of his own; You don't know how you'd feel in a hall with ten other astartes.

If you already feel like some sort of prized animal in the brief moments you're around them, you can't imagine how that would feel. Particularly if your only protector had to leave you alone.

Suddenly you look up as the only door opens, teeth clattering against each other. You neck hurts from how tense it's been, toes curled in worn shoes as your body desperately tries to keep the most important parts warm.

He enters, no longer in his armor and now sports the loose cloth trousers and robing astartes usually do when out of their ceramite gear. You can see the scars that are scattered over his skin; An untold amount from both battle and his creation.

You rub your hands together fast to try and warm them, before sticking them between your thighs. He watches with that same stoic, unreadable expression.

"You're cold." He says it so matter of fact, you can't help but purse your lips to avoid smiling. You nod and try to hold back the clattering of your teeth.

"I'll be fine. I just need to get used to it." You'll be here awhile is the assumption, so 'getting used to it' is going to be a necessity.

He walks closer to where you sit on his temporary bed. Important enough that he couldn't remain stationed on the ship until needed, but not enough that he couldn't be relieved of duty a moment of actual rest. For a brief moment, you wonder what he's like in battle.

Coming closer to you he in one fell swoop sits down onto the bed, making you to wobble.

"Come," He says, looking at you.

When you freeze for a moment, he speaks again with more words an a more exasperated tone. "Are you like my battle brothers from Inwit now, and prefer the cold?"

As of late he's becoming a bit more talkative around you- though you suppose 'talkative' might still be a bit of a stretch. Out of the many things, humor was not one of the skills bestowed upon them by his Primarch Dorn's genes. At least from the stories and scripture he's taught you as of yet.

Quickly you shuffle closer to him, and he grasps your arm tightly and pulls you against his chest. You quickly adjust in his lap with your legs pulled closed to you. He sleeps sitting- unsurprising to you given his history- with his dagger in arms reach. You suppose this is the most natural extension of that, curled in an almost upright fetal position.

Other than his interface ports pressing against your skin he is overwhelmingly warm, and within moments it feels like you're barely even cold anymore. Astartes and their blood, you swear it almost feels like it's boiling. No wonder he pays the cold no mind.

His massive hand covers good portion of your upper thigh, as he keeps you held close. His nearly inhuman amount of muscle isn't as uncomfortable as you'd thought it would be, as your shift your hands.

It's comfortable and snug, but you doubt you'd be able to leave now even if you'd wanted to.

Your shoulders relax a bit now that you're no longer shivering, and safely in the arms of your Black Templar, you finally feel like you can fall asleep. Even if you'd been warm, the idea of doing so in an unknown place with the one who'd brought you here no where in sight isn't a good one.

You know that unless they suddenly have need of him, he'll have five hours of sleep. You'll have the same, though unlike him you have to daily, whereas he can apparently stay awake for days at a time. Another odd quirk.

You don't know if he's asleep as it's impossible to tell, but you fall asleep not long after, finally warm and comfortable.

#black templar x reader #space marine x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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realbeijinger · 4 months

Text

Another semi-coherent rant on climate change, the value of idealism, and TGCF (I finally finished!)

Well, I finished Tian Guan Ci Fu. And, oh man, if you read my last post, you’ll know that I was terrified that the entire novel would be a criticism of blind idealism. But I am SO glad I was wrong!!! Looking back on what I wrote before… it’s kind of hilarious how worried I was. I was so sure that I knew where it was going, was so busy preparing myself to be offended/emotionally crushed, that I wouldn’t even entertain the idea that maybe MXTX had a similar worldview to me all along.

In my defense, aside from the line, “Something like saving the common people… although foolish, it is brave,” everything seemed to point toward the idea that trying to do good is pointless. I mean, up until the moment when Xie Lian was lying with a sword in his chest on the streets of Yong’an, all of his efforts to do good had essentially been in vain. He hadn’t been able to help anyone.

And then, when the one guy stopped and gave Xie Lian his hat, I dunno, I just cried. It was so perfect! Like, ugh, damn you, MXTX! So sneaky… destroying us, just to bring us back later!! It was such a small, insignificant win, but it was exactly what Xie Lian (and I) needed. I love the line, “Just one person was enough!” Just one person doing something selfless. It’s enough to give us hope.

It really resonates with me because I think a lot about how to maintain hope. In terms of the climate crisis, I feel like Xie Lian—completely powerless. I want to stop eating meat, use less plastic, spend more time on environmental activism, but honestly, what do any of these things matter? The meat industry is not going to change because I choose to stop consuming. Even my activism has a completely negligible effect—whether or not I join a protest or write a letter to my congressman will almost certainly not be the deciding factor for any climate legislation, no matter how much effort I put in.

And yet, I still want to. I love the moment when Xie Lian chooses to get stabbed over and over rather than create a second plague of Human Face Disease, and White No-Face asks him in shock, “Why??”—as in, why would you ever do that? And Xie Lian responds: “I don’t have a reason—just because I want to! Even if I explained it to you… Useless trash like you wouldn’t understand.” This line is so great. Xie Lian can’t explain it to White No-Face, because, in truth, it isn’t entirely logical. It can’t be explained by reason. I want to do my measly, unimportant part to help the world… because I want to. Because it feels right. Because it’s my way of keeping my heart, of maintaining faith that there is some good in this world worth upholding. (As an aside, I love how the English title of the live action drama—which we may never get to see, God damn censorship!!!!—is called “Eternal Faith.” Of course it refers to Hua Cheng and Xie Lian’s faith in each other, but I think it also means having eternal faith in the value of doing good, despite centuries of experience that seem to show its pointlessness.)

As I talked about in my last post, if you zoom out far enough, nothing really seems to matter. Everything we love and care about will one day be gone. And yet, I believe we still have to act like it matters. This is the basic tenant of existentialism, and I think MXTX portrays this philosophical paradox really beautifully.

It’s funny, because I think MXTX has a lot of profound things to say, but in an interview I read, she warned against viewing her work too deeply, saying, “I am not a guru.” I get that she may not want the responsibility of giving people spiritual advice, but I do think she presents some really fascinating, really novel, philosophical ideas. So, sorry MXTX, but I’m about to analyze TGCF like it’s a piece of freakin scripture. Soo here we go…

The main theme she comes back to again and again is that fortune is limited, so the only way you can do good for others is by taking fortune from somebody else. Which leads the characters to a bunch of ethically impossible choices: the people of Yong’an and the people of Xianle can’t all be saved (Xie Lian must choose who to help), neither can the people of Wuyong and the surrounding kingdoms (Prince of Wuyong must choose), and Shi Wudu can’t save his brother from a tragic fate without taking fortune from an innocent person. When the characters try to avoid choosing, and try to “play God” by creating a “third path,” it just invites disaster.

But is this really true? Is fortune actually limited? It’s an idea that reminds me of Buddhism and Daoism, but also seems kind of revolutionary… (I like to think I know something about Chinese philosophy but it could certainly be a thing and I don’t know). I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in limited resources, and the idea that nature tends toward balance. I think conceiving of it this way, as a pool of fortune, is really interesting.

It reminds me of this Meme:

In other words, who is the protagonist and who is the villain is entirely based on perspective. And, according to the laws of nature, we all must survive by eating others, or causing others to starve (i.e. avoiding being eaten).

I tried to think if this is really true in all areas of life. I’m a teacher, and one of the ways I convince myself that I am doing good in the world is by helping my students—preparing them well for college so that they can get into good schools and follow their dreams. But then, is this just taking fortune from others? If I do prepare my students well, and as a result they all get into top universities, does that mean they are taking spots away from other students? Am I simply just helping “my own,” at the expense of others?

One place where I see this concept play out very clearly is with our modern, industrialized society. As I mentioned in my last post, we live in a world of abundance. Most of us have enough food to eat, live in houses with electricity and running water, and don’t worry about a whole host of diseases endured by our ancestors. It seems we have done what Xie Lian couldn’t—we have expanded the well of fortune for most of humanity.

But this fortune wasn’t spontaneously created. It was taken from other species. It was borrowed against our own future, when climate change will likely destroy this world of abundance we have created, causing untold suffering. In truth, when it comes to prosperity, there is no such thing as a free lunch.

Even now, when we ought to be enjoying our fortune, most of us are not happy. We want other things. We take food, clothing, and shelter for granted, creating even bigger, more lofty demands—a bigger car, a better house, a machine that’s sole purpose is to make bread. In fact, it seems like whenever we make things “better,” the goalposts just move. I recently read a book called Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, which mentioned that with the advent of washing machines and vacuum cleaners, everyone assumed there would be more free time. Yet, the real outcome was that standards of cleanliness just changed. Suddenly, people expected you to wear fresh clothes every day and have a perfectly dust-free home, which meant spending just as much time cleaning as in the past.

And according to psychologists, getting what we want doesn’t really make us happier. Instead, something like getting a promotion causes our happiness to spike, before it quickly returns to baseline. The psychologist Dan Gilbert writes that the purpose of our emotions is to act like a compass—to tell us which direction to go in. If you feel good, you can continue the way you are going. If you feel bad, you should probably turn—make a change. But if you get what you want and become permanently happy, your compass is now broken. It’s stuck in one direction and becomes useless.

All of this is very Buddhist, of course. Suffering is not caused by our external circumstances, but our desire to change them.

Like I said, I don’t necessarily believe in “fate” or “fortune.” But I believe this all points to something deeper that MXTX is getting at: which is that we cannot fundamentally make a better world, for the common people, or for anyone. This idea of “better” doesn’t really exist. The world is as it is. Trying to alter that is like playing God. And like Xie Lian says, “In this world, there are no true gods…”

So, what do we do? How can we survive this absurdist tragedy of life? I don’t think we can just throw up our hands and not give a shit—that way lies depression and Jun Wu-style cruelty. We cannot lose our heart. But we also can’t try to fix everything.

One thing I find a bit difficult about MXTX is she is very clear about the impossible situations our characters find themselves in, but not really clear about the solution. She seems critical of the characters’ actions (I’m thinking also of Wei Wuxian here), but what exactly does she think they should have done? In other words, what is the point?

I spent a long time thinking about this. And I realized that Xie Lian was able to get back on his feet, find happiness and make peace with himself. How did he do this? Ultimately, I see Xie Lian’s solution as having three parts: self-sacrifice, gratitude, and purpose. Which all sounds very academic and maybe not that profound on an emotional level. But hear me out. Because, in the end, I think these choices are incredibly beautiful. They are the kind of thing that make me feel like reading TGCF was actually a spiritual experience, no matter what MXTX says. That makes me admire Xie Lian and want to follow him (like the God he is).

Okay so first: self-sacrifice. If fortune is limited, and the only way to make others’ lives better is to take fortune from someplace else, then there is really only one place you can take it from without hurting others—yourself.

So, part of Xie Lian’s solution is to take fortune from himself and give it to others. It’s why he asks for a cursed shackle that disperses his fortune, so that his fortune will naturally flow to those around him. It’s, of course, a very small thing. He is no longer playing God, or trying to “fix” the world on a grand scale. He is simply, in his own, quiet way, serving the common people.

My desire to give up meat and to spend more time on activism—these things feel like big sacrifices for me. And yet, they will have a very small impact on the greater situation in the world. They’re a drop in the ocean. I still want to do it, but it’s hard. It’s hard to care, or think that these things matter. Yet, this is the trade-off Xie Lian was willing to make. I really admire him for it.

I believe self-sacrifice is actually a really important, beautiful thing, that our society has forgotten the value of. We are individualistic—obsessed with our own wants. As I mentioned previously, our expectations have risen, so we buy and buy and buy. We are unwilling to rein in our consumption. I know a lot of people baulk at lifestyle changes as a solution to the climate crisis, and I agree that putting pressure on individuals instead of governments or corporations is misguided. But, first of all, there simply aren’t enough resources on earth to sustain our current levels of consumption. And, second… I don’t think we can completely let individuals off the hook. What is society anyway, but a collection of individuals? If we are going to address this thing, it’s going to take a massive movement—bigger than the civil rights movement or the works’ rights movement or the women’s movement. It’s going to take millions of people worldwide getting out of their own heads, their own lives, and concerning themselves with the greater good. That requires immense sacrifice.

Which takes me to gratitude. In order to be willing to sacrifice, you have to appreciate what you already have.

People often talk about gratitude these days as a path to mental health. Instinctively, it sounds like an uplifting, positive thing. And it is… but it also entails having a relatively negative worldview. It means remembering all the horrible things that exist in this world which we are lucky enough to avoid on a daily basis. You stepped in some dog shit? Well, that sucks, but you could have stepped into an open manhole and broken your neck! So! That’s something to be grateful for.

We are all so lucky. I’m sure everyone reading this has pains and traumas and challenges. This isn’t to diminish those, but, I hope, at least we all have at least one person to love. That’s all Hua Cheng had, and it’s what kept him going. Just one person was enough. And most of us, I hope, get to eat food every day, get to sleep in a bed, get to play video games or read novels or write poetry when we are sad. Not everyone gets those things.

Xie Lian, of course, was the king of low expectations, because he knew his future was going to be bad. He had intentionally accepted bad luck for a lifetime. So, there was no point in hoping for things to get better.

I think this attitude is best shown by his interaction with the Venerable of Empty words. The Venerable of Empty Words feeds off people’s fears. But Xie Lian didn’t really have any. When the Venerable of Empty Words warned him that his hut will collapse in two months, his response is, “Two months? If it’s still standing in seven days, then it’ll be a real miracle.” Because his expectations are so low, he’s essentially immune to fear. I can’t help but think that if you could really think this way, it would be a kind of superpower. It reminds me of the famous quote by spiritual teacher Krishnamurti, “Do you know what my secret is? You see, I don’t mind what happens.”

And so Xie Lian is okay with everything. He can sleep anywhere, crash boulders on his chest for money, not eat for three days, regularly suffer corpse poisoning, and still be okay.

Which leads to my third point: purpose. Xie Lian is able to endure such hardship because his expectations are low, but also he knows all his suffering has a purpose. “If I am to become a God of misfortune, then so be it,” he says. “As long as I know deep down that I am not.” He is okay with being laughed at or avoided for his bad luck, because deep down he knows he is doing the right thing. People can withstand a great deal if they feel their suffering has meaning. In Man’s Search for Meaning, the psychiatrist Victor Frankl’s writes about the horrors of living through a concentration camp, and how over and over, it was creating purpose that allowed him, and others, to find motivation to survive. Which I think has an important lesson for self-sacrifice. People are willing to sacrifice a lot, if they feel their sacrifice has purpose.

I get it when MXTX says that she is not a guru, and maybe it’s a lot to ask of a danmei novel to take spiritual advice from it. The book wasn’t necessarily perfect, and I do have some critiques (which I was gonna add here, but this thing is already wayyy too long). But… I do think I found something really meaningful in this story—some inspiration. I want to follow Xie Lian’s example, and live with gratitude and acceptance, while keeping my faith in doing the right thing. In other words, WWXLD! (What Would Xie Lian Do?)

#tgcf #mxtx #heaven official's blessing #tgcf meta #tian guan ci fu #climate change #xie lian #hualian #danmei #chinese bl

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mediocreanomaly · 4 months

Text

Amen. Priest!Wolfwood x Reader (NSFW)

**GN!Reader** Authors Note: I have an issue. Yes Priest!Wolfwood sparks joy, so please enjoy 4,539 of depravity as my welcome back, small note at the end!

**Content Warning: I grew up religious so I'm using real scripture here, if you're religious or that makes you uncomfy this might be a skip for you, if you're depraved like me read on**

Being raised Catholic was a one-way street to spoon fulls of guilt being shoved down your throat. Most everyone in the church was more or less aware of that fact, whether they acknowledged it or not.

However, there’s a warning they don't bother to put on the good book. A warning about the more...complicated relationship you develop with religion once the guilt that's swelled up in your chest has nowhere else to go.

"Then God said, 'Take your son to the land of Moriah and kill your son there as a sacrifice for me. This must be Isaac, your only son, the one you love. Use him as a burnt offering on one of the mountains there. I will tell you which mountain.” Church sometimes God ask things from us, things that seem...unimaginable, unbearable, but we are not lead blindly. No, quite the opposite, God-' " Father Wolfwood emphases by pointing to the rafters of the church as if the big man himself was sitting there, watching. "He has a plan, a plan so great and magnificent that we cannot begin to comprehend. With that understanding Abraham takes his son, because he trust, church, he trust God enough to follow-"

The sermon is drowned out. To anyone around you you'd look devout. Pious even with how well you focus on Father Wolfwood, but it's not the bible that makes you show up every Sunday. It's the dark black tousled hair that trails into stubble lining his cheek. It's those big brown eyes wide and confident as he preaches to the congregation. It's those hands, large and calloused, that make you wonder what life he must have lived before this as he moves them around with his speech. It's his skin, perfectly tan and forehead beading with sweat from the insufferable heat of the church, no doubt that cassock isn't helping. It's his voice, deep and raspy with that perfect cadence that makes you wonder what it'd be like if he said your name while bending you over-

"Y/n?" The altar boy who you didn't even realize had come to your pew ask. He's holding out communion in a way that tells you he's been there for a second.

"Oh! uh-" you reach out for the wine when a hand around your wrist stops you, you blink a few times and look up to see the man you were just ogling at meeting your gaze with dark eyes.

"Why don't you pass that out to the other pews, y/n is joining me for a special communion after church, they had something they wanted to pray on with me" Father Wolfwood says easily.

"I do?" the words fall from your mouth dumbly which causes Wolfwood to raise an eyebrow at you as if you're stupid. You let yourself swallow and bow your head as if scolded, you wonder what part of being a priest blessed him with so much sass.

"ah- right! yes I had forgotten, thank you Father Wolfwood" you correct. You had not, in fact, discussed anything of the sorts with the Father, but there was clearly something you were missing here.

He gives you a curt nod before softening his eyes and turning back to the young boy.

"Go on" he insist. He does, continuing to the next pew with all the confirmation he needed and Wolfwood finally let’s go of your wrist. The warmth of his hand that lingers isn't lost on you as you wearily glance up at him.

"Special communion?" You try hoping to gather a bit more information on the situation you'll be faced with after Mass.

"mhmm, God has called me to you. Something weighs on your mind, perhaps a repentance is in order?" his face gives away nothing, although you swear his eyes darken as he watches you with a pleasant smile that stays locked on his face.

Alarm bells ring in your head. Did...did he know? You had done your best to hide your less than innocent gaze as worship. Thinking back on it perhaps you were less conspicuous about it than you thought, that or God was the worst wing man ever.

"Father Wolfwood I-"

He holds up his hand to pause the word vomit that was about to stutter out and shakes his head.

"Later. Best to confess without prying eyes, no?"

He lets you simmer on that as he makes his way back to the front of the church. When he leads the church in prayer you do take it upon yourself to pray for once. You pray you'll sink into the floor or be struck dead before the end of the sermon.

By the time the church doors are opened, and people file out you're sure your heart will burst anyways. You stay seated in the front pew, not moving an inch because if you stand it'll be to bolt out the door and... well technically nothing was keeping you from it. It's not like the god damn (sorry God) preacher would shoot you if you attempted to run. He had simply suggested you confess. Easy. He probably hears peoples fucked up sexual fantasies all the time sitting in that booth. You knew the sheriff’s wife was sleeping with the banker and you knew the sheriff was sleeping with the widow down the street so it's not like the stuff that’s pulled from the great Catholics of No Mans Land weren't anything he hadn't heard before.

That's the thought you try and let comfort you as Father Wolfwood finishes up thanking people for coming to church and shaking hands.

The church doors shut with a thud that makes you jump in your seat; you press your hands together firmly and feel your fingernails dig into the skin there. This was fine.

"You know" Father Wolfwood folds his hands politely behind his back and takes agonizingly slow steps down the aisle "People with guilty conscious are more likely to be startled by loud noises."

You keep your head bowed slightly in what must look like a mock prayer, but you aren’t praying any more, you're just doing everything possible to not throw up on the churches nice red carpet, carpet that is interrupted when two black dress shows come into view.

"y/n?"

That voice. It makes you press you lips in a firm line scared of what filth might come out of it if you speak. Instead, to show you're listening, you slowly raise your head to meet Wolfwoods eyes, the likes of which seem clouded in some strong emotion. Were priest always this intense? Well, the easy answer was yes but this was a different type of intensity, not kind that filled revering words but one that more closely resembled a predator zoning in on its prey.

"Y/n" he says it again, albeit softer this time as if coaxing forward a scared animal. "You have something on your mind, don't you? Something that plagues you?"

You feel your fingers instinctively move to fiddle with the hem of your shirt. If the heat from the church before was unbearable before then this is downright swelting.

"Don't you usually do this kind of thing in the booth?" a poor attempt of a smile graces your lips in a desperate attempt to lighten whatever mood was staring to suffocate the air.

"Usually yes. This is a special case I believe though..." he leans down and your heart slams against your chest, his breath fans against your cheek. You can smell lingering cologne and... was that smoke? Surely not, if your local priest smoked it'd be the talk of the town, although now that you think about it those plush lips would look perfect balancing a cigarette between them, and they'd look even better if he used those teeth to-

"I almost forgot! You haven't received communion" He straightens out in an instant and claps his hands together nearly scaring you out of your skin while your face heats up from pure embarrassment.

You watch as he crosses from the pew to the table behind the pulpit and grabs a small cup of wine and bread. Just as quickly he's back in front of you with the objects. You reach out to accept them when he pulls his hands back.

"ah ah ah, I said this was a special communion didn't I? I'll deliver it unto you, you just sit and do as your told."

Oh. Yeah, that definitely didn't do anything to you. Nothing like a gruff handsome man in priest wear telling you to obey in the house of God. This was for sure not bubbling up any worrying realizations about yourself. Nope. Not in the slightest.

He steps back putting a little bit of room between the two of you before his eyes flicker from you to the carpet in front of him.

"Kneel."

You go instantly and willingly, a bit too willingly. Your mind flashes with Father Wolfwoods sermons about the disciples who kissed Jesus’ feet. You wonder if this was an elaborate way to get you to read the bible more because you're beginning to understand what was going through their minds now as you sit on your knees in front of the priest.

You aren’t sure if Wolfwood expected you to be so eager. He pauses for a moment before you swear a hint of a smirk plays at his lips. He raises the glass and the bit of bread slightly.

"Listen to me closely, we wouldn't want to spill and stain the carpet now, would we?" he ask.

You shake your head no. He makes a satisfied hum and continues.

"Tilt your head back.”

You do as your told, tilting your head back until your eye level is forced to be centered on the man in front of you.

"Open your mouth.”

Your mouth begins to salivate despite the fact there’s nothing in it yet. Perhaps it's due to the fact that what he's about to put in it isn't want you’d like to have resting on your tongue.

"Good. Why don't you stick your tongue out a little bit? I don't want you to dribble."

Fuck him. Fuck him so bad. There was no way he didn't know what he was doing but if had any hint about this sadistic game he was playing with you he gave no indication, he remained at stoic as ever as if you weren't having the most unholy thoughts imagine about your fucking priest.

There’s no going back though. You follow his instructions and let your tongue loll out of your mouth. You swear something flickers in his eyes, but it's gone as soon as it arrives.

He raises the glass and bread more as if offering it to God.

"Close your eyes.”

You do. You let the light of stained-glass windows be blotted out by your own blind obedience.

“Corpus Domini Nostri Iesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam....Amen."

You feel him press the small bit of bread onto your tongue, you close and eat. You don't need to be told before your opening your mouth again.

The wine follows right after, poured into your mouth and you swallow it down focusing on not letting any hit the ground with the speed at which the contents are emptied down your throat.

What realistically could not have been more than a few seconds feels as though it's lasted a lifetime. You take a deep breath once the bitter wine has settled in your stomach and before you can even think about getting up and excusing yourself from the church Wolfwood puts a hand on your shoulder, signaling for you to stay in place.

"Good. Why don't we get that confession out of the way then?"

Right. The reason he had probably pulled you aside for all of this in the first place. Had he seen through you? Seen how hungry your gaze had become? Probably. Looking back on it sitting in the front row was probably not the best idea when the entire reason for your Sunday visits was for potential fantasy fuel. There didn't seem like any reason to lie though, it's not like a priest could tell anyone about these things and outside of church Father Wolfwood was a bit of an anomaly to the town.

He didn't have any friends that you knew of, didn't gossip, or hang out at the bar, the man lived in this church which was making you feel a bit more guilty about your infatuation now that you thought of it but hey, if you weren't guilty about something then were you even a catholic?

"Forgive me Father I have sinned..."

With a grimace you realize why the damn confessions booths were so popular. Admitting this to God or a wooden wall was a little too easy. Admitting this to Wolfwood was like someone slowly peeling off your skin.

"I see, well, tell me child what is your confession?"

a swallow, then a leap.

"I have been...ah having inappropriate thoughts about someone. Someone who I go out of my way to see to add to these...fantasy's I have."

He listens closely and his hand comes up to cup the back of your head.

"I see...lust then?"

You nod in response, and he makes an affirming noise.

"And what do you imagine happening in these...fantasies of yours?"

The silence in the empty church is so loud it's deafening. Your hands scrunch and unscrunch the fabric of your pants.

"I...I imagine him pushing be down against these very pews Father. That one day as I'm standing up to leave mass, he'll shove me right back down and take me against the wood."

It's said strained but even you must admit maybe there’s something to this confession shit because you feel a bit lighter with it off your shoulders. Father Wolfwood looks less light. In fact, he looks you've just damned him to hell.

"Is that all?" he asks but it comes out breathier than he means it to.

The tone sends something to your core, oh you see it now. Lamb and shepherd your ass, you were still most certainly the lamb but the Father was no shepherd, he was the Wolf. Maybe God himself had put that divine foreshadowing into his name.

You shift on your knees and press yourself flatter trying to rub your thighs together. Wolfwoods eyes flicker down to the action then back up to your face, he opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

"No Father. Sometimes I imagine him taking me on the stand in front of the whole congregation. Still preaching while he finishes in me, holy words even in his most sinful act. But...do you know what I really want Father?"

Wolfwood swallows, his fingers trace along your face, and you fight every instinct to lean into it. He looks like this is paining him, He's all gritted teeth and square shoulders as he speaks.

"What do you want?"

Hook. Line. Sinker.

"I imagine he'd keep me here after church, that he'd have me kneel before him still while wearing his holy clothes, that collar, the rosary...and I wish he'd undo his belt to-"

"Enough."

Your mouth snaps shut scared you've pushed to far. You can feel heat bloom across your face in embarrassment now that your words are catching up to you, this was meant to be a confession not a shit porno, maybe you DID need God...

"You drive me insane you know that? Every day you come in here- the house of god mind you and stare at me like..." He clicks his tongue and motions to you.

"Well like that."

You aren't sure what to make of his tone, it's scolding and firm but hinges on needy at the end. You're starting to worry you broke the poor man before he makes an irritated noise.

"Fine. You want to repent so bad?" Wolfwoods hands go to his belt and with a soft clink of the metal it comes fastened. Your eyes flicker to look towards the door to make sure that no one was about to walk in on the scene that'd put Judas’ sin to shame when you're snapped out of your thoughts.

"Pay attention sweetheart, you were doing so good before, what happened?" The mask of a holy man cracks and gives way to something cockier, more taunting, more...Wolfwood.

"Unless you need scripture to keep your focus?" he works to undo the button and the zip of his dress pants as he tilts his head.

"Then here's something for you, 'the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” When Eve saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom..' "

He frees himself from the confines of his pants. You feel your mouth water and although your knees are starting to hurt from kneeling for so long you have a feeling you're about to get your real communion.

" '...and she opened her mouth, and took.' "

In beat with his preaching you let your mouth fall open. In all honesty, you get it now. You get how appealing that lush fruit must have been to Eve, you get why even after being promised paradise, she gave in to temptation. The weight that settles on your tongue as Wolfwood presses into your mouth makes your eyes roll back and an involuntary moan escape your throat. Wolfwoods breath stutters.

"God..." He groans and if your mouth wasn't currently full you might have made a witty comment about using the lords name in vain but a quick hand lacing through your hair from Wolfwood serves well enough to sever whatever thought had flitted through your mind.

You flatten your tongue and take more, allowing as much as you can to the back of your throat but when tears prick your eyes and you gag slightly on the sensation he pulls you off with a wet pop. You whine slightly at loss before Wolfwoods hand grabs your chin while he uses his thumb to wipe up the drool leaking from your lips that you hadn't realized was there.

"Patience, don’t you listen to a word I say up there?” he muses, you sheepishly look up at him through your eyelashes and it’s answer enough. He pulls you back in front of his cock, "Be good then, swallow every drop and I might forgive you"

You don't have much time to argue has his hand guides you back. You're more prepared this time, the way you sit on your knees...you’re a picture perfect saint and who's here to judge you for your sin anyways? Wolfwood? Sounded like a set up to a joke.

"Fuck, yeah baby just like that. So good-" His words break off with a grunt and his hips stutter forward, he pulls your head forward and your reach up to steady yourself with his thighs. He rocks his hips to your mouth as he face fucks you in the middle of the church. When his breathing speeds up and he mutters out a sting of gentle curses you know he’s close. You close your eyes and let him use you as he spills down your throat. You're desperate to show him you can listen, you swallow down as much as you can trying to not let a single drop of cum hit the floor.

When the rough handful of hair is released, you pull back to try and catch your breath, a worthless endeavor it would seem considering you're just as quickly being lifted up by your arm. You feel yourself being tugged up the steps towards the pulpit and make peace with the fact you're officially the worst Catholic ever...well besides the priest who's currently the instigator of this depravity.

"Not done yet sweetheart, the grace of god doesn't come with a blow job surprisingly" Wolfwood huffs amused as he presses down on your shoulder to force you to bend of the wood stand.

"Are you even a priest?" wrong question you guess because Wolfwood makes an irritated noise.

"Aren't you supposed to be repenting?" His hands grope at your thighs spreading them apart much more slowly than you'd like, as if he's savoring it...reverence you think.

"Father-"

He chuckles lowly at that.

"Father" he imitates "you let that name fall from your lips like it doesn't turn you on just to say it"

His fingers ghost over your thighs, then around the area you want him most before sliding up under your shirt to explore flesh. It's so hot in the church and when you peer out across the wooden pews you see the stain glass window casting rainbow light that sprawls out across the floor all the way up to your body.

"Focus on me" Wolfwood corrects your wandering mind by nipping along your neck and your body instinctively shudders against him. You press your hips back to feel his growing hardness pressed against your ass. His hands slide your shirt up over your head and he begins to focus on trailing kisses along your back.

"Thank you, lord," His lips move against your shoulder blade.

"For delivering this sinner unto me, so that I may show them rapture."

His fingers hook along the hem of your pants and tug them down your legs until they rest right at your knees.

"Despite that, I must confess, I have sinned."

His fingers trace along your entrance before slowly sinking in. You groan and press your head to the wood in front of you, fingers scratching against the surface.

"I have lusted for someone of my own congregation. I have imagined them kneeling for me and I worst of all I have imagined me taking them, devouring them until there is nothing left to fill them but me"

Another finger lazily joins the first and he begins a slow rhythm of pumping them in and out. You attempt to wiggle your hips back to chase the feeling, but his other hand keeps your waist flush against the stand.

"But I am only a man so with my mortal body I will show them euphoria"

You feel his fingers pull out and whine at the loss only to feel the blunt head of his own cock begin to line up with you.

"Amen"

Wolfwood doesn't give you much more warning before roughly pressing in. You moan as he sets a backbreaking pace, thankful that he at least prepped you before. He's leaned over your body; his hair tickles the back of your neck slightly as he pants in your ear. You imagine your own noises can't be much better as his left hand, the one he's apparently wrapped in a rosary, comes up to catch your chin, two fingers press into your mouth as he supports your head. His other hand stays at your hip, bringing your body back against his with every thrust.

It's so hot in the church, sweat beads along your body and you can feel your hair beginning to stick to your forehead. Your mind feels foggy and you lap absent mindedly at the fingers invading your mouth. Wolfwood groans and pushes you down further against the stand and it'd be uncomfortable if you could focus on anything other than the priest fucking your brains out. He produces an ungodly amount of precum, you can feel it making a mess between your thighs right as drool begins to leak from the corners of your mouth and bead down to the wood below.

Wolfwoods hand shifts from your hip to where a blooming warmth has begun. You nearly cry out with relief babbling nonsense around his fingers, hell maybe even a few prayers. His own mouth is becoming less of that of a reverend and more of that of a ravenous man, mouthing and biting at what he can reach. The fingers press deeper into your mouth and your feel the smooth beads of the rosary are you toy with them with your tongue. You're close, you tremble beneath Wolfwood and he catches on because both his hands pull away to once again fit along your hips. You nearly sob from the new lack of stimulation as he rocks into you.

"Beg for it" Wolfwood says so firm you'd have sworn he was once again leading congregation. Your mind is half way to mush right now so it doesn't take much convincing to do what he wants.

"Please please please let me, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I repent" you babble out hoping you’ve said the magic words.

His hand comes down firmly on your ass as he thrust into you then finally finally reaches to touch between your thighs.

It sends you over the edge instantly, your legs trembling as you whine and moan, Wolfwoods own obscene noises match your own as he finishes inside you, letting you milk him for all he's worth.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, you become aware of the fact your priest is pressed up against your back, trying to catch his breath from fucking the ever loving daylights out of you. You whine slightly and Wolfwood responds by nuzzling his face against your neck.

"Are you okay?"

You do actually laugh at that one, letting your forehead rest against the podium.

"The priest I've been fantasizing about fucking me for a year now just has. This has been the best lay of my life and you want to ask if I'm okay?"

"You're awfully vulgar aren't you?"

You snap your head up to make several points about irony of the statement but when you turn you see a shit eating grin on his face. Your playfully hit his chest and groan.

"You've got to be the worst priest ever"

"Can't say I'd deny that claim" He leans forward and kisses you, you go into it easily but the taste of his lips remind you of something, when you pull away you raise an eyebrow

"Do you smoke?"

He shrugs and keeps his hands on your waist.

"I prefer to keep certain things in my life separated from the church"

"and me?"

"Consider yourself a special case." He smirks and takes hold of your chin between his fingers "Although I do hope this was enough to keep you coming to my sermons?" he ask

You swallow at the dark look in his eye and place your hands on his chest.

"and miss the holy word? Perish the thought"

He chuckles lowly at that as your hands begin to play with the collar of the cassock he wears.

"Although Father, I fear I may not have properly confessed."

He raises an eyebrow and eyes you "No?"

You shake your head "See I only...repented for two out of three fantasy’s I had also mentioned being taken against the pews"

Wolfwoods hands tighten around his hips and his smile widens.

"Well...let's fix that, shall we?"

Author's note: ahhhh I'm back! I've been storin this little beauty away for awhile now. This is my welcome back post because I feel like I lost the way I wanted to organize and write for a little while and this was the first piece that got me back in the flow of things. I missed you guys! We're back baby! (I'll add my spacers in later I'm missin the files rn and I don't feel like searching for them)

#trigun x reader #trigun x you #wolfwood x reader #nicholas d. wolfwood #wolfwood x you #priest!wolfwood

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traumacatholic · 1 month

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I recently got engaged to the love of my life. We are both still very young, but currently there is a possibility they may have cancer. we cannot currently make an appointment with the hospital because its the weekend, and moreover if we can get an appointment it may be months away. Im terrified beyond belief. My fiancé even more so.

I truly do not know what to do. I'm someone who has been blessed in life in that I have never lost someone close to me. My fiancé pulled me out of the worst time in my life when I met them. My connection to God has never been strong despite my family being catholic. I don't even really know how to pray. We have so many plans for the future, to be married and raise a family together. To try and put a little good back into the world. To grow old together.

I am at a loss. Any prayer you can offer would mean so much to me. I would do anything for my fiancé, and though it feels wrong to come back to my faith because something horrible is happening and not for simply wanting to I only hope God can forgive me for it and protect my Love.

Of course, I will keep you both in my prayers. Never feel like you're turning to your faith for the 'wrong' reason, because this can put you off really engaging and connecting with your faith and using it as a pillar and a support network. Please reach out to a Church, even if you aren't currently attending one. And asking for prayers and for help from the Priest. Even if you did turn to faith for the 'wrong' reason, ultimately by spending time in prayer, spending time reading Scripture, spending time going to Church - whatever things you might be doing. Should hopefully lead to you sincerely connecting with your faith in a way that perhaps feels more meaningful to you. A genuine engagement with the faith. It is better to turn to God in times of desperate situations, than to never turn to Him at all. God never tires of us turning to Him for help.

People turn to the faith in different ways, in many different situations. We should never treat the individual turning to God as 'this is the right reason', 'this is the wrong reason'. Anything that could lead to someone genuinely increasing their faith, no matter how slim that possibility may be, should be encouraged. How many cultural Catholics still turn to St Anthony for help finding a lost item? Or a Hail Mary when they're in the hospital waiting room? As the old saying goes 'there's no atheist in the trenches'. And regardless of how 'silly' or 'insincere' or whatever else term we might use that turn to faith might be, God will use it as an opportunity for you to develop or redevelop that relationship with Him. Our entire life is a conversion process. We are always, every single day, choosing to convert to God through repentance or choosing to slip away from Him. Hoping in God, hoping in His power and His mercy and His comfort isn't a bad thing.

In terms of prayers, if you are feeling up for it. There is an Akathist to the Theotokos for healing - particularly for healing from cancer. I know you don't have a confirmed diagnosis, but please don't feel like you have to wait until then to pray this. You can pray it now. This is a long prayer. It is designed to be read all the way through. Don't worry about the names of Troparion or Kontakion, that's meant for people that are chanting the Akathist. http://www.stvladimiraami.org/sheetmusic/akathistvsetsaritsa.pdf Has the beginning prayers, as well as the full akathist. Generally, the first couple of times reading through an Akathist can make it take a long time. But I found through the Akathist that I prayed daily, that eventually it takes a lot less time because you know the prayer well enough. Don't feel like you have to read this every day. Traditionally, Akathists can be said once a day for a 40 day period. You don't have to do it for that long, just as and when it feels feasible. It does also have three prayers at the bottom. If you're ever not feeling up for praying the Akathist, feel free to pray those individually.

I have attached some much shorter prayers under the read more. Feel free to mix and match between them. I would recommend having at least one prayer, that you pray morning and night. If you can, I would also recommend reading a Psalm a day.

Dear Lord, as my loved ones and I await the results of medical tests about my affliction, let us offer you our anxieties for our good and your glory. Calm us in our worries, knowing these don’t add wisdom but rather stress to this situation. Enlighten us, though the power of your Spirit, to make wise decisions as to treatment. Help us not to turn away from You in these fragile, painful moments, but rather towards you for grace and strength. Comfort us in seeking you now as we place all our concerns in your loving hands as we say “Thy Will Be Done.”

Mary, health of the sick, you brought forth into our world Jesus Christ, our Divine Healer. In your caring goodness, intercede for (mention name), who is truly in need of miraculous assistance.

If it be God’s will, I ask this day that the gift of healing from all forms of cancer be granted to (name).

Comfort him/her during times of anguish, pain, confusion and despair. Ask our gracious Savior to grant him/her physical health, inner peace and patience in suffering.

May God’s healing graces grant (name) a life of happiness, health and fulfillment here on earth, and one day the joy of eternal glory in His loving embrace.

Amen.

Let us pray to the Lord. Lord have mercy.

O Lord Almighty, the Healer of our souls and bodies, You Who put down and raise up, Who chastise and heal also; do You now, in Your great mercy, visit our brother (sister) (Name), who is sick. Stretch forth Your hand that is full of healing and health, and get him (her) up from his (her) bed, and cure him (her) of his (her) illness. Put away from him (her) the spirit of disease and of every malady, pain and fever to which he (she) is bound; and if he (she) has sins and transgressions, grant to him (her) remission and forgiveness, in that You love mankind; yea, Lord my God, pity Your creation, through the compassions of Your Only-Begotten Son, together with Your All-Holy, Good and Life-creating Spirit, with Whom You are blessed, both now and ever, and to the ages of ages. Amen.

Let us pray to the Lord. Lord have mercy.

O Lord our God, Who by word alone did heal all diseases, Who did cure the kinswoman of Peter, You Who chastise with pity and heal according to Your goodness; Who are able to put aside every malady and infirmity, do You Yourself, the same Lord, grant aid to this Your servant (Name) and cure him (her) of every sickness of which he (she) is grieved; lift him (her) up from his (her) bed of pain and distress, and send down upon him (her) Your great mercy, and if it be Your Will, give to him (her) health and a complete recovery; for You are the Physician of our souls and bodies, and to You do we send up Glory: to Father, and to Son, and to Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and to the ages of ages. Amen.

O God, our help in time of need, Who are just and merciful, and Who inclines to the supplications of His people.

Look down upon ____________and have mercy on them and deliver them from the trouble that now besets them.

Deal with ____________ not according to their iniquities, but according to Your manifold mercies, for we are the works of Your hands, and You know our weaknesses.

I pray to you to grant ____________ Your divine helping grace, and endow them with patience and strength to endure their hardships with complete submission to Your Will.

Only You know our misery and sufferings, and to You, our only hope and refuge, we flee for relief and comfort, trusting in Your infinite love and compassion, that in due time, when You know best, You will deliver ____________ from this trouble, and turn their distress into comfort.

We then shall rejoice in Your mercy, and exalt and praise Your Holy Name, O Father, Son and Holy Spirit, both now and forever and to the ages of ages. Amen

[Feel free to pray this one for yourself, and to edit it to be a prayer for your fiancé. From my understanding, when we are praying for someone else, we omit any references to them being a sinner. So you would edit it to 'Be merciful to him/her, O Master. Take from them the heavy burden of despair.']

O Greatly-merciful Master, Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me and cleanse me from every sadness and disturbance and cowardice. Drive away from me every spiritual choking and demonic sorrow, that I sense in my body and my soul. For You are our Joy, and the Hope of all the ends of the earth, and those far off at sea. Be merciful to me, O Master, upon my sins. Take from me the heavy burden of sin and despair. Drive far away from me every sadness and laziness. Confirm me in Your Love, and with unassailable hope and unshakable faith in You, through the intercessions of Your Spotless Mother, and all Your Saints. Amen.

[I would recommend this one for yourself]

O Master, Lord my God, in Whose hands is my destiny: Help me according to Thy mercy, and leave me not to perish in my transgressions, nor allow me to follow them who place desires of the flesh over those of the spirit. I am Thy creation; disdain not the work of Thy hands. Turn not away; be compassionate and humiliate me not, neither scorn me, O Lord, as I am weak. I have fled unto Thee as my Protector and God. Heal my soul, for I have sinned against Thee. Save me for Thy mercy's sake, for I have cleaved unto Thee from my youth; let me who seeks Thee not be put to shame by being rejected by Thee for mine unclean actions, unseemly thoughts, and unprofitable remembrances. Drive away from me every filthy thing and excess of evil. For Thou alone art holy, alone mighty, and alone immortal, in all things having unexcelled might, which, through Thee, is given to all that strive against the devil and the might of his armies. For unto Thee is due all glory, honor and worship: To the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen

#prayer #prayer request #prayer req #urgent prayer request

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